Murder on the Italian Express

Busy few days!

For our last day in Milan, hubby went back to the trade show and the toddler and I headed back downtown on the tram. Through one of the tourist magazines I found in our hotel room, I discovered it’s possible to take an elevator up to the roof of the Duomo for some interesting bird’s-eye views of the city.

Il Duomo

 

The tickets to go up cost a very reasonable 8 euros, and the experience was pretty awesome. You take the elevator up to the back corner of the roof and wind your way among the spires and gargoyles, up and down stairs around to the front. Eventually, you emerge into a flat space in front of the very tallest spire where you can simply breathe and take it all in. I can’t even describe how magnificent it is to commune with all that gorgeous architecture up close and personal. Just put it on your agenda if you’re ever in Milan.

on top of the Duomo!

The last supper in Milan Tuesday night was our farewell visit to Il Pavone. My meal was a delightfully light and pillowy gnocchi with a rich gorgonzola cream sauce and a few toasted walnuts scattered around the plate for good measure.

Il Pavone gnocchi con gorgonzola

I think hubby had a pizza diavolo, but I was too focused on my own food to care much. The three of us split what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of a crème brulee for dessert and bid the beautiful Maria a fond arrividerci.

the lovely Maria

Because I hate to fly so much, we had determined to take an overnight sleeper train to Paris Bercy, departing Milan around 11:30 p.m. Packed up and ready to go, we grabbed a taxi to Milano Centrale train station and waited for our ride. I thought it might actually be, dare I say it, a fun adventure. Silly, silly me.

I had a sinking feeling when I bought the tickets the day before that this trip may not go quite as planned. I couldn’t get my point across to the guy behind the counter, but he gave me reservations for beds for two adults, so I knew we’d have some sort of place to rest our weary heads at the very least. Or so I thought…

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but having taken very nicely appointed trains elsewhere around Europe, I figured this journey would be fairly similar. Ho ho ho.

The train pulled in and we waited to embark among a large, milling crowd. It looked old and rather run down from the exterior, not at all like the nicer ICE trains I’d ridden before. I grew more nervous with every passing minute.

Finally it was time to board. The narrow passage proved a tight squeeze for all our baggage plus car seat plus stroller plus baby, so hubby lugged it all in piece by piece while I kept watch over the little guy outside. Every time hubby reappeared to grab another item, the looks he gave me grew more and more ominous. I quickly began to realize that this decision was going to be a mistake of colossal proportions.

The toddler and I climbed aboard. Fortunately, our beds were in the very first group of berths, so we didn’t have to go far. Unfortunately, the space was so tight, our largest bag wouldn’t fit into the “room.” We had to leave it in the hallway, and we were warned by the train staff not to leave it unattended. The hallway itself was narrow as well; people literally had to climb over the suitcase if they wanted to get by us.

Tickets are available in various classes — first class for a private section of berths, and peon classes where you may or may not find yourself sleeping with people you don’t know. Which do you think I’d managed to procure? Yep. You guessed it.

Our room, if you will, consisted of six bunks packed in like a sardine can, three on each side with well-worn, not-so-clean upholstery. When we came in, some fellow travelers were already there, two 40-something Asian ladies claiming the middle bunks. Our reservation denoted that we were to occupy the top two. Not exactly smart when there’s a two-year-old in the mix. The women were kind enough to trade us beds and immediately made themselves comfortable in the top bunks. Oh, did I mention the entire car REEKED of mothballs? I found myself mouthbreathing so I wouldn’t gag.

Everyone got settled in and we started to roll. Keep in mind, it was well after midnight by now. The toddler, who so graciously fell asleep in the taxi and stayed asleep right up until we boarded the train was now completely alert and ready to party like a rock star. The Asianettes hunkered down to sleep, yet the toddler was singing round after round of “Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs. There was no hope of getting him to lie down without an all-out screaming tantrum; we just had to wait him out.

We eventually took the toddler out into the hallway so our companions could get some rest and hubby took a seat on top of our lonely suitcase. The looks he was giving me went from ominous to murderous. The vocal stylings continued as the toddler then launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” followed by “Farmer in the Dell,” the Wonder Pets theme, “ABCs” and whatever else came into his little brilliant mind. At least the Asianettes didn’t mind, hubby poked his head in to get something and found them snoring like buzzsaws.

Hoping to wear the little guy down, hubby took him for a walk to find the dining car. Service was closed for the night, but at least it was empty and gave the little dude room to run around and play without disturbing anybody. I stayed behind to keep watch over the bag and tried to read. An hour later, they came back, hubby looking utterly defeated and pissed off. The toddler was still singing, and now skipping. Knowing I had some penance coming my way, I jumped up and took my lumps. The toddler and I headed back to the dining car again, weaving our way through six or seven other carriages full of quiet berths. I looked longingly at the private “suites” as we passed and mentally punished myself for not being able to convey that’s what I was after when I bought the tickets. Dammit.

After another hour or so of full-on hyperactivity, I managed to get the toddler to sit on my lap long enough to relax. Not sleep, mind you, but wind down enough to the point that when I asked him if he wanted to go lie down with daddy, I actually got a “yes.” Back we went, me trying to carry the toddler and not fall off the train in between cars, when I realized that I had no idea what number our carriage was. I figured we’d see hubby still sitting on the bag in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. Uh oh. I’d come to the last car of the train and just stood there, holding a weary toddler and wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t even have my phone to send a text; I’d left it in my purse back on my bed, wherever that was. Just as I was contemplating lying down in the middle of the dirty hallway and praying someone would find us in the morning, the interior curtains in the compartment parted right where I was standing and hubby motioned us inside. By some stroke of sheer luck, we were standing exactly where we needed to be.

Hubby had managed to wrestle the remaining suitcase into the middle of the floor in our room and squeezed himself into one of the middle bunks. The toddler went right to him without complaint when I handed him over and settled down to sleep. I climbed into the other bunk across. Thank GOD no other passengers showed up to the claim the two remaining beds on the bottom, I can’t imagine how two more people could have possibly fit into that room.

I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, trying not to touch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary and praying I still had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. The motion of the train was quite lulling, really. The jet-plane decibel snoring emanating from the bunk above me was not. I could not believe the noise this woman was putting out. Seriously, I was convinced at one point she was doing it on purpose. There is no way she could make that kind of a racket without waking herself up or choking to death in the process. I checked my watch. 3:45 a.m. Sigh. I closed my eyes and could literally feel the waves of resentment coming off my non-sleeping husband a few feet away. At least the toddler was depleted enough to get a solid stretch of shut-eye.

The Asian Rip Van Winkle finally woke up around 7:30 a.m., and she and her buddy started jabbering away in a language I didn’t recognize. The train conductor came by to check our tickets again. We knew we were running late, but when hubby asked him how much longer and he said another three hours, my jaw hit the floor. We were originally due in to Paris Bercy station at 8 a.m., leaving us plenty of time to take a cab to the rental apartment, drop our bags and shower before heading to the airport to collect my mother-in-law, who we’d arranged to fly in and stay with us for the weekend. As it was now, we’d be pushing to get there by the time her flight landed at 1:30 p.m. By that time, I was so exhausted, I did manage to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep for an hour or two. Really, there was nothing else to do.

At long last, we pulled into Paris around 11 a.m. I was never so glad to arrive anywhere in my entire life. Hubby told me not to speak to him unless I absolutely had to, which I respected, knowing I was totally in the wrong for this comedy of errors. I’d apologized a handful of times and didn’t know what more I could do or say to make things right, silently pledging to drug myself stupid next time and agree to get on whatever airplane might be available. I asked hubby if  he thought we’d look back on this experience someday and laugh. He said no.

Anxiously keeping an eye on the clock, we cursed some more when we saw the line for taxis extending halfway down the sidewalk outside the station. (And I wonder where the toddler recently picked up “Shit!”) Somehow by the grace of God, we eventually got a cab and made it to the rental apartment to meet the lady from the service who let us in. Hubby dashed off on his own to the airport, arriving with about 30 minutes to spare to meet my mother-in-law’s plane. Whew.

The two-bedroom Marais-situated apartment we’re renting is lovely, small but charming, up four flights of narrow winding stairs that are guaranteed to give me buns of steel after a few days. After a much-needed shower, the toddler and I ventured out for a bite of lunch at the first decent café we came across. Quiche Lorraine, salad, orange juice and a café crème fit the bill quite nicely. We managed a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essentials, then back to l’appartemente to meet up with hubby and MIL.

After a short rest, we all took a stroll around our old stomping grounds near the apartment where we stayed two years ago, stopping in for dinner at Cafe Rempart. Hubby had a traditional French croque monsieur – a devilishly rich open-faced toasted sandwich of ham and cheese with béchamel sauce. MIL enjoyed pomme frites, salad and a delicious-looking burger (which she ate in spite of the cheese. She hates cheese. This does not bode well for her enjoyment of French cuisine, I fear.) I was still somewhat full from my late-lunch quiche, so I went for a lighter dish of entrée Salade Rempart, composed of greens, carrots, tomato, fried potatoes (!), thin slices of proscuitto-ish country ham and cheese toasts. The whole thing was topped very lightly with French salad dressing, which is not at all like the unnaturally orange Kraft stuff you find back home. Here, it’s a light tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

This morning, we headed to another café and partook of coffee served in clever small bowls (LOVE this, I want to find some of these to take home), and stuffed ourselves with all manner of bread and pastries.

the perfect petit dejeuner

 

Gotta love the French… A great way to fortify ourselves for a boat ride on the Seine, a visit to the Eiffel Tower and a walk through Notre Dame. A bientot!

 

Buon giorno, Milano!

We’ve been in Milan for almost a day now, and here are some of my first impressions…

I must start by mentioning, the train ride here was HELLA long. Two transfers (Zurich, Switzerland and Lugano, Italy) and took about 10 hours start to finish. The scenery was beautiful – journeying through a portion of the Alps was particularly spectacular. Hubby is still fighting off a cold and tried to rest as much as possible; the toddler was a little super trooper and tolerated sitting on our laps, napping and looking out the windows for the most part of the trip. It was an exhausting day, and we were never so glad to pull into Milano Centrale at long last.

I think the train station itself is probably a taste of what’s to come here in Italy. The place looks like a museum. Or a cathedral. I’m not sure which. It is gorgeous with a huge domed ceiling that belies something greater than just a commuter stop. We managed to lug all of our bags into a taxi and cabbed to the hotel.

Our hotel is perched on the corner of a busy street. The room is smaller than our digs in Cologne, but the bed and the pillows are more comfortable. It didn’t really matter much last night – after 10 hours on trains, I could have slept on the sidewalk. The toddler is enchanted with the bidet in our bathroom, which concerns me a little bit. We’re staying a ways out from the main city center in a more residential area of apartments. A quick glance around confirms that there may not be much to do within walking distance of the hotel, unlike in Cologne where everything you could possibly want or need was within a block or two. Salvation – there is a tram stop just outside the hotel that zips right downtown to the Duomo.

As it was getting on to 8 p.m. by the time we arrived at the inn, we quickly ditched the bags and walked down the street in search of food. Hubby has spent a little time in Milan and is sorta familiar with our area, so he’d already sussed out a small casual pizzeria-ristorante about two blocks away called Il Pavone. My first thought when we walked in was, “Wow, this place is pink.” The walls are a shockingly bright shade of Pepto Bismol. I guess I expected something more subdued for some reason. No matter, though.

A pretty, friendly hostess immediately squeezed us into some seats at the end of a six-top table. The place is small and tables are kinda jammed together. If you’re not careful, you could end up rubbing elbows unintentionally. To my relief, no one looked twice at us rolling in with the stroller. A big flat-screen television on the wall drew more attention from the diners. Honestly, it was sort of like eating in front of the TV at home. At one point, we were treated to what looked like an Italian game show hosted by a couple of old farts and featuring dance numbers by two scantily clad hotties.

There was a steady flow of customers in and out of the restaurant while we were there, which I took as a good sign, and the plates we saw coming out of the kitchen looked insanely tasty. Rustic, hearty, uncomplicated Italian food. I was excited. And starving.

My college Italian is really rusty, but I recognized most of the food items on the menu and ordered the fusilli della casa (the fusilli pasta of the house), a mixed veggie salad and a ½ liter of the house red wine, or as they called it, the “wine on tap.” Nice. Hubby got spaghetti bolognese and a beer. All of it was FABULOUS. My pasta was a huge plate of noodles dressed in a combination of tomato, pesto and cream. Mmm, mmm, good.

The salad was super fresh and unadorned with dressing, leaving me to dude it up myself with the table condiment bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and a sprinkle of parmesan. Perfect, and so refreshing to get a salad with slices of really good juicy red tomato, as opposed to the tasteless crap variety you usually find back home. We also got a basket of bread to share. The wine was really light, VERY drinkable, and went down like water. I had to monitor my intake closely, lest I get completely smashed.

We also made the brilliant discovery that the toddler LOVES grissani, those long, thin, crunchy, crackery-type breadsticks. A couple packages of those kept him more than occupied enough for us to enjoy our meal at a relaxed pace. I couldn’t believe how many he ate. On the way out, I saw a plate pass by that contained gnocchi with gorgonzola, completely stopping me in my tracks. Guess we all know what I’ll be ordering on our next visit! We returned to the room where all three of us took baths and slept the sleep of the dead for about nine hours.

This morning, we enjoyed an impressive continental breakfast here at the hotel. They really do it right, I have to give credit where credit is due and this was some spread! Cold cereals, yogurts, breads and rolls of all sorts, cold cuts, cheese, boiled eggs, juice, fruit, you name it. And all included as part of our hotel package – yay! It’s rare to find inclusive breakfasts in European hotels, so this is something we’ll definitely make good use of.

I ate the chocolate croissant to end all chocolate croissants. This little gem was composed of a blend of regular pastry dough and chocolate pastry dough, all wrapped around a thick layer of chocolate baked inside. And I made it into a triple hit by eating a small single-serving size Nutella spread. I seriously thought for a minute I was going to lapse into a chocolate coma. The coffee was top-notch as well. I was thrilled to get a cafe latte in the truest sense — small, dual carafes of strong coffee and steamed milk poured simultaneously to create the perfect cup.

We took a stroll down the block to find a supermarket and stock up on some in-room supplies. It is Saturday morning, so I suppose we should have expected the store to be busy, but this was ridiculous. It was the biggest clusterfuck I’ve ever seen. Aggressive shoppers, practically rolling over you to get to what they want, no one gets out of your way or makes room for you to pass in the crowded aisles – and I’m talking about frail little old ladies and harmless-looking little old men! Sheer craziness.

The store stock was something else, though. The produce was absolutely beautiful – if peppers and eggplants can be sexy, these are some sexy vegetables. Tins of fresh olives, cheese, hanging salamis, yum, yum, yum. It was a feast for the senses. The butcher shop featured a whole row of huge cured hams hanging off the back wall; there was an entire aisle dedicated to pasta and another to wine. The baby food section made me smile – it was the first time I’d seen jars of baby food containing proscuitto and fresh mozzarella. We made our purchases and got out without losing any limbs or getting into any fistfights, then the toddler and I returned to the hotel so hubby could run a few errands for his upcoming trade show this week. He later came back saying he’d walked by another market during the course of his errands and realized that the store we went to was actually the “LoBills” of Milan. He’s promised to take me back later.

butcher counter at the supermarket

Italian baby food - proscuitto and mozzarella!

After the efficiency, cleanliness and formality of Germany, Italy is really something of a shock to the system. You just can’t get in a hurry here. If you do, you’re likely to find yourself cooling your heels while everyone else chills and takes things at their own speed, wondering what the hell your problem is.

Case in point – coming out of the train station last night, we were on the lookout for a taxi that could accommodate our bags, plus a carseat and collapsible stroller. Mind you, we’d gotten everything into a station wagon in Germany with no problem… the first driver who pulled over to attend to us got about half of our stuff in his car, which was plenty big, and then decided he didn’t have enough room. He unloaded our bags again and pulled off, no offer to wave over a fellow cabbie or anything, leaving us unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk and back to square one. Several cabs later, hubby finally spotted a mini-van and we were set. His attitude was like “yeah, whatever, I’ll give you a ride,” but at least he got us to our destination.

Hubby calls Italy “scrappy.” It’s not that it’s dirty exactly, it’s just that everything seems slightly worse for wear and outdated. This is odd to say in Milan, perhaps the fashion capital of the world, but it’s true. The buildings look dingy, the streets are dirty and things just have a dilapidated feel. It is what it is, but I’m not complaining! I’m anxious to get into the main city center and take it all in, I’m sure there’s MUCH more to see and be seen.