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Was I Lost or a Loser in Milan?

Let me introduce you to one of the chapters in my travel memoirs. I had many collaborators – thank you all very much!

During the summer of 2008, I traveled to Italy with my 21 year old niece and 14 year old daughter. We had one day in Milan, a stopover on the way to Florence. Milan had much to offer us, but what I wanted to see more than anything else was the famous da Vinci painting The Last Supper. The girls were so excited to be in Italy, they would have followed me anywhere. How hard could it be to find the church where one of the world’s most famous paintings is located? Let’s just say, by the end of our day, I looked in the mirror to see if there was a big “L” painted on my forehead.

Our hotel was on the outskirts of Milan. With a late start that morning I hurried the girls along to talk to our concierge. I needed to get precise subway directions into the city. My last trip on a subway was in New York City when instead of arriving at Columbia University, my daughter and I ended up in Harlem. We found a cab to take us the rest of the way. The thought of getting lost in the Milan subway system had many more complications. The directions were perfect, and we reached Milan without incident. Once we rose to the streets from the subway, my heart sank. I realized I had no idea how to get to the church. I did not even bring a map. Humbled by my lack of preparation, I told the girls we were just going to have to follow the crowd and look for a place to get directions along the way.

The flow took us down a modern street lined with designer shoe boutiques. As we window shopped, we admired shoes that resembled works of art. We gasped at the prices which cost more than our plane tickets – combined. This gave the phrase “well-heeled” much more meaning. Trying to get back on track, I steered the girls past all the shoppers to a square filled with bustling outdoor cafes. The smell of fresh bread baking and tomatoes cooking with garlic leapt across the square and teased our noses. The sensory triumvirate overtook us, and we found ourselves in the nearest café and ordered lunch.

As we waited for our meal, we relaxed and observed our surroundings. It seemed that l’amore was also in the air. When we heard loud voices, we imaged two lovers quarreling. When we heard soft murmurs, they belonged to secret lovers. We watched the perfect man, in a perfect suit, with a perfect smile walk by. Unfortunately, l’amore was interrupted by waiters shooing away pesky peddlers and beggars hanging along the edges of the cafes. I was approached by one of these characters, a wizened woman dressed in black. She pointed at our bread basket. Not knowing better, I picked it up and offered it to her. She grabbed the basket, dumped the contents into the crook of her arm, tossed the basket back to me, and left muttering to herself. My astonishment was short lived and I joined in with the laughter that my comic scene had created. Note to self: Not all elderly Italian women dressed in black are sweet little widows.

After delighting our palates with melon and prosciutto followed by homemade pasta so delicious you wanted to sing “Volare,” we continued on our quest for The Last Supper. Have I mentioned it was summer? Let me mention it. Milan was 90 degrees and we were sweltering. I blamed the heat for making me forget to ask for directions at the café. During our languorous walk down another unknown street, we bumped into a fortress-like museum with air conditioning! Yes, we were very curious about these exhibits. We were so curious that we went in through the exit. It took us a few minutes to figure out we were going through the displays in reverse. When we realized our “bigga mistaka” we meekly retraced our way out – avoiding the museum’s dungeons.

The Museum with the Hidden Entrance

Back out on the street, shimmering in the distance, was a gelato stand. Gelato in Italy is an icy kiss of sweetness. There are endless flavors and no wrong choices. Near to the gelato stand was a large ornate fountain with statues spouting water. Our plan was to cool off with a scoop of gelato, then dip our feet in the fountain while listening for anyone speaking English so we could ask for directions to “our” church. We were feeling a bit possessive about the church by this point.

As I sat day dreaming on a shady park bench, enjoying my passion fruit gelato, I was startled back to reality by a screeching gypsy woman. With flailing arms, she hurtled angry words and spit in my direction. I know but one Italian swear word and how to order off an Italian menu, so I wasn’t too sure of my offense. My niece suggested that I must be sitting on the gypsy’s bench. I leapt up and rushed over to a trash bin. There I shaved the top off my gelato cone with my finger knife. When I returned to the others, who were laughing at me again, they asked why I got rid of half my gelato. I said I didn’t want crazy gypsy spit on my gelato. Now in hysterics (and showing no respect to their elder), they told me I was being sprayed with her water bottle, not her spit. Funny how you don’t notice these little details when the fury of a gypsy is upon you.

Icy Sweet Kiss of Gelato


At the fountain, we heard a myriad of languages being spoken. After a few minutes of eavesdropping, we tried our luck with some German tourists. They knew enough English to give us directions to the church. We were relieved to learn that we were very close. With renewed purpose, we practically skipped down the few blocks to the Santa Maria delle Grazie. As we entered, we were greeted with this sign: “The entrance to The Last Supper has been moved next door.” Damn you Dan Brown. If he had not written The Da Vinci Code, the world would not have been so interested in seeing this painting. But it is not Dan Brown’s fault. Leonardo da Vinci painted The Last Supper on a dry wall rather than on wet plaster (common for fresco painting). He sealed the stone wall and then painted over the sealing layer. Because of this technique, the painting began to deteriorate soon after Leonardo finished it. After much restoration, the painting can only be viewed by small groups in a controlled environment.

Cooling Off in the Fountain


Ok, we can handle a small obstacle like this. We went “next door” and got in line. As I strained to read the tickets prices posted over the ticket window, I found out some terrible news. The tickets were sold in advance — twenty four hours in advance. With only one day in Milan, we were “how you say, screwed.” My daughter looked at me pitifully and said, “Can we rename this painting The Lost Supper.” Indeed we could. With a last attempt to lighten the situation, I took the girls into the gift shop to look at a postcard version of the painting. Un-amused, they were ready to go back to the hotel.

The Famous Santa Maria delle Grazie


No, the “L” on my forehead was not fully imprinted yet. For this trip, I had purchased a very practical shoulder bag that I could keep in front of my body and which had many zippers for hiding things — like the hands of a pick pocket. As we were going down the stairs to the subway platform, my niece yelled my name. I swung to look in her direction as she called out “YOUR PURSE”. I yanked it away from the thief fondling its contents. Empty handed, he quickly melted into the crowd. Was there a cabal formed to ruin my day?

Fast forward a few months. I went to my daughter’s high school academic team meet. The team competes against other schools in matches similar to Jeopardy. My daughter was in the cheering section when this question was asked “What city is the painting The Last Supper located in?” Not one of the ten students on the panel knew the answer. I strained to find my daughter’s face where she was squirming in frustration. I nodded to her in conspiracy. We practically screamed at each other when the match was over. “If only I had been on the panel for that question” she shouted!

I may never visit Milan again, but in retrospect, it was one of the most hilarious days of my life. Maybe that “L” on my forehead did not stand for “Loser.” Maybe it stood for “Lifelong.” I will never forget where The Last Supper is located, nor will I forget the sights, sounds and tastes of that rambunctious city. Will there be more days when I have to wash an “L” off my forehead? I do hope so.

Just Added

Life Without Costco

Can I live without a Costco Membership?

After 20 years of membership, I did not renew my Costco card when it expired last October. I am trying an experiment to see how long I can last without shopping there. (This also includes not asking friends to get me stuff there). What will fill the void left behind? As therapy for my withdrawal, I’ve soothed myself with a list. Here are 10 reasons why I can live without Costco:

1. I won’t purchase discounted books I don’t have time to read.
2. I won’t eat free samples of food I would never purchase.
3. No more folding pizza into my oven to make it fit. (If it can’t fit – should you eat it?)
4. No more chips that morph into something unrecognizable before you can get to the bottom of the bag.
5. I can reclaim my guest room closet that the paper towels used to occupy.
6. I won’t have the stress of having to eat all those peaches before they start rotting.
7. I won’t be tempted to buy Christmas gift sets that no one wants.
8. No more guilt about wolfing down an entire kosher hotdog in less than 3 minutes.
9. I will buy food that I need for one week – my pantry doesn’t have to be stocked like a bomb shelter.
10. I won’t have to fear opening my Costco bill each month and paying it!

Just Added

TraVal Post – The Opera Story

This is where I want to try out some of my travel stories with you. I’d love your feedback.

Opening Night: San Diego Opera and Turandot
I am still humming the tune to nessun dorma. It was a spectacular night. I measure an opera’s success by its power to move me. I was not disappointed. It was right up there with my La Boheme experience.

This one was posted in the travel section of the Union Tribune on December 12, 2010. The travel editor titled it:

INTIMATE OPERA BECOMES UNEXPECTEDLY EMOTIONAL

During the summer of 2008, my niece and I celebrated her graduation from college with a trip to Italy. I had only one “must do” on my agenda: I wanted to go to an opera. Other than seeing “Phantom of the Opera,” I had little experience with it. I did some research and found out that when we were in Florence, a production of “La Boheme” would be running at St. Mark’s English Church. Little did I know, I was in for the treat of my life.

The church was small and beautiful. The opera company consisted of 4 singers and a pianist. The pianist was also the moderator who explained the acts to us in English during intermissions. The pianist started and the first two singers entered the stage. The opening act has two male characters in their Paris apartment singing about their art and lack of finances. I had never heard anything like this before. I’m sure my mouth was open in perpetual awe. These voices were so pure, strong and deep, they needed no amplification.

Later in that scene, the lead woman, Mimi, came on stage and visited the apartment. My past experience with powerful women singers was hearing Cher and Celine Dion sing live. This was in another league. Here, you could feel the emotions of the words without understanding them. I was transfixed for the entire opera.

The last scene is when Mimi dies. It is opera, it is a tragic story, and I knew she was going to die. But some time during that opera I connected with the story and made it personal. I was losing Mimi. I was overwhelmed. Her death scene was wrenching. I kept dabbing at my tears trying not to miss one moment of it. After the final bows were taken, my niece leaned over and said, “Who are you, Pretty Woman or something?” That magically broke the spell and I could only smile.

Not ready to speak yet, I looked around to see if I was the only one who had such an emotional reaction. I elbowed my niece and whispered to her to look behind us. There, one pew behind us, curled up into a ball, was a young woman sobbing uncontrollably. If I understood Italian and actually comprehended the words of the opera, that would have been me sobbing.

I’ve tried to recapture the intensity of that opera in the small little church in Florence and I haven’t succeeded. I think it is because some moments cannot be replicated. I love travel because there will be those times when you are at the right place, at the right time, with an open heart and amazing things will happen. Whether it is visiting a new city in the U.S. or being a guest in other county, I live for those heartfelt moments. If I am very lucky, there will be many more.

St. Marks English Church