MOON OVER MILANO, a title by Scott Rogowsky
“Could this be the flight?”
It’s the question I have asked myself upon boarding every airplane I have ever flown. Although the question has remained the same, the reasons behind my anxiety have changed over the years. When I was younger and more impressed by the Gameboy in my hand than the 747 under my feet, the query was, “Could this be the flight… that I beat the final boss in Kirby’s Dreamland?” As a teenager obsessed with death and gripped with an unhealthy fear of flying (a condition I partly attribute to certain Alanis Morissette lyrics), the thought became, “Could this be the flight… that the left-wing engine fails just after take-off, inducing a turbulent nosedive towards my fiery doom?” But only recently in my mature and wizened twenties have I begun contemplating a far more significant notion, specifically, “Could this be the flight… that I bang a stewardess in the bathroom?” If I can just establish that lingering eye contact as I board, strike up flirtatious small talk when she comes around with the beverage cart, and then politely request her assistance in the lavatory, under the pretense of restocking paper towels…
Sadly, my flight to Milan from Copenhagen last Thursday was not “the flight,” although it was quite comfortable and, thanks to the concentrated efforts of Alitalia’s interior designers, shockingly green. Jeff and I had planned an extended weekend in northern Italy centered round the Winter Olympics in Torino to which we had bought tickets for the USA men’s ice hockey match versus Slovakia. It was our first foray outside of Denmark (not counting a day-trip to Malmö, Sweden spent wading through knee-deep snow in search of Swedish fish and/or meatballs), and we were looking forward to the warmer climes and cheapo wines. I had always thought my first trip to Italy would be as part of a deluxe, fully escorted tour led by Mario Perillo himself, but Mr. Perillo passed away in 2003, and Jeff’s dad was providing us with accommodations at one of the nicest hotels in Milan. Eh, I'll deal.
Friday was devoted to sightseeing in Milan, and see sights we did. Il Duomo di Milano is likely the city’s best-known structure and just the kind of thing that gets art history teachers wet in the pants. The greatest example of Gothic
architecture in Italy, blah blah blah, Renaissance. Having fought our way through the throngs of Asian tourists (they’re small, but feisty), Jeff and I got our first peek inside the cathedral and made quick work of its sanctity, singing our favorite Hanukkah songs while seated on the pews. For a 6 Euro fee, we took “Schindler’s Lift” (see picture) to the roof of the Basilica where, in 1805, Napoleon Bonaparte established "Slick Willy's World of Entertainment," Europe's first restaurant/adult arcade. Exploring the 700-year history of the cathedral was a truly awesome experience, and getting in a game of laser tag was an added bonus indeed. But my greatest satisfaction upon leaving the Duomo comes from knowing that I am the first person ever to recite the Dreidel Song within its holy confines.
The next stop on our walking tour was the convent of the Santa Maria delle Grazie whose refectory houses Leonardo Da Vinci’s refrigerator magnet-inspiring masterpiece, The Last Supper. The mural conveys such powerful emotion to the point that I actually felt sorry for Jesus (and coming from a Jew, that means something). But after carefully studying the piece in its original, intimate surroundings, I had a revelation as to the true intentions of the artist. It gave me this idea to write a book about the mysterious Da Vinci and his encoded artwork, blurring the lines between history and fiction. Of course I’ll have to punch it up with a war between humans and the race of self-aware robots they created, and maybe a subplot about a down-and-out football coach looking to win more than just the big game. So far, all I have is the working title, “The Bus That Couldn’t Slow Down.”
A heavy fog greeted us Saturday morning as we boarded the train to Torino, the host city of the twentieth Winter Olympiad.
While Jeff slept, I gazed out the window onto the Italian countryside, silently recalling my family’s proud Olympic heritage. My great-grandfather had represented Lithuania in the 1936 Berlin summer games, finishing last in the 100 meter three-legged dash (he forever blamed his partner, Ivan “The Terrible Three-Legged Racer” Slavcz), and in 1972 my father was discharged from the US Olympic Swim Team after attempting to shave off teammate Mark Spitz’s moustache during a heated game of truth or dare. Now, in Torino 2006, I was prepared to sabotage the Austrian biathletes and take my place among the Rogowsky greats.
From the moment we stepped off the train, we were surrounded by hopeful Olympic spectators. For those of you unfamiliar
with the atmosphere of a large-scale international athletic competition, it can only be explained as people coming together from all over the world determined to answer the question, “How can I best show support for my country while looking like a complete douchenozzle?” The Dutch responded with bright orange jumpsuits. The Swiss countered with comically large stovepipe hats. Not to be outdone by their European comrades, the Latvians displayed garish hockey jerseys and gratuitous face paint, and caused much ruckus with their state-sponsored Fife and Drum Corps. I wore an umbrella on my head. USA!!!
The most impressive sight in Torino was the Olympic Superstore, proudly sponsored by Visa (it should be noted, this blog is shamefully sponsored by Mastercard). The makeshift retail center was loaded to the ceiling with Olympic crap, all the best crappity crap one would expect from a merchandised mega-event (t-shirts, caps, posters) and many items that I’m convinced some goofball in marketing came up with as a joke but got mixed in with the real product order sheets anyway. I’m talking about the officially-licensed automatic wine bottle opener, the logo lip balm (only 7 Euros!), and the Torino 2006 necktie, to name just a few. I imagine the poor Sri Lankan who spent all his savings on airfare to support his nation’s 2-man bobsled team, only to get sucked into buying worthless souvenirs: “I slave away in the phosphate mines for twenty-five years, working to provide food for my family… Now I come to the Olympics with only pennies in my pocket, but I must have this Torino necktie! I don’t even own a collared shirt, but I must have it! I MUST! Look, it’s officially-licensed, and it has such pretty stripes!”
The hockey game was thrilling, but unfortunately the Slovaks got the best of our American boys. Although we lost the game,
I've found solace in the realization that we are still winning the War on Terror, and isn’t that what really counts? Hockey fans will appreciate my meet and greets with New York Rangers GM Glen Sather and NHL Hall of Famer Lou “Sweet Lou from the Soo” Nanne who were in attendance. My mother will appreciate the looks I was getting from a pair of attractive, young Slovakian girls during the second period (I guess you’re right Mom, I am handsome).
I learned much from my Italian immersion. Milano is more than just distinctive cookies; it’s a whole city full of people and buildings and cars, but not the kind of cars you’re used to. Milan might be the only place in the world where Ferraris out number Honda Civics 13 to 0 (that ratio based on my seeing thirteen Ferraris and zero Honda Civics). Milan might also be the only place in the world where you can unwittingly buy a $10 glass of orange juice and be absolutely furious about it! For a $1.78 a sip, it better cure my rosacea.
Assholes will tell you that Milan is the fashion capital of Planet Earth. Bigger assholes will tell you that America usually lags 6 months behind the hottest European trends. But after just a few days in town, I managed to score the scoop on the future of fashion, and as your foreign correspondent I feel it my obligation to share with you the news: Sources close to Versace are abuzz over the designer’s spring collection of Ninja Turtle-themed pajamas, and after a personal encounter with a Gucci sales clerk who spotted me in my umbrella hat on the Via Monte Napoleone, I can tell you that rain-repellent headwear will be all the rage come April.
Enough can’t be said about the delights of Italian cuisine. But
Wikipedia does a decent job.
Another thing: Magnum, P.I. is HUGE in Italy, and Tom Selleck is celebrated twice yearly (on the equinoxes) by rural villagers. In fact,
Mr. Baseball is required viewing for school children in the seventh grade.
With my first extended trip in the books, I have already planned several promising European excursions. This weekend I am booze cruising to Oslo, and the weekend after will be devoted to Amsterdam. I also have a three-week break with scheduled visits to only the important cities in Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Switzerland. Sure, there will be many opportunities to see famous buildings, sample international food and drink, and shave the eyebrows off homeless people, but I’m most looking forward to the air travel. Ohhhh, stewardess?
An edited version of this article will appear in the February 23rd issue of The Johns Hopkins News-Letter.
