Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [78]
I stood at the Piazza Quattro Novembre and watched the tram approach. It looked exactly like the Number 8 streetcar that Mother and I took downtown to see the newest MGM movies at the Century Theatre. So strong in my mind was this connection that when the tram stopped to let off passengers, I jumped on without a second thought. What did it matter where it was going? I thought. Getting lost was not a consideration. I was already lost—if lost means not having the slightest idea of where you are.
The interior of the tram was charming. I settled back into one of the polished wooden seats next to an Art Deco lamp and looked through the window. As the streets and shops and neighborhoods slid by—streets and shops and neighborhoods I’d never seen before but recognized anyway—the dislocation I felt dissolved. Odd, I thought, how the past makes its presence known no matter where we travel.
I spent most of the afternoon riding on trams, hopping off whenever I saw something interesting: a neighborhood, a church, a piazza, a street. By this time I was in love with Milan.
I was particularly drawn to a neighborhood called the Brera. Once the center of Milan’s bohemian life, the Brera now combined an art student ambience with unique shops and galleries catering to the upscale shopper. Bookshops, bars, boutiques, and restaurants of every kind and price dotted its meandering cobblestone streets. After stopping to study the menus posted outside several of the restaurants, I decided to come back to the Brera for dinner that night.
Before returning to the hotel, I walked back through the Brera to La Scala. Although musical performances did not begin until December, guided tours through the beautiful opera house and its museum of operatic memorabilia were offered. I found the museum particularly fascinating. Verdi seemed to be the star here, with more than half the museum space devoted to his career. I studied his scores, in awe of the man who marked down these black notations that expressed so much in such small strokes.
A man’s voice, that of an Italian speaking English, suddenly broke the silence. “He was a wonderful man, a great man, our Verdi.” I looked up and saw an elderly man standing next to me, studying the scores. He was dressed in a dark suit, one that had turned shiny from too much cleaning and pressing, and a white shirt frayed at the collar.
We began to chat about Verdi. “When he died a great crowd turned out in the streets,” the man said. He then went on to tell me of the Rest Home for Musicians that Verdi financed and built. Composers were given preference at the Casa di Riposo per Musicisti, followed by singers, conductors, and orchestral musicians. As he spoke I wondered, but didn’t ask, if he was a resident at the home.
Later, on my way back to the hotel, I thought of Verdi’s Rest Home for Musicians and its similarity to Gertrude Jekyll’s Home of Rest for Ladies of Small Means. Perhaps there are similar rest homes, I thought, scattered around the world like an aberrant chain of Hilton Hotels.
In my hotel, I stopped at the door of a room filled with voluminous bridal gowns. Inside, a short, heavyset woman stood ironing the hem of a dress. The deft manner in which she moved the iron across the tricky satin material was as delicate as a butterfly landing on a leaf.
As I stood watching, a pink-cheeked young woman who obviously had been out running—she was wearing a gray sweatsuit and Nike running shoes—paused at the door. “What’s going on?” she asked in a voice that was unmistakably American. I told her about the trade show. “So if you’re looking for a wedding dress,” I said, “you’ve come to the right hotel.”
Just then the woman ironing the dress gently removed it from the board and transferred it to a padded hanger.