Passage to Venice – II

We had planned to be in Milan for lunch, but got there only very late in the evening. As we slid down through the mountains, occasionally getting a little to close for everyone’s comfort to a cliff-edge or another sliding vehicle, all orchestrated by a few squeaks and many gasps, the day wore slowly into the afternoon. We demolished some chips, a few cookies and lots of hot chocolate from a large flask, but the hunger for lunch was kept at bay by the sheer terror of the conditions in which Father had to drive our little Volkswagen Golf. Finally, tired, tense and at last ravenous, we tottered – in a manner of speaking – into Aosta.

Well known for its ski slopes and celebrity visitors (though that was not top-of-mind then), Aosta was a small town with many large hotels. We parked outside one and walked in, brushing snow from our coats and boots and demanding food. The dining hall was large, luxurious, welcoming and, most of all, warm. We sat, we asked, we ordered and we wilted as we waited. The food arrived and we fell to, not really noticing what we ate until it was halfway done. Then I saw that the seafood risotto I had been so avidly working my way through has tiny bits of octopus tentacles, suckers and all, arrayed around the edge of the soup-plate. I like octopus, I am fairly adventurous as an eater, but when the octopus looks at me, so to speak, I quail a bit. Some help from a parent and I was equanimous again, chewing happily.

We actually got to Milan only for dinner. Our hotel was an old and charming one, with no elevator, and we lugged our bags up heavenwards, heaving and pushing and puffing and occasionally saying a rude word, bashing into ankles and squashing a finger or two en route. Food meant we had to walk all the way down, but it was easier without luggage. I was just starting into my health-food bias then and wavered agonisedly between hamburgers and fries and salads and natural juices. I compromised with a large cola and a leafy salad, one that seemed to include all sorts of plant life, from artichoke hearts to spinach, mushrooms to what was thence-forth fixed in my mind as nettled – the stabbed me suddenly mid-bite in the roof of my mouth and left my tongue stinging painfully for some time afterwards.

A painful meal, a fairly late night, a long drive…it all led to a very deep and surprisingly refreshing sleep. We bounced up and out the next morning, all keen to see the chapel in which the Last Supper was being slowly restored, to eating a typically Italian pasta and walking past the stores that we had only read about that sold big-name designer fashion that we sighed over but never imagined even seeing in real life. We did all that and more. And furtively peeped at gorgeous people walking down the pavements, delicious cars prowling the streets and beautiful buildings that for some reason always had a cold wind blowing against them that made our eyes water. But it was Milan, the city of beautiful visions and the warmth (even in mid-winter) of a freedom to live a dream.