I love a late night flight. There’s a calm over the terminal– by 10pm the good folk are getting sleepy. None of that frantic energy of the morning, people slugging coffee, jittering, talking too loudly. At the overlit sports bar, conversation is muted; I can read my book and enjoy the cocktail that will help convince me that getting on an aeroplane again is a sane thing to do…
Startled by the noon sunshine, having left New York late the night before, I pushed my way through the crowds at Milan’s Malpensa airport and straight to the nearest coffee bar. Italian airports never fail to live up to their reputation– operatic chaos at all times, people young and old desperately pushing past one another as if it could possibly make a difference; luggage knocked over, voices raised, hands gesturing in articulate profanity. I watched for a few minutes in dazed bemusement, my addled brain refusing to accept what was in front of it. I slugged a coffee and steeled myself for baggage claim…
Two hours later, groaning pathetically as I slogged the streets surrounding Milan’s Central station, I searched for my cheap generic hotel. Up and down train station stairs, rattling over the cobblestone streets, the horn case bumping my arse with every step; the blinding sun bounced off my greasy forehead and my wet, rumpled shirt clung to my back– hot, sticky, and itchy. Smells of coffee and dog shit competed with each other as throngs of immaculate Milanese rushed past me, just another oafish tourist.
At the exclusive sounding “Club Hotel,” my tiny room was hot and airless, a dusty tiled floor, a plank-like single bed. I peeled off my sodden, stinking travel clothes and squeezed myself into the comically tiny shower cubicle to wash the plane off me, bruised elbows and knees crashing into the juddering glass door. I wanted to go out. I knew I should go out, to confront the new reality and demand that my sulking brain adapt already. I also knew there was nothing that would keep me out of that hard starchy bed…
The alarm pulled me up by the eyeballs and I lay there in the dark, mouth gummy, brain vainly trying to piece it together. Outlines of a strange chair and a desk, a half empty water bottle, unmistakably a hotel room, but a hotel room anywhere. Bland, uniform, cookie-cutter hotel rooms like this exist everywhere at once, you’re only in a location when you open the blinds, as if Schrödinger was your travel agent. I needed to escape– I’d been penned in for too long. The hotel is a continuation of the the plane, the airport, the express train with its luggage racks and English announcements… Inside the hotel, your foreignness, your status as a visitor is your defining characteristic. You’re the same non-person you were on the plane: a number, a seat, a room, a bad meal. The hotel can be comforting and easy; there are no expectations placed on you. You’re not expected to speak the language or understand the customs, deliberately non-threatening food is provided, everything is recognisable. The hotel’s front door is a seal that must be broken for you to come to life. Once you hit the street you’re a person- a walking, sweating, breathing, coughing bag of meat, to be noticed or ignored, hugged or punched, kissed or spat at; a local and a tourist until you reveal one or the other.
At 7pm the sun was still high in the sky, not helping my confusion, and the prospect of finding food was suddenly daunting. Dusk descended as I stalked the streets, the air cool and clear, wafting magnolia. Spores from the cottonwood trees drifted past like the aftermath of a vicious pillow fight; laughter and the clink of glasses floated from open windows. My awareness was external; the core of my brain was still a sullen lump, refusing to receive messages. I tried to focus on the only possible salvation– Osso Buco and risotto– Milan on a plate. Eat the place, literally suck the marrow, sit at a table on the street, hear the voices, breathe in the city, the laughing locals and roaring mopeds. I found a promisingly bustling restaurant and inhaled a plate-sized slab of collapsing tender veal– rich, salty, and intense– the fatty, unctuous, saffron-coloured rice oozing to the plate’s edges. A carafe of red, a coffee, a Fernet Branca, shoring myself up. Afterwards I strolled and breathed and digested; by now I was enjoying the disorientation. Eventually I ended up back at the hotel, but I have no idea how I got there. Sleep grabbed me and pulled me under.
Next morning I dressed and took the tiny elevator down to the lobby, averted my eyes from the desperation of the breakfast room and stumbled out on to the street. Unless it’s free, or you have the misfortune of staying in the suburbs, the hotel breakfast is never advisable. The slices of limp cold meat and patronising tubs of strawberry yoghurt are a last resort. Sunglasses on against the morning sun, trying to avoid being mown down by office drones, I rounded a corner and found a cafe. Two coffees and one of those weird sweet goo-filled croissants the Italians go for, and suddenly my brain sparked. For the first time in 24 hours. The woman making coffee and selling lotto tickets seemed to notice and gave me a puzzled smile– she couldn’t see the sodden cogs straining to turn through thick mush. And at that moment I knew exactly where I was. I picked up a few words from other customers, and back out on the street I knew the smell of the air, the sound of the Vespas– it was all coming back. Just in time to leave.
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