6/7
In the morning, jump on the train to Milan, chat with a couple of Scottish lads down on holiday. Big soccer (futbol) fans, as everyone in Europe seems to be. Later on the train I chat with two pleasant Dutch girls, who won’t give their names when I introduce myself. Like I am really going to be able to track down ‘Kristina’ from Holland based on her first name alone if I am a stalker or something. They are heading to Florence. I tell them about the campsite there, and they say they might go. Get off train in Milan, map works fine to hostel, ‘Il Postello’. Il Postello is more of a commune then a hostel, and as it turns out the ten euros I pay is more like a cover charge for a dance club then a fee to sleep in a hostel. There is no sign on the wall outside, just graffiti and a little buzzer. I guess and hit the buzzer, jackpot, they let me in. There is an alternative looking chick working reception. I had e-mailed to reserve in advance, but since I didn’t call them two days ago to confirm they have deleted my reservation. But luckily, they have a spare bed anyway. There is a yard in back with other alternative, grungy looking folks lounging around. I look at them, smile, wave hello, get no response. Presumably, they are rebelling against the system but to me it just looks like another club with different uniforms. I am not dressed well enough for the stylish types out there; I am overdressed for the ones in here. I go out and walk around Milan a bit, see the Duomo and a big stronghold, snap some pictures and drink some beers. Jean-Francois and Isabel had warned me that the Italians were as bad as the French, but so far to me they look lively and much more sensible. Of course, everything is relative. I even get a few smiles from time to time, a few hellos. They still think I am the pickpocket though, and they don’t have any good, dark American style bars to hole up in and drink, only patios and terraces to sit out on and play look-at-my-jewelry. I go to the Giardini Publica, public garden, have another great panini whilst kids play around me and the adults chat. I walk up to the north, in a fenced in area of the park a group of tough looking guys are giving their tough looking dogs obedience lessons, they are teaching them to jump for branches and the dogs are barking a lot. The men look vaguely neo-nazi and I expect they are up to no good with them. I have to take a leak as I head back to Il Communo, but the goddamned Europeans insist on charging everyone for the honor of a toilet visit, so I duck into a parking garage and piss in the corner. I hear footsteps as I am finishing and scamper off. I feel a bit guilty, but really they deserve it; the concept of a pay toilet is ludicrous. What are the homeless supposed to do? Piss all over themselves? Hold it? Back to the commune, the indigents are starting to party but I am too damn tired, and besides I don’t think they would be too welcoming of the non-revolutionary in their midst. I get a distinct you-don’t-belong vibe again as I pass through. I read Kerouac for a spell out on the balcony, another guy is out there for a while, emaciated with a barbed wire tattoo around his arm but not sorority girl-style, possibly a junky. The place is starting to resemble a squatter’s flat. I lay down in bed and five minutes later the dance music starts. It is deafening, and only gets louder along with the crowd noise. The junky comes in and lays down. In a half an hour, the alternative receptionist chick opens the door, turns the light on and starts showing a dark Arabian the room, speaking as loudly as possible and stomping around the place. The Arabian begins to get comfortable, leaving the door open and the light on. He has brought with him a giant suitcase, a stereo system, a refrigerator, a compact car, 14 camels, and 10,000 plastic bags, which he continuously rummages through making loud crackling noises. His cell phone goes off. He has a long leisurely conversation. After a while he leaves. The junky gets up and shuts the door, turns out the light, goes back to bed. Five minutes later the Arab returns, throws the door open, turns on the light and then continues massaging his plastic bags. His cell phone goes off again.
Tags: europe, italy, milan, Travel
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