101 things to do in Milan at least once in your life

Di Micol Arianna Beltramini

Milan as you’ve never seen it before!

Just a few of the 101 experiences:

• Lose yourself among the twists, turns and legends of the most beautiful gothic cathedral in the world
• Find yourself suddenly in front of a flock of pink flamingoes
• Enjoy the quiet of the quadrilateral of silence
• Fool around on Monte Stella
• Count the columns of San Lorenzo Maggiore
• Play at wireless telephone in piazza Mercanti
• Understand what the Da Vinci Code really is at the Ambrosiana
• Visit Milan’s open-air art nouveau museum in Porta Venezia

• Lingua: Italiano
• Editore: Newton Compton Editori
• Data di uscita: 30 apr 2015
• ISBN: 9788854182639

Anteprima del libro

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Introduction

Not many people really appreciate Milan. Don’t believe me? Well, if you ever find yourselves passing through town, try this simple test: buttonhole a stranger and start moaning about the place. A good eighty percent of those you talk to will agree, and they’ll probably start moaning even more enthusiastically than you. And then there’s another ten percent who’ll just start swearing their heads off. But the remaining ten percent will give you a funny look – and if they do make a comment, it’ll only be a Well, yes... maybe. So bear in mind that this book was written by that ten percent. They were the ones who showed me around, and it was from them that I stole all the stories, curiosities and wonders great and small contained herein. And I’ll tell you something else: I haven’t done them any favours writing this book – in fact, in some strange way I feel as though I’m doing them a disservice, because they’re actually proud to love this unloved city, and they don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t see what’s beautiful about it. Just imagine, they consider themselves lucky. It’s as though they were going out with a gorgeous woman whose beauty the rest of the world isn’t smart enough to see.

So much the worse for them, thinks the Milanese. And so much the better for me.

These few don’t hate me for trying to introduce their ladyfriend to the rest of the world, then. They don’t see it as a betrayal, don’t tell me not to bother – they assume that I already know it’s pointless and that no one will understand anyway. They don’t mind me giving it a go, though, just for the sake of those who live here and hate it, and for those who have always had it right before their eyes but have never known how to look at it properly.

For those like me, in fact.

Born to love her without having the faintest idea how to go about it.

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1. Sit yourself down somewhere and read this

When, how and by whom was Milan founded? No one knows exactly, but it’s almost certain that it wasn’t an Italic people, which perhaps explains why the Milanese are still perceived as aliens or strange (hooray for euphemisms!) in every other part of Italy. Unless maybe it was the Etruscans. Who in retrospect were not actually that Italic – and in any case, that’s one of the least credible hypotheses. But let’s take things one step at a time and go through the various versions, tongue planted firmly in cheek.

As with Rome, the first legend about the city’s origins involves an animal. Of course, it being Milan the context here is a bit less epic and portentous, as it were, and a bit more surreal. It was the year 623 BC, and King Bellovesus and his merry band of Gauls descended into Italy to conquer and subjugate us. As most of the locals were nothing but peasants that didn’t present much of a challenge, and so it was that Bellovesus found himself in the position of having to found a new city. He came up with the happy idea of asking the gods what to do, and with that cryptic but indubitable sense of humour which so often characterizes them, the gods issued their verdict: the city was to be founded in the place where a little sow half-covered with white wool was to be found. You can imagine the faces of the poor Gauls when their leader told them that. Anyway, off they marched, this way and that, until they ended up in the classic clearing at the edge of the woods and eventually found what they were looking for: the little sow which, according to this version of the myth, gave Bellovesus the idea for the new city’s name – medio-lanum, or half wooled. The second legend is the one about the Etruscans that we’ve already mentioned. Two of their captains, Medo and Olano, were wandering about Northern Italy with the same peaceful intentions as Belloveso when they stumbled across the same clearing between two rivers. There was no sign of any piglets but it seemed like a good place to set up camp, and a couple of weeks later they were starting to feel so much at home that they decided to settle down a bit more seriously. Medo took charge of construction and Olano dealt with fortifications, and thus it was that they gave birth to a city in constant expansion that they – fairly unimaginatively, it has to be said – christened with a fusion of their names.

The third version is less legendary and more boring, so it’s probably the truth: it wasn’t Bellovesus who founded Milan at all, but the Insubres, an Indo-European people who hung out in Northern Italy a thousand years ago, give or take a century, and who in all probability had built a settlement on the site which they called Alba and which was later conquered by Belloveso, who did little more than change its name. A name that may well have a third root, this too boring and plausible: medius (in the midst) and lanum (meaning plain or water depending on the Gallic or Gaelic origin of the term), the name Milan thus simply meaning that blessed plain or clearing surrounded by waterways on which all versions, wooly pig or not, seem to agree.

The legends – and obviously, there are several – about the origin of Milan’s symbol are also curious. All the city’s various occupants left their mark, including the Austrian double eagle (Torre dell’Imperatore, Palazzo della Stampa in Via Soncino), or, as we already know, the half-wooled sow (Palazzo della Ragione, Piazza Mercanti). The most famous (and most used) of all, though, is undoubtedly the Biscione – the big snake (Castello Sforzesco, Loggia degli Osii) which can be found, among other things, on the symbols of Alfa Romeo, the Inter football team and Fininvest (in this case the man in the serpent’s mouth is replaced by a flower – oh graceful irony!).

But what does the snake really have in its mouth? A young lad? A Saracen? And is it really eating him, or is it not eating him? There are dozens of stories about it, most of which concern the Visconti family, who paid the finest bards to sing (or make up) the deeds of their noble line, and so the paternity of the snake therefore belongs to three different people: Ottone Visconti, Azzone Visconti and Uberto Visconti. It seems that in around 1100, the first fought a war against Voluce, an enormous Saracen who had never before been defeated and whose symbol was a snake devouring a man – just in case you didn’t know what you were getting. Obviously Ottone got the better of Voluce: he killed him, stripped him of his symbols and brought them home to make them his own, replacing the devoured child with a Saracen (i.e. painting it red, like in the Alfa Romeo symbol).

Even before becoming Lord of Milan, instead, Azzone had undertaken a war against the Florentines, and in 1323 was on his way home, spick and span after the pitiless battle. Legend has it that, exhausted by the long ride, he dismounted and lay down to sleep, removing only his helmet. When he woke up, he was about to put it back on when he heard a hiss, and, lifting his eyes, saw a snake (which the documents call a viper) glaring down at him from his visor slit (which gives you an idea of what a huge beast it must have been). Unimpressed, brave Azzone glared back, removed his helmet and placed it on the ground and, after having assessed the superiority of its opponent, the wise snake saw fit to slither off. The nobleman immortalized the episode on his coat of arms, as if to say, ‘before me, even snakes turn into lambs – their reverence is such that if you stick a young lad in their mouth, they won’t even eat him’.

The third legend stars another member of the Visconti family, this one from almost a thousand years before the rest. Good old Saint Ambrose had just kicked the bucket, and, making the most of his departure, a diabolical Loch Ness-like creature had taken up residence in Milan. Although the monster’s cave was outside the city walls, more than one unfortunate had already found his way into its clutches and been chewed up, swallowed and digested for his pains. Several knights, in search of honour and glory, had tried to do away with this overgrown lizard, but in vain, and so the city languished, trade dropped off, and poor Milan didn’t know what to do. Not until a hero with a capital H appeared on the horizon: Uberto Visconti. One bitter winter dawn, off he went to the monster’s lair, and got there just in time to see the Nessie of Lombardy capture a child and start getting ready to gobble him up. Two days of hard fighting later, the beast was slain, the child was saved, and the choice of the city’s new banner was a no-brainer.

And now that you know (more or less, depending on who you ask) about this city’s origins and symbol, get ready to discover her, to woo her and to adore her as though she were a woman. Haughty but accessible, proud but open-minded, hardworking, severe, shy, elusive at times, but – if you manage to get your arms around her – generous and beautiful, throbbing with secret, hidden passions and above all, alive. Not in a frenetic, anxious way, but alive, and strong, and courageous, and complete. Alive.

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2. Lose youself among the twists, turns and legends of the most beautiful gothic cathedral in the world

There’s no need to explain how to get to Piazza Duomo, the square which always been the heart of Milan and where the house numbers and the main roads begin. The red line of the underground stops here, as does the yellow line and another twelve trams and six buses, so you really don’t need to worry about missing it. The cathedral’s facade always amazes. Or at least, it does until you’ve seen the rest of the cathedral, at which point you realize that the front – as is the case, as we will see, for ninety percent of the churches in Milan – is actually the least spectacular, least successful part of the building. Built upon the orders of Napoleon, who was evidently disturbed by its ‘makeshift’ appearance, the facade was begun in 1805 and completed in 1813, so it’s not much of a surprise that the results are not quite as successful as the rest of the building, which was begun in 1386 and which, we can safely say, was never finished.

There are a practically infinite number of anecdotes and legends about the Duomo, so it’s worthwhile reflecting on a couple of things. The first is that since its origins the cathedral has always been dedicated to female figures: its real name, which is shown on the facade, is Santa Maria Nascente, but the first building to set its foundations here was dedicated to a mysterious black virgin, identified by Caesar with Belisama, the Celtic mother goddess, before later being rebuilt and dedicated to Minerva, then to Saint Thecla, then to Santa Maria Maggiore. The latter were in fact two separate buildings which once shared the space where the cathedral stands today. Santa Maria Maggiore, the smaller of the two, was a hyemalis or winter church, while Saint Thecla, the older building, was an aestiva or summer church. Each had its own baptistery: Saint Thecla had San Giovanni alle Fonti where Saint Ambrose baptised St. Augustine on Easter night 387 and in which only boys were baptised, while Santa Maria Maggiore had Santo Stefano alle Fonti, devoted solely to the baptism of girls.

Whether by divine will or womanly destiny, it was Santa Tecla which disappeared along with its baptistry: a fire razed it to the ground in 1075, leaving only the foundations (which can still be visited). Santa Maria Maggiore, instead, provided the basis for the next church, begun in 1386 through the intercession of Archbishop Antonio da Saluzzo. And here we come to the second point mentioned above, upon which it seems reasonable to reflect for a moment.

The Duomo is effectively the church of the people of Milan – it was they who loudly demanded its construction it, it is thanks to them that it was built, and it is the local people who have continued to subsidise it over the centuries by means of generous private donations.

A certain Gian Galeazzo Visconti put in the marble, those wonderful white blocks with their blue and pink veins which came from Lake Maggiore down the Ticino and the Naviglio Grande, to then settle in the laghetto di Santo Stefano, lone survivor, as we will see elsewhere, among place names. It was these blocks that gave Italy what is one of its most common interjections, as well as one of the most typical Lombard expressions: they bore the initials AUF, meaning ad usum fabricae, which, as per an agreement with the Viscontis, served to exempt them from transport tax and duties. These initials gave rise to the expression ‘auf!’, which later became ‘uffa!’, an expression of impatience at a long wait, as well as the expression "to do something a ufo", meaning to work without compensation or to obtain property without expense.

But let’s have a look at the numbers and try and get to grips with the measurements of this marble marvel, which has rightly become the symbol of Milanesity. The Duomo is one hundred and fifty-seven meters long and between sixty and ninety metres wide, its interior is about twelve-thousand square meters, and it can hold about forty thousand people (half of San Siro stadium, and that’s without any tiers!). It has one hundred and forty five spires, of which the highest reaches one hundred and nine meters, and a good three thousand one hundred and fifty-nine statues, not counting the ninety-six giant gargoyles and the myriad of half-figures in the cornices of the windows. Impressed? Well that’s not all: Inside are the fifty-two huge columns which hold up the vault and a good thirty-nine windows, all original except for the apse and some in stained glass telling stories of the saints and the Old Testament. There’s no real point in banging on any more about facts and figures, though, so just let yourself wallow in the magnificence and splendour of it all while I tell you a couple of things before I forget.

The first aisle to the right, for example, boasts several tasty details, including a plaque stating, in Milanese, when work began: El Principio Del Domo di Milano Fu Nel Anno 1386. Lifting your eyes, you’ll see a hole through which a beam of light shines – keep this in mind, we’ll be coming back to it later. Now, carry on admiring the crucifixes, sarcophagi, altars until you reach the transept, where you can admire Marco d’Agrate’s masterpiece, not to mention your humble scribe’s favourite statue: San Bartolomeo Scorticato or St Bartholomew Flayed, an anatomical bundle of muscles and tendons who nonchalantly wears his own skin over his shoulders like a cloak. In the presbytery at the top of the vault, you’ll see a large radial cross tabernacle which since 1461 has apparently contained one of the nails of the true cross, miraculously discovered by good old Saint Ambrogio in a blacksmith’s: just like in the story of Pinocchio, the blacksmith couldn’t bend it even an inch no matter how much he laid into it with his hammer. This nail is the protagonist of one of the most singular liturgical ceremonies in Milan: in September, on the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, a strange device – a kind of basket covered with papier-mâché and decorated with angels wrapped in fluffy clouds – lifts the archbishop and five canons to the place where the nail is safeguarded, forty feet above the ground. Apparently, the brain behind this ingenious machine, called the Nivola, or ‘cloud’, was no other than Leonardo.

A marble staircase gives access the beautiful crypt from the retrochoir to the Scurolo di San Carlo and the Duomo Treasury, and as you go back along the left transept you encounter the immense Trivulzio candelabra, also called the Albero, or Tree, by virtue of its seven branches. Made of bronze, and more than five meters high, this exquisite piece of work by a twelfth-century French artist introduces and presides over the chapel of Our Lady of the Tree, so called precisely because of its immense chandelier.

Continuing towards the exit we come upon another singular surprise: the signs of the zodiac along the floor, ending with Capricorn at the wall. This is the Duomo’s sundial, also called the Gnomon; at exactly midday, light filters through the hole to the right of the first bay, stopping to illuminate the sign corresponding to that time of year. The winter solstice is indicated by a Capricorn, the last of three. It is the only sign to be shown three times (twice on the floor and once on a wall), and some have seen it as a representation of the devil – in view of the number of satanic images scattered around inside and outside the cathedral, they don’t see why one more should make any difference. Before going out, you will find stairs in the counterfacade which lead down to the foundations of Santa Thecla and the Baptistery of San Giovanni alle Fonti which we mentioned above: have a look, if you fancy, and then go back into the piazza. Thought you’d finished? There’s the entire perimeter of the cathedral awaiting you, with its thousands of dizzying views and statues, the intricate arabesque of its spiers, its buttresses, the backs of its stained glass windows.

Here’s a little challenge for you – try and find these three statues: Hans Cristian Andersen’s little mermaid impaled on a corner, the boxer Primo Carnera, and a rat with a severed head. And the rest of the tour will, you’ll see, be no less magical. Just one thing: make sure to look in front of yourself occasionally. Walking into something face-first as you circumnavigate the Duomo is much more likely than you might think.

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3. Walk on air on the roof of the Duomo

My first thought was to combine all the information about the cathedral into one chapter, but then I realized that the terraces of the Duomo are an experience of a completely different kind. Even the access is separate – you can happily go up without visiting the church, and if you so wish, you can do it wearing a miniskirt. This is the Duomo’s other soul, in one sense less sacred and in another, if possible, even more mystical. But let’s start with the basics: access to the terraces is located on the side of the Duomo which faces the Rinascente department store. You can choose to go up on foot or by lift. It’s not impossible on foot and it costs a little less, but the stairs are closed in, so don’t expect to see anything on the way up. If you’ve got a few spare euro, I’d recommend the lift: when you get to the top, you’ll be breathless both ways anyway.

Of course, it would be nice to be able to get up there on flying broomsticks, like in Miracle in Milan, De Sica’s beautiful, surreal film, zooming up from the poverty of the suburbs to the classical wonders of the cathedral’s spiers at night when there’s no one around. It must be said, however, that the terraces of the Duomo are almost never crowded, particularly if you go up during the week. On weekdays during working hours, the first thing that strikes you is the silence, and the atmosphere of peace.

It’s an effect that the Duomo creates through a mixture of several factors, the first of which being its colours: that elegant marble, not grey but white and pink with romantic veins of light blue, especially in spots where it’s recently been cleaned. And then, there’s the space. The roof, so large and exposed in the middle of the sky, is accessed through narrow corridors, passable only by one person at a time, and flanked by the cathedral’s large windows. It’s incredible to think that during the war, these windows were removed by the city’s loyal, prudent population – even more so in retrospect, because they would certainly have been destroyed in the havoc caused by the bombing of the nearby gallery.

Then, of course, there’s the silence. Because of some strange sound-damping effect, there doesn’t seem to be any noise on the roof of the Duomo. And nobody shouts. Everybody speaks in a low, hushed voice – almost a whisper. It must be because the place inspires and demands a certain level of respect, and this is reflected particularly in the total absence of graffiti. There are only three guards, so it wouldn’t be that hard to do. But it doesn’t happen.

Continue looking around, without speaking. A more-or-less obligatory itinerary leads from the elevator to the main terrace, where the view to the right overlooks the square, but let’s leave that as a final treat before going back down. Walk around the sloping terrace, study the spiers at the bottom end, even climb up on them, if you like – you’re allowed to. Then go back to the centre of the roof. Contemplate the beauty of the spiers as they refract the sun, and the little Madonna, so near and so dazzling. Look for details, your own little favourites, to carry home in your memory as souvenirs, and if you want, play at being a statue on one of the pillars. Look around you: you’re surrounded by them, all gazing into the sun, looking like a gang of beautiful gods and demigods.

As you go back down, we were saying before, take a peek at the square from the facade: the infamous pigeons look like ants from this height, and you don’t notice just how beautiful the paving is – as regular and symmetrical as a mosaic. At one time, paradoxically, the square was more modern-looking than it is today: the central tram terminus was here, and the building across the square, called the Pubblicità, or the Advertising Building, because of the neon billboards that covered its facade, created a London-esque atmosphere a bit like Piccadilly Circus. In the night, words light up, as the poet and novelist Umberto Saba remarked.

Who knows whose idea it was to get rid of all that at the end of the nineties. Of the landscape of that time, there’s the Gallery on the right, and Via Mercanti, overlooked by the beautiful Loggia, while on the other side you can admire the twin Arengario buildings, begun in 1939: the one on the left is now home to the new Museum of the Twentieth Century.

On the subject of lights and modernity, several years ago, on the occasion of an exhibition at the Royal Palace, someone mounted a neon sign on it, saying Everything’s gonna be alright. And that’s the way you feel as you climb back down from the Duomo. Everything will be fine. As long as it stands there, and as long as you can go up it, everything will be fine.

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4. Act the dandy in the Galleria

If Milan was a chest of drawers, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele – or more simply the Galleria – would be among its most precious treasures. Positioned like a handmaid to the right of Santa Maria Nascente (better known as the Duomo, despite the name on its front), its charm and wonders begin with the arch, that beautiful invitation to the visitor to enter which reveals the interior like a raised petticoat giving a glimpse of a shapely ankle.

Work on designing the gallery began around the middle of the nineteenth century, and the basic idea was more flirtatious than functional: connecting the Duomo to the Scala through a ‘porticoed street’ which would be both a showcase and a promenade, through which one might stroll, swinging one’s walking stick as one went, while doing some shopping, having an aperitif or dining after the Opera. The project was entrusted to Giuseppe Mengoni, an architect from Bologna who was fascinated by the iron and glass wonders of the Exposition Universelle of those years: lightweight structures like