The Shoelace

Sweat ran into my eyes as I stood at the reception desk of our too fancy hotel in Milan, Italy.

My wife and I had just arrived by train. A three hour journey from the Italian Riviera with a quick change of trains in the ancient port city of Genova.

The ride was comfortable and uneventful. We arrive at Milano Centrale station around three o’clock in the afternoon.

If you’ve never been, Milano Centrale is a massive station. There are twenty-four platforms with trains outbound for every major city in Italy and beyond. It feels like a combination racetrack and refugee camp. Hordes of people either weaving their way through the crowds with massive suitcases or staring up at the digital boards transfixed, desperately trying to figure out which track their train is departing from.

Thankfully this wasn’t my first time in Milano Centrale, so I knew what to expect.

We exited our train and began the lengthy walk to exit the station. Down the declining people movers, and down again, and again, until we reached the ground floor.

We walked through the foyer toward the exit. Shops advertising Fendi, Ferragamo, and Ferrari lined our path. Italians love their glamour (and so do I). We made our exit into the bright sunshine and stood for a minute to catch our breath and get our bearings.

Milano Centrale has quite an impressive external facade. Built by Julius Caesar and Galileo in 1874, the building was originally designed to be a chicken coup. Due to several design flaws, the finished structure was much larger than expected. The chickens kept getting lost in the vast space and so it was decided to convert the building into a train station in 1985. I’m not sure what happened to the chickens.

(I may have some of my facts wrong, but don’t hold it against me).

“Well, we can grab a taxi or the hotel is a fifteen minute walk.”

These words I’ve uttered many times it seems. I always choose to walk if the distance is not terribly long, the weather is mild, and the path is flat.

This has proven a massive mistake in the past. See part one of my On The Road In Spain post.

But not this time.

We walked casually along Via Vittor Pisani, a straight shot to our hotel. The sidewalks were wide and flat and so none of the clickty clack of suitcase wheels to contend with.

It was a lovely walk.

So then, why, you ask, were you sweating so profusely while checking into your swank hotel?

Well, it turns out that air conditioning is not really a thing in Europe. Not like in the U.S. where every shop, restaurant, and bar is frigid cold from spring to fall.

With no air conditioning, European indoor spaces don’t have much airflow and aren’t particularly cool or cold. They are comfortable if you are just sitting around. But coming off a fifteen minute walk, in spite of how pleasant it was, and entering a stuffy lobby did the trick. My wife and I immediately began sweating, wiping our brows while answering the thousand questions they tend to ask in Europe when you check into a hotel.

The front desk attendant asked if we would like something to drink while we waited. Juice or champagne perhaps.

“Yes,” we said in unison. “Champagne please, plus a beach towel to wipe our faces with.”

After another ten minutes of sweating, gulping champagne, and answering questions about spa appointments, what type of water we would like placed by our bedside, and how many times a day do each of us normally take a pee, we were fully checked in.

“Thank you sir,” the front desk attendant said with a nod. “My colleague will show you to your room.”

(Or you could just tell me what f@cking floor it’s on and give me the key card).

That’s fine. If that’s how they do it, so be it. We just wanted to get up to our room and shower off all the perspiration.

We turned toward the elevators and low and behold, a full on supermodel was standing there smiling at us.

“Buongiorno, my name is Alessandra and I am four pounds too hefty to be on the cover of Vogue,” she said. “Plus one of my ears is twelve millimeters lower than the other. The modeling agency rejected me; therefore I had to get this highly unnecessary job of leading couples to their hotel rooms.”

We both replied with monotone, “mmkay.”

“It is a rewarding job, but sometimes awkward,” she continued as she led us over to the elevator bank. “The husbands try not to stare at me while making goofy dad jokes, while their wives stare me up and down with, how you say in English, jealous rage.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever perspired like a recovering drug addict in front of a supermodel, but I can tell you, it is not the greatest. In the elevator, we both were still sweating while trying not to look like wet farm animals in front of this stunning young girl.

In the end, I thought she was really nice and competent at her job. She showed us how to get on the elevator, open the door to our room, and turn on our television. Really helpful if you are blind.

Later that evening we ran into more supermodels at our hotel’s rooftop bar. A group of t hem had gathered up there to trade vape pens, drink vodka soda, and eat nothing.

They glanced over at my wife and I a time or two to watch us suck down Negronis and yum up chicken fingers.

“Hello,” I said smiling at the group. “We’re from the U.S.”

“We know,” one of the girls replied. “We can tell.”