Milan is a big city. A city that will empty you. You are punched by cars, trams, subways, pedestrians, tourists, chancers, bums, tat-sellers, fine women and gorgeous men the second you poke your head into its grey skies.
Pallid, sooty ochre and fuchsia buildings line the streets. Precarious balconies overhang the old cobble pavements that meander below. Down the road palatial banks emerge ominously from the serpentine ancient thoroughfares. Columned and overbearing, they stand as the bastions of Italian bureaucracy. I picture myself sat in their marbled hallways shuffling from seat to seat, getting page upon page stamped by unyielding, moustachioed men and heavy set, unhappy women.
In the heart of the city Africans drape your arms with little pieces of string telling you that it’s for good luck. I can’t work out whether that’s to prevent them robbing you later, but I’m sure to find out soon enough.
Placed in prime positions to accost the wave of tourists that flood the city, they’re weaved into the fabric of the Piazza del Duomo. Plagued by camera flashes and pigeons, the square before the impressive cathedral is a rather bleak expanse and, much like the central spots in all the big cities, devoid of real life.
Whilst the church itself is a true spectacle, it’s lost in the mire of the city and country that surrounds it. Over 600 years in the making, it has seen generations of architects, builders, pilgrims, politicians, beggars, saints and sinners, pass through its gargantuan doors, and has grown atop their bones.
To this day the Duomo is still not finished. It’s speckled in idle scaffolding and emblazoned with adverts from the likes of Samsung and Serbian banks. Speaking to the average Italian, that’s not because the church is incomplete, it’s because it’s Italian.
Distain for the nation’s work ethic is rife. Murmuring under the sheets are the malcontent. Those who see a beautiful country, rich in illustrious history, squashed under the thumb of corruption.
The church isn’t finished because there are companies whose interests lie in ensuring that it isn’t.
Feet-dragging and money-wringing are the de facto modes of business in this country; a nation gripped by the nameless men of power that protect their own interests above everything else. It seems ludicrous to imagine that in this modern age a first world country can still be so retrograde, but things get left outside of doors in the middle of night to keep those murmurs as quiet as they are. And more radical voices are publicly and dramatically disposed of to ensure that those things placed outside of doors remain effective. So things stay the same.
Though there’s no taking away from quite how magnificent the cathedral itself is. It hangs in the air and erupts from the ground and confounds with its presence. The peering, contorted faces and gigantic stone pillars force me into a place of introspection. Fears and anguish bubble to the surface, and the plain old ringing questions about who and what I am wither my veins.
I’ve never quite understood the attraction to attractions. Derived the same word that we use to describe how a beautiful partner looks – how the flowers court the bees – it conjures feelings of love and satisfaction. It offers the hopes of a life content, where the bracing pains of an untold future are met with sweet embraces.
What these places actually offer is an insight into ennui. People listlessly drift to these spots because they simply must, though the lethargy is evident in the crowd gathered. The gold trinket, emerald eyed people. Watch wearers. Heel admirers. Preened eyebrowed, mini mint cigarette smokers. Droves of students bored of their teachers, rolling tobacco. Those wielding sticks with cameras attached to the end. Fidgeting children and their haggard mothers in tow.
It’s a hellhole. This stock photo of real life. Perhaps it’s being alone in the city, surrounded by people enjoying themselves. Perhaps it’s simply because I can’t stand how synthetic it all feels. Perhaps it’s because what I really want is to sit down and have a beer in a quiet little backstreet. Whatever the reason, I don’t want ever want to come back here again.
Navigating my way from the city centre, I stumble across the old town of Brera. A strip and its draping tendrils containing the ‘authentic’ Italian experience. That’s if the authentic Italian experience is a smattering of restaurants selling stock favourites and expensive beers. Along with Venice, I can’t help but think that I’m seeing an Italy that has been regurgitated and commodified for the masses. There’s no doubt that I’m in Italy, but it seems to be the part of Italy imagined by Kazim, the deputy manager of a Jamie’s Italian in Westfield. There are coffees and al fresco dining tables. Bolognese is on the menu. One or two of the waiters have moustaches.
I find myself peering into sparsely decorated shops, spotlights hanging down over marble tables and deliberately placed spoons. Steel backed chairs and tones of teal. Galleries which can only be accessed by buzzer. I’m not sure if these places are selling anything, or whether they’re simply cages to keep those inside captive. Either way, I don’t think I could care. It’s been 30 minutes and Milan is making me want to flee my own body, let alone the city itself.
Eventually I find my sweaty feet and scowling face peering down the Quadrilatero della moda. A jaunt in this area will tell you precisely why it’s the fashion haven than has celebrities from around the planet flocking. This is a den of pure affluence. A catastrophic monument to the greedy, self important nature of the industry, and a promenade that will make you feel a degree more braindead.
With yellow brick buildings housing the latest drapery, the paths outside are trundled by the full cheeked blondes and their sour dough eyes. Men with hair cuts gently sculpted to suit their jaw lines. Turtlenecked elbow bag hangers dripped and dipped in jewels, they peer from window to window at the hugely expensive watches and latest panther shaped rings from Cartier.
A riverless city, Milan instead sits on the banks of money. People are washed along its roads by juddering trams and poured into the low lighted outlets that form each of its walls. Its a city that thrives on its reputation and consecrates its culture to the gods of greed.
Don’t get me wrong, fashion is certainly a form of culture, but it’s culture at its most fickle. A disparaging celebration of wealth, it thrives on the malignant desire to turn one’s self into art. A deluge of statuesque selfies and well practised pouts, existing for the same reason social media exists, it’s an attempt to create a sense of permanence which is otherwise spurned by fleeting admiration and short attention spans.
Milan is the gilded idol decorated in swathes of cash and offerings of the most beautiful gemstones. It’s a city designed for those who want to look good, whatever the cost. Whether it’s money, faith or integrity, Milan will make you feel like you can buy or sell anything, and if you don’t want to do either you’re in the wrong place entirely.