Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name; and they're always glad you came. To return to a city you know well for only 24 hours poses some challenges. How to see all the people you were once so fond of, where to have that one important meal, that exceptional drink, perhaps pick up a relic or pinch a souvenir for the mantelpiece - something that never occurred to you to do when packing and leaving the city that up until that point you had called home.
The only thing to do is to return to your old neighbourhood and take a 15-hour walk; there is much joy in being over-familiar with a place you have not seen for a while. The vacant faces behind the counters look up at the customer, and then they see you - and oh the pleasure of a double take, as though you had committed a small crime, done something mischievous. It is enough to delude yourself into thinking you have indeed brightened up their day - who knows, perhaps you have, there is something special about seeing a long-forgotten familiar face. And for me perhaps, there is some comfort in finding the neighbourhood as I left it, with many of the same people still working in the same places. Milan, unlike London, another ex-home of mine, is intimate and not galloping ahead. Many of the shops, restaurants and clubs have staying power; many of the people who work in these spaces are mildly disgruntled, but mostly content with their lives in this little, big city. It is very comforting to meet them and hear about their lives.
I walk into Capetown, the undisputed best meeting point in Milan for all those not into fashion. Silvia, queen of the Bloody Mary, informs me that she has had a baby since we last met. There is no sign of this at all in her silhouette. I compliment her on the Bloody Mary (should I have complimented her on her silhouette?), you forget she says with a smile, and briskly gets back to work, pummelling mint to quench the thirst of the frenzy. Sergio, the owner of the bar, is as robust and sturdy as ever. Are you rich? I ask him. Not yet, he says with a slight wink, though we have calculated that he must do alright from the dedicated regulars. Perhaps he is a true symbol of this city, ticking over nicely, not rocking the boat, finding a formula that works and sticking with it.
MT, the editor of Rodeo magazine, breezes in on his bicycle, looking sharp and slim in a fine suit. He tells me he has emerged from a three-month drought to catch up, and swiftly orders something terribly pretentious that sounds like champagneuse sudafricaine. When the waitress looks perplexed, he tells her to ask Silvia. MT is one of the most delightful characters in the city, who knows just about everybody and soon there are some fashion-chickies on our table, with not much to say, as they have mostly been working on their outfits for the past 10 years or so. Esgar, the feisty Colombian, seems quite keen to scale one of the giant girls; he extracts her telephone number before she heads off to dinner and the Cavalli party - we decide life is too short to spend the evening with the flash-trash set of Milan and opt to stay in the democratic neighbourhood that is the Navigli.
Yes, yes, fashion week in Milan does have the city buzzing, and on a mild Monday night, we can sit outside drinking with old friends, watching the world go by, feeling extra-fabulous just for one day, overwhelmed with cheap nostalgia, wondering why we ever left...
We head down to Rita's cocktails, where Edo, creator of a drink called the Gin Zen (gin and ginger are the two staple ingredients), is seated quietly at the end of the bar. This is one of my first customers, he tells the bald hunk behind the bar, and he gets to work making passion fruit concoctions for the gaggle of revellers that I have dragged along to this secret hideaway that was once two minutes from the monolocale where I lived. Edo has also had another kid, and is thinking of selling the business, but thankfully (for me) he is still there on Via Fumagalli, making fine, fine drinks for the Milanese raffinati. We talk until two in the morning, exchanging stories, and concerns, and delights too... until it is time to head home for some sleep, before boarding a plane to Copenhagen. I head home with an abrupt goodbye, to Edo, to Esgar, to MT... to Milan, but at the back of the taxi, looking out of the window, I realise it is not goodbye, it is only addio, which is kind of how I like it - all up in the air, and in the hands of the gods.
The only thing to do is to return to your old neighbourhood and take a 15-hour walk; there is much joy in being over-familiar with a place you have not seen for a while. The vacant faces behind the counters look up at the customer, and then they see you - and oh the pleasure of a double take, as though you had committed a small crime, done something mischievous. It is enough to delude yourself into thinking you have indeed brightened up their day - who knows, perhaps you have, there is something special about seeing a long-forgotten familiar face. And for me perhaps, there is some comfort in finding the neighbourhood as I left it, with many of the same people still working in the same places. Milan, unlike London, another ex-home of mine, is intimate and not galloping ahead. Many of the shops, restaurants and clubs have staying power; many of the people who work in these spaces are mildly disgruntled, but mostly content with their lives in this little, big city. It is very comforting to meet them and hear about their lives.
I walk into Capetown, the undisputed best meeting point in Milan for all those not into fashion. Silvia, queen of the Bloody Mary, informs me that she has had a baby since we last met. There is no sign of this at all in her silhouette. I compliment her on the Bloody Mary (should I have complimented her on her silhouette?), you forget she says with a smile, and briskly gets back to work, pummelling mint to quench the thirst of the frenzy. Sergio, the owner of the bar, is as robust and sturdy as ever. Are you rich? I ask him. Not yet, he says with a slight wink, though we have calculated that he must do alright from the dedicated regulars. Perhaps he is a true symbol of this city, ticking over nicely, not rocking the boat, finding a formula that works and sticking with it.
MT, the editor of Rodeo magazine, breezes in on his bicycle, looking sharp and slim in a fine suit. He tells me he has emerged from a three-month drought to catch up, and swiftly orders something terribly pretentious that sounds like champagneuse sudafricaine. When the waitress looks perplexed, he tells her to ask Silvia. MT is one of the most delightful characters in the city, who knows just about everybody and soon there are some fashion-chickies on our table, with not much to say, as they have mostly been working on their outfits for the past 10 years or so. Esgar, the feisty Colombian, seems quite keen to scale one of the giant girls; he extracts her telephone number before she heads off to dinner and the Cavalli party - we decide life is too short to spend the evening with the flash-trash set of Milan and opt to stay in the democratic neighbourhood that is the Navigli.
Yes, yes, fashion week in Milan does have the city buzzing, and on a mild Monday night, we can sit outside drinking with old friends, watching the world go by, feeling extra-fabulous just for one day, overwhelmed with cheap nostalgia, wondering why we ever left...
We head down to Rita's cocktails, where Edo, creator of a drink called the Gin Zen (gin and ginger are the two staple ingredients), is seated quietly at the end of the bar. This is one of my first customers, he tells the bald hunk behind the bar, and he gets to work making passion fruit concoctions for the gaggle of revellers that I have dragged along to this secret hideaway that was once two minutes from the monolocale where I lived. Edo has also had another kid, and is thinking of selling the business, but thankfully (for me) he is still there on Via Fumagalli, making fine, fine drinks for the Milanese raffinati. We talk until two in the morning, exchanging stories, and concerns, and delights too... until it is time to head home for some sleep, before boarding a plane to Copenhagen. I head home with an abrupt goodbye, to Edo, to Esgar, to MT... to Milan, but at the back of the taxi, looking out of the window, I realise it is not goodbye, it is only addio, which is kind of how I like it - all up in the air, and in the hands of the gods.