What To Wear To A Wedding In Milan Part 2 ~ Converted Castles, Sugar Rushes & Vintage Jackets.
When I arrived at Bergamo airport, I headed down the arrivals area until I found a kiosk with a Terrorvision Coach sign in the window, it was quite small and unassuming, but almost too easy to find. My dials were programmed to the UK default channel and expected everyone to be hostile and difficult, however the moment I spoke to my first Italian person I retuned my settings to warm and helpful with a hint of humour. I bought a return ticket to Milan Central, it’s incredibly cheap at €5 each way and buying a return saves you the bother, not that it is a bother, on the way home. I love to be ready.
The coaches line up outside the airport, just look for the name of the company on the side of the bus. The journey takes about an hour and is very efficient. Both the ticket guy and driver were polite and friendly, prepare to get used to this.
I was bursting with excitement about being in Milano for the first time, but I was just a little bit worried it would be a little bit like Madrid. That anxiety intensified a degree when we approached the city centre and I saw a hippy juggling at the traffic lights, but soon disappeared when I got in a taxi and drove through the decadent streets dripping in old money and sophistication. Again, my taxi driver was delightful, not the slightest whiff of sexoffender about him and the fare was an unexpectedly reasonable €13. I was expecting about €30.
I always dream of gliding into a hotel that is steeped in old time style and grandeur, or even more delicious - faded grandeur. I stayed in one in Malta once that was embalmed in 1970s elegance with mouthwatering open expanses of purple carpet and modernist white walls with brutalist windows, but never since unfortunately. Most places have been premier-inned or ‘reburbished’ up to the eyes in charmlessness. This time, however, my dreams had come true. Say ciao to the Mercure Regency Hotel, Via Giuseppe Arimondi, 12, 20155, with its mosaicked courtyard, velvet drapes and Ella Fitzgerald oozing out of the radiogram in the bamboo lounge where a bewaistcoated bartender polished glasses that have and will never see a drink. What swoonery is this?
The Bamboo Lounge of Dreams.
I had very politely requested a quiet room on the courtyard side of the hotel, as I had read the reviews on the internet and anticipated screaming men on Stag Do’s and honking traffic. What I did not expect was a converted castle in the middle of a fabulous area with a balcony overlooking a fountain.
I couldn’t quite tell if Ms Receptionist was over-efficient or a teensy bit brusk, time will tell. Still dressed like Joe Pesci and frazzled from my epic journey, I barely finished saying my name, she said: “you are here for six nights”, I made friendly: “yes, if you’ll have me?”, she not think me funny: “well, it would be a problem for you if we won’t.” Oh. Ok. Never mind, my key was a huge regal curtain tie-back tassel and it felt like being handed a toy. Turning towards the lift everything felt fabulous, narrow corridors and very compact, but extremely clean and welcoming. My I stomach tightened as I spied a bigger peep of bamboo lounge again as I squeezed into the tiny lift. More Jim Jarmusch you could not get.
The Bamboo Bar but no drinks thank you.
The lift was tight and the doors closed like they were being shoved by two volunteer stage hands in an amdram play. They did, thankfully open again on my floor revealing another small and narrow corridor, marinaded in history and rammed with the ghosts of guests gone by. My chamber was at the end in the corner and fulfilled everything you could want from a hotel rammed with character and history. I pootled about and ferreted around. Great, it’s had full length mirrors everywhere. I put on every light, of which there were many, and all emitted the equivalent of a medieval candle glow. When I found the switch for the metal roller blind, which covered almost one whole wall, in amongst the heavy drapes of the curtains there slowly revealed a ‘no way’ moment as the whir of the motor unveiled the view of the fountain from my private balcony. Holy heart skipper! This will do, thank you.
Room with a view.
Once I’d loosened my grip on the stress of reaching my destination, my focus transferred to food. I don’t want any fuss, I don’t want a ‘dining experience’, I just want me dinna. I do a quick google search, but it’s all a bit of an event, so I chance my luck with the uber-efficient receptionist again. Advice came swiftly and briskly and I found myself heading “left out of the hotel and across two blocks”. There was no one around and the area seemed quiet residential with some pleasant offices and sales rooms shut for the night. It was dark, late and I was running on empty. Tio Piazza was the perfect recommendation, an authentic local pizza and pasta restaurant with absolutely no complaints from me. The staff were the right level of friendly, the ambiance relaxed and classic, peaceful and safe until one guest decided to play his phone like he was at home. Thankfully this was stared down by every other guest and we resumed our mature munching to accessible Italian opera.
I ordered the Capriccioza and a blood orange juice. Service was swift, but I was so hungry by then I could have rolled it up and swallowed it like a circus sword. It was very nice. The blood orange was freshly squeezed and I can still taste it now.
I left happy with that lovely feeling of being well fed and safe and sound. It was very dark and raining when I turned right and made my way back to the hotel, so I transformed into my cape and flung my black Damsel In A Dress coat over my head and ran over the tram tracks, which I had not noticed on the way, flying through the streets like a renegade nun. Made myself laugh. Probably wouldn’t tell Ms Receptionist.
Back in my room, I’m emotionally and physically shattered and ever conscious of the too real and ever present dangers of being a woman, I ‘vrrrrr’ the metal rollerblind down on the balcony and locked in levitate with over tiredness on the bed then blackout in the blackout.
One of the many drawbacks of being a woman and having to metal-shutter yourself in, is waking up as breakfast finishes because your room is pitch black. Absolutely gutted. It’s ten o’clock and I’m pissed off I’ve slept-in because the world is burning. I’m just going to have to hope I can realign my chakras through the day with vintage truffling, sugary snacks and Pepsi Max.
I got up and got at it. Groggy, but conscious enough to go easy on the flamboyance, I played it safe and wore a clean version of exactly what I’d had on yesterday. Another white tuxedo shirt and black skinny trousers with my knee length black dress coat. Vintage Vegas Mobster I’d call it. It was certainly mafia enough to make another old man in a patisserie jump to his feet again from behind an exquisite wooden confectionery counter when I walked in. I thought I’d go classic continental and bought a Nutella horn, which turned out to have enough nut goo inside it to kill me, or at the very least send me blind. The flaky pastry cone was also in the dreaded ‘stale paper’ state, I’d guess at least 4 day’s fresh and probably embalmed by the chocolate spread.
It was not what I needed, but it was what I deserved for sleeping in. There’s nothing like punishing yourself by adding misery to your own misfortune. Many people would be defeated by a double breakfast fail and retreat to their shells, not moi, I wrapped my pint of Nutella back up in its waxy paper bag and locked it up in my handbag, for bite by bite sustenance throughout the day.
My FIRST DAY FRIDAY plan was to start with China Town, you can take the girl out of Hong Kong, but you’ll never take Hong Kong out of the girl, then walk down to the large Humana for vintage Milan fashions. By the time I had reached the Metro station the sugar from the Nutella had flooded my body and was making my face itch. After a bit of frenetic fumbling and back and forwarding like a hyper fly, I got my train ticket from a smiling man in a newsstand booth inside the station. €1.50 for one trip and free directions, bargain. The Metro was immaculate and although not as easy to navigate as a first timer as Hong Kong’s MTR, it was as safe and efficient.
I got off the train as near to China Town as possible and embraced my first proper experience in mid Milan. It’s immaculate, it’s beautiful, it’s natural and it knows it. There is a great comfort from being in a confident and stylish city, there is no edge, not whiff of hostility, there is a safely in knowing everyone is so rich they aren’t in the slightest bit interested in anything you’ve got. I treasure that feeling so much, as it’s rare and precious and not available in England.
China Town was a very well managed Main Street; Via Paolo Sarpi, with pristine polyester dress shops and dumpling kiosks. I go in every one of them and have my head turned by a tiger printed jumpsuit, but surrender to the tiny sizes and buy a yellow sunburst expandable choker instead, fit for even the fattest English neck. It feels very satisfying to have bought my first truffle trophy so I celebrate by sitting on the benches in the street to top up my palm oil and corn starch levels and finish my Nutella paper horn. This is nowt like any China Town I’ve ever seen. It’s so controlled, like a Disney exhibit. Not a scrap of litter or morsel of dropped food, except, where I sat down I spied a tantalising tidbit of Hong Kong creeping out of the shutters above a shop, which made me very warm inside.
What secrets creep? A Shuttered Window In China Town.
Blood sugar fuelled up again, I headed off to the main Humana on Via Cappellari 3, full of high hopes for vintage Italian clothes. With a hotline to google maps clasped in my hand, it was a pleasure to wonder at the spectacuclar architecture, stroll the easily navigable streets and gawp at the stone gods looming over head on every corner.
I found the shop and circumnavigated it twice in desperation, but there was really, truly nothing for me. A pink duster coat came close, but no, not close enough. Undefeated I set my sights on a trendy wendy young man who maybe definitely worked there and asked him if he could recommend any more vintage shops. The man comes alive. It’s all he lives for. We are our people, we are together. He gently took my phone out of my clammy claw-hand and programmed Via Gian Giacomo Mora into my google maps: “There are five”, he holds up his hand and extends his fingers to emphasise the FIVE, and it’s like a secret greeting between our planet’s people, FIVE on one street, “go to Groupies. It’s the best”.
Buoyed up, I Gracie Milled and Arivvadercied my way out of his kindness. Sugared out, I fall into a pizza-by-the-slice place and am treated with unending kindness by the ladies. Normally you expect the warmth to run cold after a few struggled exchanges, but it just keeps coming and I wasn’t used to it yet. Gentle ladies, aubergine pizza and out-of-window staring made me feel better by the minute. Blood sugar replenished I found my grail and got stuck back in.
Cavalli E Nestri Vintage Shop.
Two Milano Vintage institutions; Cavelli & Nastri and Bivio were beautiful, quality establishments that sweep you up and usher you in. The staff were utterly delightful too, they were kind enough to laugh at one of my jokes and treated me like a friend. The song “I could have danced all night” played as I stepped inside and I certainly could. I knew there was something life changing in there for me somewhere, but it wasn’t going to happen today. I left with my now trademark melodramatic arrivaderci and genuflection, which was proving a great giggle everywhere I went. One lady explained it’s a very formal way to leave and I said I always like to formally leave a place. I also promised to be back, they seemed genuinely glad about that. Lovely.
Groupies Vintage Shop and Vespa to whisk you home in style.
Everything rested on Groupies. Winning or losing the day depended on my last shop. I had no strength nor expectations in reserve, but it wasn’t needed, I didn’t even get over the threshold of the outside edge of the door before I locked my radar on a three-inch section of half-sleeve sticking out from the packed rack of Hawaiian shirts and blouson bombers like a ruby in the dust. I honed in on my target like Terminator 2. My heart started pounding, but it didn’t miss a beat. A 1980’s short-sleeved ESCADA Wild Cat power jacket, €59. Strike. Top quality truffle. ‘Avin’ it. Day One was won and done and I returned to my cave victorious dragging my fresh vintage kill in my jaws.
Tomorrow is THE WEDDING DAY, at El Duomo, in Milan and I’m going. Fancy that ESCADA Wildcat.
ESCADA Wildcat Vintage Jacket and Sunburst Choker.
