The Galleria and Duomo of Milan

    It is hardly necessary to say that there were tears at JFK airport when Nicola’s family—mother and father, Natalie and Tommy—saw her off at the Alitalia gates.  Teresa, who had not been feeling well, could not come but had advised Nicola on the fine points of Italian manners, telling her, “Never drink cappuccino after breakfast” and “Start eating the pasta as soon as you’re served, because it’s an insult to the chef to eat it cold.” 
    Anna wept the most tears, balanced between happiness for her daughter and sadness that she was leaving for so long. Natalie and Tommy kept kidding their sister about how she was going to come back looking different and putting on airs.  Natalie also winked at Nicola about her promise to tell her—by airmail!—“if something, y’know, happens.”
    Anthony snuck his daughter an envelope with cash in it, “in case you want to buy yourself or your mother something,” and asked. “Now, you have that list of the best clothing stores in Milan, right?”
    “Papa, I don't think I’ll have time for a lot of shopping or buying new clothes. I’m there to study.  And eat a lot. I’ll come back looking the way you always wanted me to look, like this—“ she said, puffing out her cheeks.
    “You just come back yourself,” he said.
    Nicola waved to her family, blew them big kisses and moved towards the departure gate, where she found several of the Milan-bound students waiting to leave, including Catherine, who was the only one with no carry-on baggage, aside from her handbag.  Everything else—five suitcases—had been checked.  Nicola had checked two and carried a large, crushable bag of essentials, having been told that Alitalia had a reputation for losing bags upon arrival.
    “So,” said Catherine, in fitted jeans and a very soft leather bomber jacket.  “You all ready for this?”
    “I guess so,” said Nicola, who was in black jeans, a burgundy wool turtleneck and a black blazer. “Hard to leave everyone behind.”
    “Not me.  I really need a break from my family.  Hey, by the way, did Professor Saint John tell you he was going to be in Milan this semester?”
    “Oh yeah, made it very plain at orientation that he’d like to spend some quality time with me.”
    “The little shit! He put the same moves on me.  And he’s such a herb. What’d you tell him?”
    “I said he was a gavone.”
    “What’s a gavone?”
    “It’s Italian for a low life. I hinted I’d tell his wife.”   
    “Jeez, well, he couldn't have taken the threat too seriously. He tried the same thing with me right afterwards.”
    “So what did you tell him?”
    “Oh, I just said I’d probably be spending time with my Italian boyfriend in Milan.”
    “That true?” asked Nicola.
    “Course not. The only time I ever set foot in Italy was when I was nine, dragged around by my family.”
    “What’d he say?”
    “Something like, duh!”
    And from that moment Nicola knew that she could be closer to Catherine than she had anticipated, and that the divide between their class and lifestyle would be eased by experiencing everything for the first time together. 
    On the plane, they sat together and talked, but almost as soon as the A300’s door closed, Catherine turned her head to the wing wall, said, “See you in Milan,” and dropped off into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
    Nicola sensed that Catherine’s ease was due to her having flown all her life, whereas Nicola’s experience in the air was confined to two family vacations to Florida.  Despite the size of the plane, people were packed in tight enough to give her a degree of claustrophobia, so she forced herself to think about the details of the arrival procedures, transport to the dormitory,  and reporting to class—her textbooks were prepaid and would be in her room—until a dreadful Italian dinner was served.  Looking down at the anemic ravioli glued to the plastic plate and the tiny wedge of Bel Paese cheese, she hoped that this must be the only place on earth where Italian food could possibly be so poor.
    A little after six a.m. a flight attendant brought around a traditional Italian breakfast of brioche roll and coffee, and an hour later announced that the plane was in its initial descent. Nicola and Catherine had eaten the breakfast with relish and now went off to the lavatory to freshen up before landing.
    The plane descended into thick, dark gray clouds, through which it continued for some time before dropping below them at less than 2,000 feet.  Even then the landscape below was hidden in patches of fog—the notorious nebbia that blankets Milan much of the winter and early spring.  Rain spattered on the plane’s windows, and, just before the A300 touched down, Nicola and Catherine clasped hands, while the attendant over the speaker, said, “Benvenuti al bella Italia. Welcome to beautiful Italy.”
    Catherine looked out the window and asked, “Is it always this overcast?”
    Nicola shrugged and said, “That’s what I read.  We’re in the north, not in sunny southern Italy.”
    “Now you tell me,” said Catherine, wondering if she’d packed enough rain gear.
    “Don’t worry, springtime should be beautiful, and we can take weekend trips to the lakes. Did you know Columbia has a grand old villa up there where students can stay?”
    “St. John told you about that, right?”
    “Oh, yeah, that was going to be part of our romantic adventure this semester.”
    “Gee, if we had both gotten involved with the little shit we’d find ourselves coming and going to the lake.”
    “We could gang up and drown him in Lake Como.”
    “And he’d sink like a stone in one of those ugly tweed jackets he wears.”
    Jet lag had affected Nicola more than Catherine, who had slept for at least six hours, and just getting off the plane took nearly half an hour, only to have the passengers loaded onto buses rather than have access to walkways attached to jetliners as in the States.  The rain had stopped and there was a threat of sunshine peeking through the fast-moving clouds.
    Oddly enough, the bus seemed to travel no more than twenty yards to deposit its passengers into the terminal, where, after stairways and conveyor belts, Nicola, Catherine and some of the other exchange students faced multiple lines for Residents and Non-Residents, although both queues seemed to move at more or less the same speed.  When Nicola came to the yellow line in front of the immigration officer, she said to herself, “This is going to be one big step.”
    The officer, who looked as tired as she did, gestured for her to come forward, looked at her brand new, unmarked passport, then at her, smiled warmly—Che bellezza!—stamped the passport, and said, “Welcome to Italy, Signorina Santini.” Nicole looked down at the stamp and stood there, just for a second or two, before surrendering that momentous little space to the next traveler, who was impatiently standing behind the yellow line.
    The wait for the baggage was long but, in staggered stages, all of the girls’ luggage finally came out.  Catherine hailed a handler, gestured as to which five bags were hers and which were Nicola’s, saying “I’ve got this,” and exited into a drab airport lobby where drivers were lined up with signs, one of which read “CATHERINE NEWCOMBE.”  Nicola looked at Catherine and said, “You were expecting this?”
    Catherine, feigning innocence, replied, “Well, what do you know about that?”
    The driver, who was a handsome young Italian in a good black suit, white shirt and black knit tie, said, “Benvenuti, signorine, this way, please,” and they were followed by the handler to a Mercedes-Benz glistening with raindrops. Nicola’s jaw dropped.  She’d never ridden in such a beautiful car, nor had she ever driven so fast in a car as the driver pulled onto the A8 autostrada that would take them to Milan.
    The driver, in a lilting Lombardian accent, apologized for the rain, but the day was brightening slightly as they raced towards the city’s outskirts, all highly industrial and brutishly ugly. Nicola and Catherine looked at each other and made faces, as if to say, “This is where we’re going to spend the next four months?”
    They hit traffic as they got closer to the city, down Via Varesina to the Corso Sempione, but it was good to slow down and to see how the scenery changed, with stately buildings on broad avenues. Now nine-thirty, shopkeepers were opening and caffés were still busy with  people grabbing breakfast and newspapers.
    “Do you wish to drive through the Parco Sempione?” asked the driver, “Is very beautiful and leads to the Castello Sforzesco.”  
                                                            Castello Sforza

    Even jetlagged and anxious to get to their dormitory, Nicola and Catherine told the driver they’d love to, and soon they were driving through a large 15th century park where the streets were named after great litterateurs—Shakespeare, Schiller, Goethe, Racine, Cervantes and others. They passed the Palazzo dell’Arte, then rounded the three-towered Castello Sforzesco before entering Via Pontaccio beside the great Brera Museum, where Nicola planned to spend so much of her time in Milan.
    Then it was just another block before coming into the Piazza Cavour and up Via Manin, where the Museo del Cinema was located.  Just a little beyond, the driver turned onto a small street off the Via Moscova (below)and came to a stop. “Arriviamo, Signorine,” he said. “This man will take you bags,” he said as he opened the door for his passengers. Then, after bowing slightly, he was back in the Mercedes and on his way.
    “I don’t suppose we could keep him for the next four months?” asked Nicola.
    “Knowing my parents, they’d probably love the idea, but, no, Nicola, it’s time I start slumming.  I’m going to walk my ass off and when I can’t walk anymore, I’ll take a taxi back.”
    “That’s your idea of slumming?”
    “Well, for the time being, it’s as slummy as I get.”
    The elderly porter carried the girls’ luggage through a unprepossessing front entrance, hung with both American and Italian flags, but once inside, the building opened up, with a small cage elevator, marble stairway and a courtyard surrounded by arches to the rear.  Having looked at their name tags, the porter said in a thick Milanese accent, “Signorine, prego,  take this elevator to three floors, room five,  prego.”
    “Do we tip this guy?” whispered Nicola as they ascended alone in the elevator.
    “I don’t know. I just tip everybody,” said Catherine.  “It’s easier that way. But you’re going to have to help me with the money here.  All the denominations on the liras look enormous. Even the bills themselves are enormous.”
    Nicola had checked the exchange rate before leaving and said, “Well, it takes some getting used to, but the dollar is worth about 2,000 lire, so divide by two and hack off the three zeroes.”
    Catherine moaned and said, “I swear I’m going to screw that up every time I want to pay anything.”
    “Well, if it’s any consolation, my father told me a coffee here, like espresso, costs about fifty cents, so that would be a thousand lire. You’ll get used to it.”
    The elevator clanked and descended and soon the porter arrived with the bags as the girls were looking around their room.  It was not large, though the ceilings were high, but it was remarkably decorated with what seemed to be good quality antiques, including two armoires, two single beds, a dressing table and a small bathroom, with a bidet.  Fortunately, the room opened onto the courtyard so there was sunshine—when there was sunshine—during the day and a good view of the sky at night. 
    Catherine switched on a lamp next to the bed. “This is all the wattage this lamp has?  I can't even read by that light.  It’s ridiculous.”
    “Dante wrote the Divine Comedy without electric lights,” said Nicola, trying to put a positive spin on it, “and he did it by candlelight.”
    “Maybe he just went to bed early,” said Catherine.
    “Well, I don't know about you, but that seems like a very good idea. I didn’t get much sleep last night and the jetlag has really started to hit me.  I’m just going to unpack and hit the sack for an hour or two.”
    “Okay, go ahead.  I think I’m going to try my luck buying a coffee.  They seem to have a caffé on every street. See you later.”
    Nicola yawned, shook her head and began unpacking her suitcases—Catherine’s five were stacked up against one wall—and whenever she picked up one of the tailored items—slacks, jacket or the winter coat she’d brought—it made her think of home and how very far away this gray city of Milan seemed.  But she had plenty of time to feel homesick.  Right now she just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep forever.
    When she woke up it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and the room showed no signs of Catherine having returned. Nicola had quickly realized that, despite her life of privilege, Catherine had a very independent streak in her, perhaps more than Nicola did.  For if Nicola thought of herself as strong-willed, Catherine seemed far more carefree, perhaps realizing that if push came to shove, she always had her parents’ resources and connections to fall back on.  If she got into trouble, her father would probably just ring up the U.S. Ambassador and send a bulletproof limo to pick her up wherever she was.  Nicola, of course, could always depend on her parents if she needed to, and they knew a few people in the Milan fashion industry, if that helped. 
    At that moment Catherine came through the door carrying a cardboard box. “You should have come with me,” she announced. “I met up with two of the other Columbia students and we had lunch together.  I even paid the bill all by myself, although I think I left way too much of a tip.”
    “Uh, Catherine,” interrupted Nicola, “you don't have to tip in restaurants in Italy; service is always included, so you just kind of round off the bill.”
    Catherine looked amused, saying, “Hm, well, I did a helluva lot more than just round off the bill. But, hey, the bill was so cheap—the three of us ate for, like, thirty dollars—I didn’t mind leaving another ten.”
    Nicola, herself an innocent abroad, thought better of trying to educate her friend about customs in Italy, so she let it drop and said, “Now, I’m getting hungry. I’m not sure I can last until dinner.”
    “And that,” said Catherine, bringing a box from behind her, “is why I bought you a pizza and bottle of water. Ta-dah!”
    “That is so sweet,” said Nicola, thinking that Catherine would be a real friend as well as a dorm mate.  Nicola ate the plate-sized pizza—the whole thing—which was thinner than the ones back home, but very tasty, with leeks and Gorgonzola cheese—ingredients rarely encountered on pizzas even in New York.  “This is excellent pizza, Catherine, where’d it come from?”
    “A place called Paper Moon (right)."
    “Luna di Carta?”
    “No, Paper Moon. In English.  It's on this cool street, Via Bagutta, near”—she hesitated—“I’m gonna screw this up: Montee-nah-pol-ee-oh-nee?”
    “Via Montenapoleone. I read it’s the main fashion street in Milan.”
    “It must be. The street’s just lined with all the new Italian designers.  That’s why I got back so late.”
    “You bought something already?”
    “No, just checking out what’s there, and there is a lot there.”
    Paper Moon was in fact a new thing in Milan—a Lombardian city not known for Neapolitan pizza.  The curious name Paper Moon had been adopted by the pizzeria’s owner, Pio Galligani Magini and his Tuscan wife, Enrica, after seeing the 1973 American movie of the same name, and the walls were decorated with photos of  Hollywood movie stars photos like Clark Gable and Rita Hayworth, the way Joe Bastone did with Robert DeNiro and Ben Gazzara.   Except that Joe’s movie stars really did show up at his place.
     The restaurant partook of Milan’s emergence as an international fashion destination in the early 1980s because its location on Via Bagutta drew the fashion models and photographers, who stopped by for the lightweight, thin-crusted pizzas and probable sightings of those glamorous habitués who made Paper Moon one of the casually chic new places to eat  in Milan, where most restaurants served little else but traditional Lombardian  cuisine—osso buco, vitello tonnato and costoletta alla milanese.