We spent days walking all over the city to her voice and piano lessons and I quickly learned a new vocabulary word, nipote (meaning: niece), as she introduced me to her maestros and friends on seemingly every sidewalk we passed. We attended a special invitation-only classical concert at one of the local theatres which was conducted by this maestro who, although smooth and effortless in his presentation, looked more like he belonged on a rugby field than conductor’s box in a gilded music hall. He transformed Brahms and Tchaikovsky into things I’ve never heard before. We clapped for him so hard my palms hurt—the sound was so uplifting, as he returned for at least eight curtain calls!
All week long we tried in earnest to make it to a real apperitivo at one of the bars where Frannie promised the bartenders that her nipote would drink prosecco with them, but life happened and things got in the way, so it was a running joke that I’d have to return to Milano just for a sip of prosecco and bruschetta, if not for other things ...
Our walks took us by Milano’s grand medieval castle which majestically heralds the entrance to the city park. It is often lit up at night and during the day is teaming with lovers on benches and crowds of people milling through its numerous courtyards and knight-filled museum. I peered in the windows, making a mental note that I’d have to return for those experiences, as well.
Frannie’s apartment was adjacent to a great Catholic church in the Piazza del Carmine, whose spires and windows were also part of the view from my comfy little pull-out sofa bed. The bells dutifully tolled at 7am and noon and sometime thereafter, truly one of my favorite sounds of Italy (they compare nothing to the bells that I hear from my small town’s central colonial church); I wish I could have taken them home as part of my souvenirs. I attended two masses there with Frannie in tow, one in English and the other spoken in Italian, though I am not Catholic by any means. It was painful, with all the standing-ups and kneeling/sit-downs, but I guess they design all that action to keep your blood pumping through the service so you don’t fall asleep! The 1000s of years old stone cathedral was very chilly, so there was much schwooshing of thick coats and sniffling noses—standard noises during a winter church service made louder by their reverberation off the great stone walls; as out of place as I felt, I had to remind myself that these masses were a treat to behold. There’s nothing like this back home in our young 200-year old country ...
