Elaine, John, and Chris flew home on the 11th. Our flight was cancelled so we were rescheduled for the 12th. One day in Milan, we said. One day of possibilities. We could go see The Last Supper by da Vinci, if tickets were available. We could go view the fantastic Milanese architecture (just driving perhaps, or a tour). We could go to the fabulous historic shopping Galleria (fashion week just ended, so, we could be really cool). We could take a train on a fast trip to Bernina, go to Lake Como, and go to museums — all terribly interesting to both of us. We’d seen the Duomo and it’s rooftop already. All right — maybe the Galleria shopping wasn’t on everyone’s list. But, new exploration, new fun. Their newer buildings really are amazing, almost experimental, and unusual.
What we did was drive back to Bettola to retrieve the iPad left by one of us under her pillow. (grumble grumble) With the remaining few hours afterward, we went to the Navigli District Canal where we got to gaze upon the only remaining canals in Milan — at one time Milan had more canals than Venice. Now, it is a scene for nightlife and lovelocks on the rails. The scene was burgeoning as we left to go home, tired, and needing to pack. Our fine last supper was a dinner of cold pizza from the night before. We settled our bill at this sweet, tacky 2-star joint that never fails to welcome us, and went out for gelati. The owner/manager reminded me that we had been coming there for a really long time, and would welcome us back next year. Arrivederci.
Our flight back returned us to the present with all of its resounding traumas. The plane was filled with Orthodox Jews, probably Hasidic from, we think, Tel Aviv, complete with matching orthodox hairstyles, tall hats, curly hair payot, stringed prayer shawls, and black coats. In fact, everyone that I could see was in black, women too, but with hair covered by either hats or wigs. LOTS of children. Now, we had a large plane, and they had quantities of luggage. I suppose I should have expected this, but didn’t think about it — when we were served dinner, none of those folks were served. Ahha — kosher food perhaps! Then for the next hour or so, the women took out, fiddled with, then replaced multiple times each, luggage from the overheads. I presume food for those young ones, since I never heard a squeak or complaint from any child during the flight, and the beardless boys in the whole dress gear sitting in front of us were apparently playing games, no movies of food for them either the whole flight.
The situation is tragic for so many people, and flights out are hard to get — but this was a group of perhaps a hundred or so souls, tightly grouped together and not speaking to anyone else. We have some distant family that lives in Israel, in a kibbutz, and word is they are in their bunker, as they are just below the ridge where previously — the Golan Heights — Attackers were able to shell and launch rockets on them from directly above. Every apartment and home in Israel is required to have a bunker within it. Previously our folks used theirs for food storage, but now, it has found its purpose. So maybe Milan to New York wasn’t such an odd choice for the travelers — Italy is at the bottom of the Mediterranean and Israel is North and East of that same body of water. One gets a flight where one can. Prayers for all in this most terrible of conflicts.
JFK — do not fly out of there if you have to change terminals — advice to those who can choose their itinerary; JFK is a mess. I think that Milan too has followed the theme of building airports for the airlines but not for customers’ comfort. 24 hours after we woke up to begin to come home, we were ubered by daughter Kelley, greeting us with water and cheese snacks. My own bed felt soooo good last night. As much as travel and adventure, new discovery places, call to me, one’s own bed is homeplace.
Thanks for traveling with us, and letting me have this little bit of a journal. It is my hope that I can write a piece for a travel journal about the beauties of traveling to some of the small towns that need a bit more; jobs, reasons for younglings to stay, businesses, and people. And little Bettola is comfortingly lovely. Caio.