Meanwhile, over in Milan.

It was the Sunday evening of a springtime weekend elapsed in the beautiful north of Italy, yet one which was spent entirely within the sprawling concrete metropolis of Milan. A place where beauty is less apparent than the nearby hills of greens and blues that roll down from the snow-capped Alps to send all to states of utter tranquility. Yet it does exist here, we learnt, it remains safe of city-induced asphyxiation, you just have to find it.

Carlos and I had landed two days earlier and an hour late. Our delay prompting us to wait for Harry to land on his around-the-world flight from Manchester via Budapest (or somewhere else of random note) and take the opportunity for our first espresso in the arrival hall; what it is about Italy that is so conducive to a short black I'll never know (Ed – it’s when in Rome syndrome), there's something about ordering an espresso from Starbucks that doesn't quite work, saving even for the fact they only serve coffee flavoring, it just doesn’t feel right. In fact we would have had time to sip a grande chai frappucino, should it have existed and not ruled blasphemy of the highest order, as Harry had been legging it around the wrong terminal looking for us and would need another hour still to join us in T2. With our own delay rendered completely meaningless - he should have just met us in the city - it was near midnight when we eventually reached our final destination: hostel Zebra.

Hostel Zebra, rest assured, wasn’t the original plan. It was decided upon for its 24-hour bar facility while we were bored and restless in the check-in queue at Luton Airport. We had met a fellow weekend-tripper having had her shouting at us in stark Australian, as well as to someone who could apparently tolerate it through the cushion of a telephone, that Zebra was defo the best and where she was staying because, actually, like, her cousin could no longer let her stay at the apartment because she was still stuck in Thailand. Naturally, we discarded my earlier booking at the sweet Italian family albergo with nice coffee and breakfast and loving and trusting ‘no need to pay a deposit, just pay on arrival’ and ‘can I just confirm your booking for the third time, ah yes, good, we still have the rooms for you, we can’t wait to see you later today’ temperament, naturally.

It ticked over into Saturday morning by the time we had checked-in and were ready to get back out. On London time we knew we had, probably, about 59 minutes left to have fun before everyone’s told to go home. Armed with local advice we flew past the promising sight of the hostel bar and pool table, albeit in slightly damp surroundings, and hailed a taxi for Colonne di San Lorenzo.

We arrived beneath an old roman archway propped by antiquated columns that circled out around a darkly lit square in front of us.  In the centre of the square sat a faded cherubic fountain. To the right, the shadow of a cathedral that looked almost abandoned in the soft light lent an ominous air over the scene. It was wild. There were people everywhere. Scattered in clusters among the Roman ruins that littered the square and spilling out into the nearby bushes and streets and any of the heaving hole-in-the-wall bars and by-day restaurants in close proximity, they drank and smoked, they sat, stood, danced, clapped, sang. At first we thought it was a music festival but we soon noticed there wasn't any music playing- nothing. at. all... Just a typical Friday night for the Milanesi.

It was quintessential Italy, quintessential Europe. There they were out in their public spaces, drinking and laughing and socialising, no one was even drunk despite the cheap alcohol, yet everyone was more animated than an English pub in the throes of a 2pm happy hour. London time was gone. We had crossed the channel and reached the place where everything’s better; the weather, the drinks, the coffee, the food, I won’t go on for fear of being taken for a turncoat. We bought from one of the many hole-in-the-wall bars that spilled into the square and found some space on the piazza floor to kick-off.

The locals stunned, or rather, were stunning. Had any one of them returned with us across the channel they would have be praised and worshipped as the epitome of beauty upon arrival. Heralded as some rare commodity to remind us what ‘in full health’ actually looks like and that thick, dense bronzing agent does not in any way mirror the effect of that thing you see in pictures called the sun (note, I do not refer to the The Sun). Yet among their Italian peers, these flawless Dorian’s of Grey are adjudged simply as “cute”.

Next morning, late and in a slight daze, we rose to see the full European sun beating down upon the city. We walked aimlessly through the maze of wide and long streets leading to harsh fascist architectures on a grey scale not unlike a London sky. Milan comes under frequent criticism from the touring masses for its lack of beauty. Therein exists the great irony of being the fashion capital of Europe as tourists come to eye off the superficial splendor; they come and glance and leave with the city’s richest veins and most precious ores left untapped.

The grand architecture itself is something to behold. Monuments of exquisite vision such as Il Duomo, Centrale, Porta Sempione, Cimitero Monumentale, the list goes on. These are recognised landmarks in their own right and lend added grandeur to the city which one, especially being of Australian and palpably unhistorical origins, finds easily captivating. Lasting rewards for handling centuries of dispute resolution; of church and state, of left and right and of affording accommodation to the men who decided they wanted everything. Coming from an island on the other side of the world, where everything was sorted for us, like a Gloria Jeans (that's Australian for Starbucks) franchisee seeing the boardroom of the head office where things were once thrashed out, it is exhilarating in a glad-you-ironed-out-the-kinks-first kind of way.

Now, arriving at the great fortress, the coliseum of football that is the San Siro, and fascist icon if ever there was one, we remembered that we were actually here with an objective. It was Derby day. The grounds around us teemed with blue and red enlivening the city’s palette. A thunderous crack of a firework echoed around the inside of the stadium. Followed by a roar which felt even louder. The ultras were calling. We raced to get inside. A year on, I'd returned.

Giuseppe Meazza

I lent against the cheap white plastic bar that supported my espresso and sugar by tiny plastic cup (for one euro; as is usually the case in this country - grazie italia!). At one end, past the row of like-minded enthusiasts tending own little white cups, sat a glorious -- shining -- industrial-size espresso machine. There was very little else around the bar or the entire vast, faded and grayed expanse. I stood there, on the concrete walkway 10 storeys up, looking out across the orange lit gates crowded with black coats and scarves sporting hints of blue, over the long queues at the ticket offices, past the endless ocean of cars and vespas fitted into every conceived crevasse of what was probably a quiet neighbourhood cul-de-sac by day, and into the early evening darkness that illuminated the clustered lights of the sprawling Milan city centre.

‘The fish! the fish!’, a middle-aged smoky Italian man is shouting as he grabs my shoulder. His eyes squinting with laughter, checking I’m thoroughly entertained by this idea. 

I stared back at him blankly; he couldn’t speak English, nor I Italian, after all.

He pointed down toward the pitch cupping his hand while waving his arm in and out, as if to motion a fish swimming through the sea, ‘Nagamoto! the fish!’.

I grinned at the old bastard, it was actually pretty true: half an hour had elapsed thus far and Yuto Nagamoto had spent much of his time in the final third, gliding forward on the overlap in horribly haphazard fashion, successfully distracting and dragging much of the Cagliari midfield and defense out of position.  The Inter left back was working hard; super keen and eager to impress – almost too hard as Leonardo was persistently waving and shouting at his Japanese newcomer to drop. Samuel Eto’o seemed almost put-off as Nagamoto popped up randomly to his left and his right. But the crowd was behind him; captured in wonder by his energy and movement and some decent final balls. The Fish! 

The grayed man, happy with himself and my reaction went back to his preset anthems as Inter comfortably dictated play. The Nerrazzuri were already one nil up - owing to an astute Andrea Rannocchia. The young Italian defender, in the image of a tall and shorter-haired Alessandro Nesta, won a goal-mouth scramble to put the hosts ahead within 10 minutes. 

Such is the nature of Italian football there was no intention to press for further goals. 1-0 and you are comfortable. You are winning -- and have no reason that you won’t win. To extend yourself in seeking further goals simply increases the risk of conceding. At one nil, you stay. If you are the crowd, you celebrate. It was the Ultra’s who led on the position. They were up in unison, clapping, chanting, singing, as brilliant red flares kindled the atmosphere and - every so often - all bounced that weren’t the Rossoneri! Eh! Eh!

The other stands followed in kind. When things are going well it is the collective, rather than the individual, that succeeds. People are always willing to quit their own values and march to a mass-inducing beat when it is one which is assured. The collective identity – with unique characteristics, personality and charms – is always greater than one's own. A sense of belonging is overcoming when one adheres. It provides a simultaneous responsibility for all to support and help their team as best they can: to be present; to shout loud; to think positively; to contribute financially. The sense of responsibility is the drug that keeps them coming back - it is incredibly inviting. Like nationalism, religion or xenophobia it is all the same. It all exists on a deeply personal and introspective level. 

Some nifty work from Julio Cesar, successfully playing out from the back to keep possession, drew applause from all, then the ten square balls that followed -- almost a standing ovation from the 70,000 on hand.  The old-suited man next to me remained as enthusiastic as ever but not quite in tune with the general vibe. His expression more a confused cocktail of his own material; much of which was apparently offensive as scores of people all around were looking at him with a mixed expression of curiosity and indignation.

But the unknown, incongruous man was oblivious to any negativity. In his drink/drug fuelled haze he was enjoying the attention and acknowledgement of his genius. He stood for the 90 minutes in its entirety, enticing everyone to follow his lead. You sensed his comfort. He’d spent some time in these pews.  He knew every word of every song, and had his own to carry as well. He saw every pass, every touch, and praised and criticised every player by name, home and away. He was invested. He got it. And he knew – if Inter were in need of support; 1 goal down in extra time – the crowd would be with him too: they were on his side after all. A winner in the last minute of the game, the type that comes by maybe once a season at home, when all hope is lost, and the entire crowd rises erupting in ecstasy; jumping, air-punching, hugging strangers they've never met but suddenly completely empathise with. That’s for the real fans. He was simply there already. 

Tonight there was no such single moment of delight, or any real notes of pure footballing interest. Inter did it comfortably, as planned, it was a perfect 1 – 0. The crowd, satisfied with their night's work, left to await their next engagement. For me, to wonder where football – an equaliser for so much in this world – doesn’t lend itself, and of when I will next return to the Giuseppe Meazza.

That's it, then.

He stood watching the ride shrinking before his eyes, and it was almost by the horizon before traveling on and out of sight. He felt it an eternity, until the ’89 Lincoln finally lapsed into nothingness, as he waited for the desert silence to engulf it's purr and again he waited as the dusty, greyed, squared silhouette of the All American, of which he’d grown somewhat familiar and fond, abandoned his world. That’s it then, he thought to himself affording a sigh.

His right hand shielded his stinging eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, it was July and the summer kept it high for extended hours in the light blue sky, as he scanned the final reaches of views he could make out beyond the golden fields and plains bleached by sustained shine. Satisfied by the emptiness, he turned to look from where he’d come; and he had come some distance. The road mirrored almost perfectly; to the degree that, beyond the scattering of dilapidated farm houses, it converged on itself, lined by burgeoning copper cornfields, as far in one direction as the other. Despite not knowing exactly where he was, traveling east for so long had bothered him greatly and necessitated a change.

The surrounds were barren but he didn’t doubt the assurance of life; the number of pickups and old four-doors in respective yards vouched for a community of a decent descript. Standard Southern affair of red state America was unnatural and unfamiliar, and he as wary as he was curious in seeking out the unknown. By custom he had always avoided these parts and these people his entire life; of white picket fences, modest homes, dusty pickups, and washed Cadillacs prepared for the daily or weekly (whichever it is) church commute. 

He was best served prepping for when the folk do appear; he knew they’d be wary and think it queer to have a man of his portrait appear alone, on foot, out of nowhere. It was surely a matter of time before he was greeted and offered some assistance.That was one thing he knew first-hand from Southerners; when they saw something unusual or unfamiliar, even when it was threatening, they confronted it. He recited his familiar alibi, strolling down the road on slight edge, passing huge barren lots of brown grasses and dirts and black-grey gravels accommodating small brick houses and fading barns of peeling white, his rubber soles heavy on the steaming tarmac. 

He felt a sensation of great sickness and stickiness about him as beads of sweat collected and rolled off his forehead. There was little to distract from the suffocating heat: a small trad-brick house of the two bedroom variety fronted by a wooden porch shaded by an acutely slanted roof; three cars at idling out the front amongst a yard of gravel and dirt; two Ford pickups of maroon and white, a silver Chevrolet van. This is American oblivion. Sitting opposite, on his right, another brick house of similar size but with a kind of thatched roof was obstructed from view by a cluster of frail ironwoods and elms: the cluster of struggling, fading beings somehow heightened the desolation he felt. 

A sign by the roadside up ahead read in bold thick black print “Harry Hickey’s”. Finally, perhaps something abstractly representing civilization. It was the finest house on the street; a two story colonial with unspoiled white paint and its windows and doors intact. He trudged hopefully up the gravel frontage, watching his feet in ditches carved by thick-wheeled workers’ trucks, and onto the porch. The front door was open and he could see through the screen door a spacious restaurant floor. It appeared empty, as did the bar hiding in gloom along the back wall. He entered upon finding the door unlocked.

It was cooler inside, a corner fan sat on the wall slowly oscillating, quietly murmuring. The restaurant was homely and the liquor bottles along the wall behind the bar beckoned his attention. ‘Hey - hello - is there someone here?!’, he waited as no response was forthcoming, ‘what kinda people leave their restaurant open! Hey!’ Damn it, just great.  He walked behind the bar and fixed himself a drink of bourbon, cola and a ton of ice. What kinda place is so deserted for lunch anyway.. how the hell do they survive?  He must have a day job. He knew he could be waiting a while for company and made his way to a table that viewed out the generous windows onto the road. It was comfortable.

This place is alright: eight tables plus a space at the bar; and you could fit more in. And heaving on a July evening: with Southern tunes of blues, jazz, rock n roll - whatever they’re feeling; young waitresses in wispy dresses taking orders, collecting bills and workin’ hard for their tips; the whiskey flowing as round after round is shouted round the room by the local sycophant. Hell, after dark it could flow out onto the porch, into the yard. It could be something. He drew a long drink, the ice had already taken hold, and rejuvenation flew around his nerves. Within moments his eyes closed and his head tapped the window pane.

The sound of a rumbling ‘76 Chevy shifting gravel had his eyes alert and expending a moment to retrace his movements. The dull canary yellow Malibu pulled up slowly beneath the porch. A man of his forties, in blue flannelet and jeans and heavy boots, got out before bending down to release a discernibly younger and thinner man from the backseat. A woman in a floral dress emerged from the passenger side, also younger, tanned, with long wavy blond hair. He watched her as they approached the house and took another drink; it wasn’t as refreshing, there was no longer ice.

The young woman entered followed closely by the young man, they greeted their guest with a smile and a nod as they continued on into the back. The woman’s red heels caught his gaze as they clicked on the floorboards past the bar. ‘How do you Sir, can I help you?’ the old man offered, appearing at the door, as he considered the image of the young man with the disheveled thin, black tie over a soiled, white button-down, with sleeves half-rolled up, half-tucked into tanned slacks resting over brown leather shoes, that rested at ease on top of table eight. For sure you can.

4/6/10

i will miss this place. i will come back, but it will not be the same. the stuff will still be there: the bars, restaurants and fields and stadiums. but the people change; the context and structure of the relationships change. to leave is ultimately a selfish act; And there are traces of guilt. one comfort is that what is will change; it cannot be preserved. it is best just to be enjoyed, and then remembered.

and so to all the people in whom i love so much, i will see them again. it will be different, but it will be enjoyed just as much.

so we move on, and forward, and continue. what's next.

Firenze.

Firenze is a town I'd heard so much about without ever having visited. I’ve had friends who’ve travelled there, friends who’d lived there, and I’d only ever heard wonderful things about the place; about its beauty, its artwork, its buildings, even simply, the general vibe and feel of it. The feedback's always been consistently positive. As a result over the years I’d compiled these “kind thoughts” (thanks Russell Brand) and developed a pretty concise picture of what Firenze was actually like in my head. Then at times I would hear someone talk about their wonderful experience of the fanciful Florence and I would react in an almost knowingly ‘oh yes, isn’t it wonderful’ nod type of fashion as I played out my own imaginary scenes.

Of that magical Tuscan city set on the auburn plains of country Italia; with its wide boulevards of faded greys and whites; of flowing streams, and stunning cathedrals and shrines built of such extravagance with the sole purpose of housing the finest of artworks. The Florentines, all of whom I had down as artisans, poets and philosophers, sauntered around contemplating higher realities and confronted the problems of the divine that unwittingly affect us all; or something like that anyway – who knows where my mind is. Basically it meant that to be heading there after having heard so much brought on a sense of great anticipation. It was the case for the three of us, especially considering the disenchantment we’d felt in Verona and then Venice after the greatness that is Milan.

It was inevitable then when I stepped off the train from Venezia with Drew and Bob that I was ever so slightly disappointed with the greeting of a humble, square-ish and brown station of aged modernity and not the pre-1600 (+ or fantastical lord of the ring facades - there was no white gold anywhere. Actually I’m pretty sure that I had dreamt of a city plated in white gold come to think of it) architecture that I had anticipated.

The reality check continued as we made our way to our hotel; first negotiating the traffic-heavy roads encircling the station; then feeling our way up through the old cobbled streets lined of Louis Vuitton, Armani, Gucci, Ferrero Rocher, Ferrari, etc. stores. When we reached our desired street, it took another half hour to find, thanks to Drew’s keen eye, the size-8 font handwritten hotel sign hidden within a door buzzer. We ditched our stuff in nice enough digs then made for the Chinese across the road.

After lunch we relaxed, contented with further Asian cuisine (it was the same in Venezia), and began to open our eyes to the medieval streets of our surrounds. We wandered the afternoon away awhile then dove into a bar for the early evening espresso (for €0.70 cents - grazie Italia ♥), Bob with his Latte and Drew his hot chocolate and cake (that cost him something like €8.00 ha). The sun was setting as we emerged, and with my caffeine dependence becoming ever more apparent, we made for the spot on the edge of our tourist map marked as a lookout.

With Drew leading our trio we wound along the narrow paves for the X in our usual march formation: of Drew and I chaperoning Bob as he dawdled behind yet always, somehow, remaining in touching distance and able to tell us should he feel an aspect of the daily proceedings be objectionable. We crossed the river to meet the park on the edge of town and scrambled up the well worn tour-bus path to its summit. We reached the top to find a deserted car-park with just a handful of people milling about. The park appeared to continue on the other side of the concrete expanse before being enveloped by the wild hills of rough terrain that followed. There was cafe in the centre that was closed and a statue of some non-descript and I had the impression that this place would buzz in summer. I turned and headed for the lookout. And finally there it was: a small medieval town formed by the renaissance nestled in a low valley as if precisely placed by an artisan having carefully studied her subjects’ most complimenting features.

The town appeared as if it was a model of papier-mâché. Its surrounds stood as if delicately composed from fine brush work abstracting the subject. We found a spot to watch the sun fall. The tones of nature and man converged into a seamless composition. The aged autumn colours of early December, enriched by the late fading light, mixed with the redbrick, and yellow and brown wood and plaster, Florentine rooves. Il Duomo was undoubtedly the centre point of all focus standing above all else; its faded white, green and red facade flourished under the sun’s final gaze like a perfect sponge to its environment; the famous redbrick dome dominated the view as if an alternate source of the heightened colour of the scene. A few small groups of people had turned up for the display though the majority had come and gone after a quick glance and photo. Calmness and serenity were afforded and we stayed watching and musing and photo taking until the hills behind us eclipsed the light. It was chilled and snow peppered all around us. Satisfied and content, equipped with a knowing that this place was indeed exceptional after all, we made our way back to town to begin the chase for some proper Tuscan wine. 

To be continued.

.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.

The light of day.

The light of day

It induces all;

Of the sun resting

Gently on the streets;

Illuminating the canvas; and

The souls’ will to create;

The stroll checked though

For now it is blank;

And to paint the light

Nothing can be done.