Milan's Fashionistas, I bid you Farewell!
May 20th 2006 02:58
So i missed the duomo? Big deal. There would be other duomos. And later that night there would be other stern Italian men rebuffing me from their premises with rather articulate biceps.
Instead we skulked about the piazza, perused the shops where the glitterati go for retail therapy, and generally attracted attention to ourselves. With knee high socks and sweat bands from wrist to shoulder, there was no chance of me integrating seamlessly into the local hubbub (not that the Italians really do hubbub; more like hub-have-some-spaghetti-you‘re-so-thin!). The advantage of sticking out was that the Milanese were amused. They even excused my beady-eyed optimism about Italy's chances in the next World Cup. Everywhere I travelled in Milan I would ask in my worst Italian about the Italian greats, like Pelé and Maradona. Shopkeepers smiled and street cleaners wept. But it was all part of the authentic experience.
But I realise little of this is enlightening you about Milan itself. Well, the only topic left to discuss seriously is the fashion. Corso Buenos Aires is apparently Milan’s longest shopping-mile. I couldn't tell you whether I've been there or not, because for most of my daytrips I was drunk. It was the only way to obscure the feeling of being an unwanted extra in a Calvin Klein commercial. Walking the retail chain mail, I was overwhelmed by the floating passage of uber-chic models and stilletoed tip-toeing genies with belts for skirts and skirts for necklaces. And that's just the men. I even found myself uttering 'Que bella!' like it was some sweet salutation...which it is in Milan.
If you want some indoor respite, try the Piazza San Babila. It's like a Westfield, only more pretentious, more expensive, and more labrynthian. The slot machines are a highlight. Oh, and I think I spied David Bowie buying a new Fendi handbag.
Instead we skulked about the piazza, perused the shops where the glitterati go for retail therapy, and generally attracted attention to ourselves. With knee high socks and sweat bands from wrist to shoulder, there was no chance of me integrating seamlessly into the local hubbub (not that the Italians really do hubbub; more like hub-have-some-spaghetti-you‘re-so-thin!). The advantage of sticking out was that the Milanese were amused. They even excused my beady-eyed optimism about Italy's chances in the next World Cup. Everywhere I travelled in Milan I would ask in my worst Italian about the Italian greats, like Pelé and Maradona. Shopkeepers smiled and street cleaners wept. But it was all part of the authentic experience.
But I realise little of this is enlightening you about Milan itself. Well, the only topic left to discuss seriously is the fashion. Corso Buenos Aires is apparently Milan’s longest shopping-mile. I couldn't tell you whether I've been there or not, because for most of my daytrips I was drunk. It was the only way to obscure the feeling of being an unwanted extra in a Calvin Klein commercial. Walking the retail chain mail, I was overwhelmed by the floating passage of uber-chic models and stilletoed tip-toeing genies with belts for skirts and skirts for necklaces. And that's just the men. I even found myself uttering 'Que bella!' like it was some sweet salutation...which it is in Milan.
If you want some indoor respite, try the Piazza San Babila. It's like a Westfield, only more pretentious, more expensive, and more labrynthian. The slot machines are a highlight. Oh, and I think I spied David Bowie buying a new Fendi handbag.
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