I wonder if therein lies some sort of irony when a city agrees with you about its drab and rather dire state. Touted as one of the most affluent cities in Italy, Milan’s cityscape does not do any justice to their financial standing in Europe yet undoubtedly remains a haven for fashionistas by fashionistas, where haute couture and looking good reign over opium. Crowds throng a centre that boasts rows and rows of designer brands outlets with their mannequins decked in exorbitantly priced clothes in the window display for moneyed tourists and locals to buy and mediocre ones to envy.
I arrived in Milan more dazed than anything after a plane ride that bordered half on insanity – with some scantily-dressed and badly behaved Turkish women and family (exhibiting the behaviour of the ‘wealthy peasant’), and a another hulk of a moustachioed Turkish man whose snores pretty much eclipsed the most of the sounds in the plane.
The Travel Companion (TC) and I bedded down in a pension so dingy I can’t even remember its name, where the lift is as cranky as old knees and the man at the reception crankier. The walls are so thin that I can hear TC’s loud muttering and singing in a separate shower that actually overpower an Italian advert on TV.
But we’re only here for a day before the moving about really begins, thankfully.