I went through all the fucking trouble to steal your shirt and I'm going to tell you about my stay here, damnit, even if you don't want to hear it. besides, all of my other friends read this to see how I'm spending my time here.
I will post! Never Give Up! Never Surrender! I'm still miffed, though.
So, anyway:
Milano-- what a fucking beautiful city. I don't think I've ever been anywhere quite this lovely. sort of a chilled and cautious rain permenantly covers the urban landscape like thick grey paint. The buildings are elaborate and stoic, carved of stone and marble. The streets are like labyrinths and wires and tran lines are netting over a mercurial sky, as if our feet weren't enough to ground us from flight. It is a truly beautiful, if somewhat melancholy, city. (This isn't a book, Ginny, this is real life.)
The day started and I realized that Linda would not really consent to me whipping out your shirt from my purse in strange places and taking pictures of it. So, this is your shirt, in my purse, so it was along for the ride.
and this is the neighbors dog. I fucking hate this dog. I have never hated an animal in my life, but I absolutely abhor this creature. I don't know it's name. All I know is that it kills cats. and it barks. And not the occasional "bow wow wow I'm a dog" kind of barking. Incessant barking. Never ending barks. All night. All day. I don't know if there is something really romantic and special about 530 in the morning that sort of coaxes a dog into a barking stupor, but this dog, surely enough, breaks out into a chorus of "bow wow wow bark bow bow fuck you all bow wow bark." I hate this dog.
I feel as though the sentiment that should course through me when I think of this dog is pity because the neighbors never bring him inside and no one ever pets him and maybe he's just lonely. But, in the middle of the night, the only emotions I can conjure into existence are wrath and fury.
Moving on. I think I should try to describe the driving conditions in Italy. Everyone who has ever called me a bad or an irresponsible driver can shove it up their ass and take a little trip to Milan. Go on the highway, drive for a little bit, and then tell me that I can't drive.
This is the stop sign at the end of my street.
I have driven past it at least twice a day for two weeks. Never, not once, have I seen somebody stop at it. I took a picture to make sure I wasn't imagining its existence, because everybody drives right by it as though it's made of air. There are millions of traffic circles here and I think that the teachers in the elementary schools never taught the children the word yield. Or stop. Or, you know, speed limit. And the road signs are a joke. In the city, street signs are tiny, made of stone, and mounted arbitrarily on the side of a building on the given street. You're just supposed to innately find your way around, I suppose. This does not help me, given that I have the sense of direction of most classifications of sedimentary rock.
and in Italy, shit like this exists. Except, naturally, it's all in Italian.
Anyway, Linda and I drove to the subway station and took the underground to a place called Duomo. I had never been in Milan before this and as soon as I came up the stairs from the metro, this is what greeted me:
This is the cathedral. This is where a man in very tight pants and silly, wire framed glassses told me that my skirt was too short and that I'd either have to trade coats with my sister to cover my indecent, legging clad thighs and stop tempting the holy men of the church, or vacate the premises immediately. I traded coats with Linda. I'd hate to be responsible for corrupting one of the many tight-trousered Men of God and lead them into a life of loose women in knee length skirts!
On the way out, I tried to surreptitiously take a picture of him, but he saw me just as it was about to go off, so this is the photo I got instead.
But, hey, there's my purse with your shirt inside!
Here the inside of the cathedral:
This is an Italian martyr. Do not be mistaken by his fasionable appearance, because, believe it or not, wearing your own skin as a super cute shawl was NOT in vogue back in 500. He was condemned for being Christian by some, erm, non-Christians and they ripped off his skin to punish him. Rumor is, he's still waiting for the look to come into style.
After my lovely stay in the church, we headed back into the square and Linda showed me where TRL is filmed live every afternoon. Que Bello!
Lucas, this is the very balcony where the Jonas Brothers stood when they addressed the Italian people. Swoon!
Far less important than a place that the Jonas Brothers once graced with their presence, here's some of the architecture surrounding the square:
So, after exploring the area, Linda took me into some of the surrounding stores to look around. We went into one store called Zara and I nearly died. Everything inside of it was fabulous. Almost everything, actually. Turns out the have tacky animal print pants in the fasion capital of the world too:
MORE SHIT I HAVE ACCUMULATED THUS FAR:
After our shopping excursion, Linda took me out to lunch. Shockingly, Linda loves Japanese food. I photographed my meal, because I am a tool and also because it was a little bit disgusting.
First Dish: SEAWEED SOUP. yumm.
Second Dish: SOY SAUCE SALAD.
Followed by the main course: Raw Fish. Mmmmmmm.
Actually, I liked it.
So did Linda:
Then we took the train to the subway station to go home. But wait! Linda forgot her scarf at the resturant! So, we ran, caught the train back, got her scarf, and missed the train back to the subway. So we walked for about a mile and I got some interesting pictures of the landscape.
I smiled at this, despite myself.
Miss you, love you, blah blah blah
ginny