Sunday. Day of rest. My first alone in more than two weeks. No factories, no e-mails, no plans, except to meet an old friend for lunch to catch up on about 10 years worth of news and gossip, which we did with gusto over polenta and a lot of vino. My original plan was to wake up early and visit the Cimitero Monumentale, but that was thwarted by concierge's advise to avoid leaving the city centre that morning because of the Maratona Milano, or whatever it's called that was causing travel hell all over the city.
The second item on my list was the David LaChapelle exhibition at the Palazzo Reale, which is just two minutes away from my hotel. I'm not really a big fan of his work, but thought it would be interesting to see. On my way there, walking past the Duomo, I noticed a sign advertising trips to the top of the cathedral. At first I dismissed it and went straight on towards the museum, but when I got there to find that I was half an hour early, a little light went off in my head: It's probably one of the best decisions I have ever taken.
For as long as I shall live, I will treasure the memory of coming out of the lift (there's the option of taking the stairs, but the stair-count at the entrance, which I cannot remember, did not look appealing at that time of the morning) to find myself alone, in the marble gothic heaven that is the top of the Duomo, on a foggy, wet and grey December morning. I didn't even need my iPod to finish the scene off with a soundtrack, because glorious notes were making their way up to the top from an organ being played during Mass downstairs. At one point, through a long corridor of doorways, a caretaker in uniform (one thing about Milan is, they know how to do uniforms) swept the floor, adding another layer of romance to the whole scene.
If it weren't for the beautiful shades of pink of the marble, you'd want to turn the colour off and turn it into a scene from Rocco e I Suoi Fratelli, but even that would be a big waste.
Three days later, I'm back in London, and into the old routine, although there's been some changes: In the time I've been away the building next door - which I must write about at some point since it has become such an important part of life at Salisbury House - has gone up by another floor, and what used to be a florist next door has turned into a food and wine shop, much to the chagrin of many in this block who now fear that it will attract - as shops like that always do - all the local winos. Letters of complaint have already appeared on the noticeboard.
And, of course, the preparations for Christmas are in full swing here. Which reminds me that I must notify you all of my big volte-face. Due to Significant Other's working schedule this year, we've decided to spend Christmas here. It's not been an easy decision to take, but there hasn't been another option. So rather than play bah humbug, we're going the other way and going for Christmas big time. I've bought Christmas cards and a crib in Milan, and have a whole plan to decorate the flat. You see, miracles do happen sometimes!
The second item on my list was the David LaChapelle exhibition at the Palazzo Reale, which is just two minutes away from my hotel. I'm not really a big fan of his work, but thought it would be interesting to see. On my way there, walking past the Duomo, I noticed a sign advertising trips to the top of the cathedral. At first I dismissed it and went straight on towards the museum, but when I got there to find that I was half an hour early, a little light went off in my head: It's probably one of the best decisions I have ever taken.
For as long as I shall live, I will treasure the memory of coming out of the lift (there's the option of taking the stairs, but the stair-count at the entrance, which I cannot remember, did not look appealing at that time of the morning) to find myself alone, in the marble gothic heaven that is the top of the Duomo, on a foggy, wet and grey December morning. I didn't even need my iPod to finish the scene off with a soundtrack, because glorious notes were making their way up to the top from an organ being played during Mass downstairs. At one point, through a long corridor of doorways, a caretaker in uniform (one thing about Milan is, they know how to do uniforms) swept the floor, adding another layer of romance to the whole scene.
If it weren't for the beautiful shades of pink of the marble, you'd want to turn the colour off and turn it into a scene from Rocco e I Suoi Fratelli, but even that would be a big waste.
Three days later, I'm back in London, and into the old routine, although there's been some changes: In the time I've been away the building next door - which I must write about at some point since it has become such an important part of life at Salisbury House - has gone up by another floor, and what used to be a florist next door has turned into a food and wine shop, much to the chagrin of many in this block who now fear that it will attract - as shops like that always do - all the local winos. Letters of complaint have already appeared on the noticeboard.
And, of course, the preparations for Christmas are in full swing here. Which reminds me that I must notify you all of my big volte-face. Due to Significant Other's working schedule this year, we've decided to spend Christmas here. It's not been an easy decision to take, but there hasn't been another option. So rather than play bah humbug, we're going the other way and going for Christmas big time. I've bought Christmas cards and a crib in Milan, and have a whole plan to decorate the flat. You see, miracles do happen sometimes!