Milan, Day 2

I wake myself early so that I can go for a run. I am really looking forward to this, since I have not run since leaving the States. This hotel is quite a distance from central Milan, and is surrounded by what looks like abandoned farms and marshes. I step outside into the cool humid air and head out the Country Hotel Borromeo's driveway to the road. The sun is already bright but it isn't hot yet. A few small cars speed by me.

It looks like Virginia. Everything is green. It's humid but not as hot. Lots of undergrowth beneath the thin-trunked trees.

Suddenly, I see that there is no shoulder. Nothing. Not a bike path, or a curb, or even a few inches of grass. Nowhere to run safely. Crap. I turn around. Back toward the hotel driveway. Past it. Past the Holiday Inn next door.

Nothing. Literally nowhere to step.

Not to be denied, I turn into the Holiday Inn and circuit the parking lot, exiting to the right back toward the Borromeo. There is a chained-off dirt road just beyond my hotel's driveway. Hanging from the chain is a sign: GOLF ORSINO. Excellent, I can run through the golf course! I duck the chain and start building some speed. I curve left for about 100 meters and...

...come to a house with a gate. With barking German Shepherds behind it. Apparently the golf course is closed.

Merde! I mutter under my breath, then quickly correct my brain, which is lagging my geographical location. Merda!

I spin around and retrace my steps, ducking the chain and turning left back toward the Holiday Inn. Damn... this circuit can't be more than 1/8 mile. I sigh in resignation. At least I am outside, in the sun. I have needed this for too long, monotony be damned.

I must look really silly.

After about 2 1/2 miles the monotony starts to affect me, so I head inside. I shower and throw on my suit, and walk outside to meet Maurizio, a fellow IBMer who is driving me to the IBM office where the class will be conducted. As we pull into the IBM parking lot Maurizio points out a pile of rubble, explaining that it is the remains of the former IBM complex, which burned down a few years ago.

I wonder why the rubble hasn't been removed.

Inside the new, modern facility, I meet Simona and Paola, two other IBMers who have been working for the last two weeks to ensure that the hardware and network infrastructure is in place and operational. Their competence has made my arrival far more pleasant than it otherwise might have been. (Grazie Simona! Grazie Paola!)

The class goes very well. Eventually we break for lunch, heading to the IBM cafeteria. I pass on the big pieces of meat available, and grab some rice salad, a green salad, a fresh roll, a couple apricots, and a bottle of acqua naturale (non-fizzy water), and sit at the table with the rest of the class. The cafeteria is jammed. I look around my table to see what others are eating and notice that they have made similar choices. Then I look around at the other tables, checking out what other people have chosen. Same thing.

This is weird. Had we been in a cafeteria in the States I expect I would have seen pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat, pile-of-meat....

Italians eat like me! Not strictly vegetarian, but mostly so. A bit of prosciutto here. A tiny bit of sausage there. Healthy lifestyle. Awesome. I remember learning about the influence of Italian food (and French food and Chinese food) in California cuisine and realize that my chosen diet has not been entirely of my own making.

I feel very much at home.

The remainder of the class goes smoothly. Afterward I head out with Maurizio and Salvatore to downtown Milan for dinner. We take the Metro from San Donato station to the Duomo Station and emerge into the piazza.

Whoa. Damn. The Duomo is big. And ornate. The ornate features are themselves ornamented. No wonder it took 500 years to construct. The cathedral is not a testament to god's greatness, but to the ingenuity of humanity. I am overwhelmed with a sense of pride for the aesthetic genius of the designers.

We stroll across the piazza through the Galleria. We step on the bull's balls. "For luck."

Awkward.

Behind the Galleria is the most famous opera house in the world, La Scalla. I act Pavarotti.

Maurizio explains that the FileNet guys who used to have an office in this neighborhood recommended a good local pizza place.

The Castello Ristorante Pizzeria turns out to be awesome. We are each served a pizza that must measure 14" across but with a soft cracker-thin crust. My pizza is white, in the traditional Italian tradition. It contains (just) a few dots of tomato sauce, parmesan, olive oil, fresh chopped arugula, garlic, porcini mushrooms, and a bit of truffle. It is without a doubt one of the best pizzas I have ever tasted.

Our dinner is interrupted briefly by a discussion (in Italiano, of course) between Salvatore and the owner of the restaurant as to the quality of the mozzarella on his pizza. The owner leaves and returns shortly with a ball of fresh mozzarella. Salvatore wants me to cut into it and taste it.

The first thing I notice is the texture against my knife. Kind of spongy. A bit tough. Not at all like the dense, plastic-like substance that passes for mozzarella in Giant. Not even like "fresh" mozzarella you can find in Whole Foods, which I have found to be tasty but cuttable with a fork. No, this is different. I am on the verge of greatness. I can feel it.

Delicious. I don't want to even disservice this cheese by swallowing it. I add "real mozzarella" under "genuine croissants" to my mental list of things-to-find when I return to the States.

Salvatore explains that the mozzarella is Mozzarella di Bufala Campana made in his hometown of Naples using water buffalo (note: not American bison) milk.

We leave and head toward the Metro. I make a quick stop to purchase a Milan tourist map for tomorrow. I will not have much time before I have to depart for London and need to start planning.

Back at the hotel, I arrange for a taxi for the next morning to take me back to San Donato station. I have more exploring to do.

A few minutes later I am falling asleep quickly, dreaming in Italian.

Maybe it is just the pizza talking.