Rush hour in Milan in August..... Bliss!!

The grass is (not) always greener

Let’s get something clear. I know I moan. I know I constantly berate Milan and all that it has (n’t) to offer. I know I constantly go on about how I would rather be on a beach in Sardinia than stuck in traffic on the Tangenziale Est. Who wouldn’t?
As I sit in my office looking out over Lambrate station, surrounded by high-rise apartment buildings, with the constant hum of the ring road and the occasional roar of a plane taking off from Linate airport, it is easy to allow the smog on the horizon to cloud my vision of why I came to this area, and why I stay.
Firstly, I am well aware that I could never do the job I do if I wasn’t here in Milan. Whilst it has its drawbacks, I do really like the fact that I work for a multi-national organisation which is pretty much a pioneer in its sector. I have a reasonable level of responsibility, get on really well with my colleagues (some have become my closest friends), and take home a salary / bonus / car which I could never achieve elsewhere in Italy. I know that the first thing that I would miss should I go back to the quiet life would be intellectual conversation, or even just the banter in which you can engage as you drink your morning coffee, with like-minded individuals of similar ages and backgrounds. I also LOVE that we have a little group of mother-tongue English speakers so when the Italians get too…well, Italian…. we can reminisce about people and places far away!
The new apartment is (as I’ve said before) right at the foot of the hills which begin with the Oltrepò Pavese (miles and miles of sprawling vineyards and hilltops farms), and continue down towards the Apennines of Emilia Romagna. The Ligurian coast is one hour away (it’s not Porto Cervo but it’s not Birmingham either), as are the lakes to the north of Milan. Another important factor is infrastructure, healthcare, and all of those little things which seem to become more important as time goes by (even at the age of 28!). Here you can be (reasonably) sure of high standards of medical care, and what the hell – Switzerland is only an short car ride away if necessary! My USB internet connection works absolutely everywhere, and there is a proliferation of cultural and artistic events on offer, not to mention a year-round choice of places to eat, drink and be generally merry.
These are all little things which I remember longing for when I lived full-time in Sardinia (particularly in the depths of winter when not even the occasional warm sunny day could make up for the complete lack of ANYTHING to do other than appreciate the weather….)

So, all things considered, I’m almost tempted to say that it’s not so bad. I have a place across the water which I can hop across to as and when, and which I appreciate so much more for the fact that going there is now a novelty and not the norm. In the meantime I’ll be making the most of my current location, enjoying the friendships and opportunities I have here, and later in the year- with a little bit of luck and some careful preparation – will be unveiling a plan which might just turn things around for good….

I said in my last post that something needed to change. It was probably my attitude.

Commute

Having spent the past year and a half living a five minute drive from my office, I am now back to living the commuter life, and - mamma mia - it’s a shock to the system. When I first arrived in Northern Italy, I lived for nine months in Bergamo, which is only 40 kilometres from Milan, but on the slowest train line in the western world, so I had a two-hour round trip each day and permanent dark circles under my eyes. I had arrived from a three-year experience in Sardinia, where I drove everywhere and made time everyday for a dip in the sea. Not surprisingly, it took me a very long time to get accustomed to the city commute, and having had a two year break, the past few days have served as a reminder as to why I moved to the centre of Milan in the first place…
I’m not a morning person for a start. My ideal sleep routine is from 2 am to 10am – and I know this to be true because whenever I have a period of time where I don’t have to go to bed or get up at any particular time, this is the routine which my body automatically adopts. Hearing the alarm at 6:40 is not fun at all. I have to say, however that I find the train journey itself rather relaxing. Much as my classic English personality generally steers me away from situations involving close body contact with sweaty Italians with particularly sharp elbows, once the initial dash to the station and fight for a seat is over, it’s nice to be able to lean against the headrest and have a nap or get into a good book. The downside is that when there are strikes or delays, there’s nothing you can do except be inconvenienced, and you have to fall in with Trenitalia’s timetable – bad news for the colleagues who seem to get a kick out of staying in the office until eight o’clock, attempting to drag you down with them. I tried the car alternative on Monday and Tuesday, but spent an average of three hours completing the round trip on both days, such is the chaos to be found on any road that leads into, out of, or around Milan at pretty much any time of day. One thing I do like about train travel is that you get to observe the world around you, listen to people’s conversations and people-watch without fear of recrimination. The closely-packed seats and over-crowding can even turn into a learning experience, even if my most profound example so far was spotting the exact shoes that I want this morning, and asking their owner where she bought them. OK, so it’s not learning in the most academic sense, but at least it passes the time…..

Just another day

Picture the scene: my colleagues and I are strolling to the bar near the office at lunchtime, minding our own business, when we notice two cars – one taxi, one normal - stopped at the traffic lights and the respective owners screaming at each other, having obviously had a (minor) accident. Words like “Deficiente!” “Stronza!” “Cretina!” (idiot, bitch, moron) from him to her and “Scemo!” (stupid) from her to him. At a certain point, they end up nose to nose, at which point he throws a punch and they end up wrangling in the middle of the road as myself, colleagues and others try to intervene. The taxi driver, behaving like a complete animal, starts to threaten those of us who suggest he might like to calm down, telling us to mind our own f*****g business and inviting me to come over and feel his fist! We ended up calling the police before going on our way, pretty worked up and reflecting on the bella vita and bella gente to be found in this lovely city. An hour later the police car rolled up, by which time the whole thing was over and there was nothing to see.
I’ll be blogging about my (much less stressful!) weekend in the mountains later…. In the meantime this just had to be documented. People never fail to amaze and horrify me.

The price of furbo

I knew it! I knew when I parked my car on the pavement last night that some idiot would come along and block me in this morning without thinking about it. And that's exactly what happened! For the FOURTH TIME in as many weeks...
The problem is that on a Wednesday evening in my street you are forced to park on the pavement as the street cleaners pass during the night and give you a fine if you are on the road. That means that people who arrive early on Thursday morning simply park alongside, blocking in those cars still on the pavement. Do they not look? Do they not think? Are they not aware that, unless you drive Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, you are simply not able to sprout wings and hop over obstacles in order to get your car out???
And so, in an attempt to manoeuver between the offending vehicle and an unfortunately-placed lampost, despite the enthustiastic attempts of passers-by to guide me out, I still managed to end up with a king-sized scratch down the side of the back passenger door. In the end, a mechanic from the nearby garage came to my rescue and, after much shunting backwards and forwards, the car was out.
Arriving at the office very incazzata indeed, I recounted the story of the inconsiderate parking to an Italian colleague, whose reaction was to shrug and say "That's just the Italian way. It's like when we jump queues or red lights - we don't think about the danger or the annoyance to others. We just have to be first. We have to be more furbo than the next person".
'Furbo' is a word that comes up a lot in Italy. It literally means 'sly' or 'cunning', and is considered a positive attribute to have. You're furbo if you can find your way around having to pay a fine, without getting caught by the authorities; you're furbo if you succeed in pushing your way into the supermarket queue; you're furbo if you jump a red light and therefore avoid the chaos left behind for all those other suckers to endure. Bravo! Well done, you're furbo!
The problem with this attitude to life is that it tends not to consider the consequences of a person's actions, or the way in which they might affect others. In Italy, the general impression seems to be that if you don't try and outsmart the next guy, he will outsmart you.
So quick - grab that parking space before someone else gets it (don't worry about the fact that you're blocking a driveway); push the old granny out of the way to get to the front of the queue (you don't want an old granny to beat you to it, surely??!!); run the red light to avoid a 2-minute wait (nevermind the lady with the pushchair on the crossing - she'll soon realise you're just being clever and happily jump out of your way...)
Moral of the story?? DON'T BLOCK ME IN!!!!!!!

Decongestant?

In the local newspaper today, it was reported that there are 800 premature deaths each year in Milan as a direct result of air pollution. The city council's latest idea to help combat the problem is the introduction of a congestion charge, along the lines of the system adopted by London, to discourage drivers from using their cars in the city centre. Whilst in principle, I like the idea and am totally in agreement that something needs to be done, in practice I ask myself how such a revolutionary plan will be executed and maintained in a city where even the most basic rules and regulations go ignored (and the ignoring goes unpunished) on a daily basis. If it takes the city administration anything up to 6 months to process a residency request, and even a year to provide a Permesso di Soggiorno, where the hell are they going to find the necessary resources to manage such a system? Plus, when the congestion charge was introduced in London, the city council spent months planning and implementing a whole new road system, adapted the traffic lights, and tripled the public transport links within the centre. It is not uncommon to wait half an hour for a bus to pass, even right in the centre of Milan, or to find that your route has been spontaneously cancelled for a reason known only to whoever did it.

Milan simply has too many cars. The city is densely populated, with the majority of its residents living vertically - in blocks of apartments whose inhabitants were never meant to have 1, 2 or even 3 cars per family. When much of modern-day Milan was constructed ( or rather re-built ) in the post-war years, who could ever have imagined that 50 years on the motorcar would have become a cultural necessity, rather than a luxury reserved for the special few? When I look at my street - cars parked on every available pavement space, the grass verge, the zebra crossing... - I wonder where it's all going to end. As a driver myself I am well aware that I am contributing to the problem - actually Luca and I both have our own cars - indispensable during the day when we both travel for work, but which I wish we could fold up and put in our pockets when we get home at night and begin the daily ritual of 5-times-round-the-block-to-find-a-damn-spot.

Perhaps the 'powers that be' could do a little more to get the worst polluters off the roads - I don't know how many times a day I find myself choking in the wake of some rusty old heap which lost its road-worthiness long ago.

Ultimately, whilst I think an initiative such as the congestion charge can work well in a city such as London, which is equipped both financially and culturally, I am not convinced that it will go down so well over here. Aside from the fact that saving the planet doesn't seem to be all that high on many people's agendas, the Italian and his car go together like horse and carriage. I can't imagine the very many young "fighetti" ("cool people") dumping their sports cars and getting the number 54 bus to the Armani Caffè on a Friday night. And when it comes to 'finding a way around the problem', Italians are world experts... We'll see.

Che giornataccia!!

Right, that's it. I think this is what is known as 'the limit'. For those of you who know me and haven't seen / heard from me in about a gazillion years, this is why - I have turned into a lean, mean working machine, programmed to churn out presentations, capable of interacting exclusively with excel spreadsheets and interested in making genuine human contact only when I get the opportunity to wind down my car window and shout "Che cazzo fai, stronzo?!" It's a sad state of affairs. I realise I am by no means the only person in the world - or in this city for that matter - who is stressed out by the ups and downs of everyday life, but I'm starting to think that I might need some sort of an outlet for the aggression which I feel accumulating in my blood minute by minute. Maybe yoga? A cat? (to stroke, not kick..) Any suggestions?
I don't like to talk too much about work in my blog - more than anything because you never know who might be reading it - but suffice to say it's an agressive, competitive environment where everyone is under pressure and people are more likely to listen to you if your contribution involves a certain amount of 'strong language'. My team is all male (apart from me!) and when you get them all in a room together to talk about targets / budgeting / deadlines etc., the testosterone is enough to make your head spin. And God help he who tries to duck out of the office before 7 o'clock in the evening oooooooo!! Add to that the fact that I am forced to fight it out on the roads as I need my car to get to clients (Milan is roadrage central) and often spend 20 minutes driving around in endless circles at 8:30 in the morning in an attempt to park my car within 20 miles of the office...
Blimey I feel better already! On the up side, Luca's bringing home his mum's Cannelloni for dinner - and I'm on my third glass of prosecco... Happy Monday!!

Basta con le moto!!!

I'm having trouble keeping up with my blog at the moment - work is proving extremely demanding at the moment and I'm arriving home later and later every evening. As a result, I'm also having trouble speaking / writing in both English and Italian - am awaiting the moment when my brain short circuits completely. Until then, please excuse the posts that make no sense / poor grammar / worse spelling etc. and bear with me...
I've been wanting to write about my hospital visit experience since last weekend, and this is the first chance I have had. I've mentioned before (more than once!) my utter disgust at the unecessary dangers which one faces when driving in Milan, and the general lack of road safety evident at every turn. The whole situation was brought home to me on Sunday when we went to visit Luca's ex-roommate in hospital, following a serious motorcycle accident. Basically he was coming home from work one evening on one of the long straight roads which leads into the city from the northern ring-road, and was hit hard by a car jumping a red light at a crossroads. His bike flew 20 metres and smashed into a million pieces and he landed on the road after 40 metres, breaking both of his arms and both of his hips. Actually his hip bone snapped in two. I hope no one reading this is either squeamish, eating or both. In order to visit him in the intensive care unit, we were required to wear gowns and shoe protectors. He was full of morpheine and only just understood who we were. It turns out that the guy who hit him is an illegal immigrant with no driving licence. He probably didn't even know what the red light meant. It makes me so angry to see someone who lives a quiet, responsible life be brought so much pain simply as a result of someone else's ignorance. Umberto will have to remain in hospital for three months, after which he will be unable to move from his bed for 6 months. This will be followed by up to two years of intensive physiotherapy - a painful process in itself. How life can change in a split second of time. I have never been a big fan of motorbikes - Luca wrote his off in a serious accident in which he broke his leg, and just about everyone I know has either been involved in a bike accident or knows someone who has. I myself have witnessed a handful in the past 5 years. Luca's already planning his next motorbike purchase - I think my nervous breakdown is just round the next corner.....

Safety First

Last night, Luca and I were on our way home from the bar when his mum called to say that his dad had been knocked off his motorbike and it didn’t seem serious but they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. We took off – almost literally – and sped across the city to find his mum, two friends, and various passers-by crowded around the ambulance, and his dad strapped into a neck brace on a stretcher inside. I’m not good with emergency situations at the best of times and following the ambulance to pronto soccorso was pretty scary, but after a couple of hours waiting outside the hospital, we discovered that he had a simple knee injury and was just a little shocked. Whilst we were waiting, a number of other motorbike accident victims were brought in, each with their worried families in tow. I’m started to have a genuine fear of the traffic here in the city. It seems that everyone has something to say about the general lack of road safety, people’s apparent incapability to follow the rules and the poor lighting and maintenance of the street system. Just the other day, following heavy rain, a hole appeared in the road outside our apartment which was certainly deep enough to throw any motorcyclist doing more than about 50kms an hour off their bike. A passing police patrol car stopped to have a look, and after much shrugging of shoulders they placed a road cone small enough that you would need a microscope to see it next to the hole, and went on their way. Whilst hanging around the Emergency Department at the hospital, Luca picked up a newspaper carrying the headline “Road Safety: new law could increase number of victims”. The article talked about the fact that the government is proposing to decrease the amount of time a new driver has to wait before being allowed to drive cars over a certain number of cylinders – from three years to one. Given the number of accidents that already take place as a result of teenagers driving powerful vehicles at excessive speed, I hate to think of the consequences of providing them with an even earlier opportunity of killing themselves and others….
As Luca’s mum provided her witness statement to the police (needless to say the car which knocked his dad down sped off immediately and nobody on the scene managed to get a look at its number plate), she commented on the fact that, despite being one of the main roads leading into the city centre, with three lanes of constant traffic, it is one of the darkest streets in the city. The policeman’s response was to shrug his shoulders and “I know Signora – my colleague filed a report about this exact problem six months ago following another accident, and nothing’s been done yet”. If the new law allowing new drivers to get behind the wheel of increasingly-powerful vehicles comes into effect, I wonder where the extra insurance premiums will be directed….

Running on empty

It's fashion week. And what does that mean? Well, for many it obviously means lots of beautiful people meeting in over-priced, over-crowded venues to enjoy a free cucumber slice with their half a glass of post-catwalk mineral water... For me, however, it means traffic. Lots and lots of it. Take yesterday evening for example. My parents had just arrived so I skipped out of work early - at 6 o'clock - and jumped on the bus home, where I had to collect the car so that I could pick them up from their hotel. The distance from the office to my house is about 2 kms - 5 minutes by car or 15 minutes on the meandering bus. The traffic was already pretty awful, so the journey took half an hour. Hmph. Not good, but hey - now I get to jump in my warm, cosy car and in 10 minutes I'll be at my destination (Città Studi to Porta Venezia for those in the know - not exactly a million miles...). Except that when I get in the car, I find is has NO PETROL. I won't go into the anger and frustration that I felt towards my usually lovely BF at this point - suffice to say I was angry and frustrated. By this time it's 7 o'clock but no worries - the petrol stations around here are all open until 7:30. So I drive off with my fingers crossed and do a circuit of the one-way system, fighting my way through red lights and queues to get to the nearest one. CLOSED. How closed?? It's too early! OK don't panic - there's another station down the road and left a bit. So I get back in the traffic jam and head towards it. CLOSED - self service only. WHAT?? But it's only 7:15!!! No fair!! OK, so I can use the self service, right? Wrong! It only accepts 10 and 20 euro notes, and I only have a 50. Dammit! So I get on the phone to L, and he tells me where to go for another fuel station which DEFINITELY closes at 7:30. I switch the engine back on (slightly to my surprise) and drive off, repeating the mantra please don't break down please don't break down all the way. By this time the traffic is horrendous and it takes my a good 10 minutes to get 500m... but finally I see the petrol station looming in the distance, with the word APERTO (open) on the sign outside. Hurrah!!! I drive onto the forecourt triumphantly, only to notice that it's strangely quiet. And the door to the little hut is locked. And the pumps are switched off. NOOOOOOOOO!

My friends, it doesn't finish there.

OK, so it is now 7:25. I am not going to find a petrol station that is open for service - I am going to have to do it myself. I need to change my 50. Right, so in this street there are no shops or bars as it's completely residential, and even if there were, they'd pretty much all be closed at this time. I do however know of a cash point in the next street. I'm going to have to go and draw out 20 euros, then go back to the previous station and fill up myself. So I drive (well, actually I stick the car in neutral and coast) to the corner, dump the car in the middle of the road with the hazard warning lights on (as one does in these parts) and head for the bancomat. I am absolutely not kidding - FUORI SERVIZIO (out of order). By this point I am practically crying and have totally run out of solutions, so I think "F*ck it, I'm just going to continue to my parents' hotel, and hope that if I break down, it'll be after I pick them up so that they can at least provide moral support!" Mean but true. Amazingly I get there, collect them and start heading for Luca's bar, and about 200 metres from their hotel we find a damn petrol station, and my dad gives me a 20 euro note for the self-service machine (am loving the strong, independant woman lifestyle...). We then sit in traffic for the following 40 MINUTES as we attempt to make our way the short distance to the bar, where Luca and his family are waiting for us to join them for dinner. Yes folks, for me Fashion Week is no more than a pain the the (scrawny) butt.... Tonight we have a table booked at 9 o'clock. I'm leaving the office at 5:30.