STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN MILANO II

Hostels in Europe are not for the faint hearted. You can either become firm friends with your fellow boarders or in my case as I did in the not too distant past in Barcelona, get out of bed in annoyance in the middle of the night to shake the legs of one of the snoring roommates. This had to be done in order of proximity to the said roommate as part of the roaster developed in the room by a self appointed room captain to prevent the roommate whose legs we were to shake from snoring for the general well being of the rest of us.

So this time around, I was quite certain to look for a low budget hotel to sleep in. With the events of the day playing in my mind and my desire to maximize my 24 hours in Milano, I got out of my hotel bed which turned out to be a kind of hostel but just that I got a single room at bout 10pm to walk into the city and explore the night life of Milano. Walking around the city close to the famous Duomo with pigeons flying down to pick up food and young people roller skating in the plaza, I noticed a big blue light with the words written in fancy letters, night club, across the lights. So it was in that direction that I headed.

The door was opened by a man whose well tailored suit made me rather jealous. Walking down the dimly lit passage, I could see the club was rather up market. I walked into an empty open space and I was escorted to sit by another suited man at the bar being manned by another well suited lady. What would you like to drink sir? She asked me. Without giving it much thought and also perhaps because of the positioning of the drinks, I requested some gin and tonic. Taking a sip, she said 30 Euros please. The blood immediately drained from my face. Did I hear right? 30 Euros for a drink? Oh Fola what have you done I asked myself.

Slowly taking out my wallet, the friendly bar lady and I struck up an exchange of pleasantries and the fact that the club was empty. It's still early; it gets busier later in the night she said. While she stepped out of sight to get me some nuts, I swung my bar stool around to notice that there were about 10 women or so, all very well dressed sitting in about 3 groups scattered around various lounges in the big room. Quite odd I thought.

When the bar lady returned, what is this place I asked? Smiling at me, she replied, a night club. So many women here I said. Ah, yes she said. People come here later tonight and just dance with the ladies she said. As she causally walked away again, I swung my chair back and stared at the women who all seemed to be in animated discussions having drinks and all looked like jolly good friends. I see you like that one a voice from behind me said. Looking back, it was the bar lady again who said walking away from me, I’ll invite her over so you meet her. Laughing and thinking it was a joke, I was surprised when moments later I was being introduced to Natalia from Romania.

Without asking me, Natalia was asked by the bar lady what she wanted to drink. Of course, left to me, I wouldn't be offering to buy a 30 euro drink for someone which I couldn't even afford for myself. So I secretly hoped I wouldn't be paying for a drink no one asked me about and which I certainly did not offer.

It was slowly beginning to occur to me that I was perhaps in an escort club, perhaps a strip club, I didn't know but I certainly knew I was not in a night club. Natalia, a friendly lady, asked me about why I was in Milan. We spoke briefly about the places I have been to in the city and while I was getting round to ask her about what a Romanian was doing in Milan, the ever present bar lady who I noticed was listening keenly to the conversation, told me that a drink with the lady only gets me a ten minute talk time and it costs 35 Euros.

She quickly added that the best option is to order a bottle of champagne which costs 450 Euros for the night and my time with Natalia would be unlimited. I couldn't help but burst out laughing at the proposition and both ladies joined me in heartful laughter. I replied and said 'no no no, I just came in for a drink and would be on my way shortly’. In any event, I added, looks like my ten minutes with you is up Natalia, a pleasure meeting you I said. The bar lady interjected, in a very rich italian accent, 'Noooo, rich man like youuu, stayyy. Look at Natalia, she's beautiful, no? She deserves Champagne, no? And you get a complimentary lap dance with that.'

Smiling uncontrollably to hide my awkwardness at this stage, she added, 'Or you like me to invite another lady and you buy her a drink? That way you make friends with all the ladies'. By this time, I was about to fall off my chair. The bill please I told her. With a pout, she said okay and Natalia excused us. As I waited for my bill, I heard a voice over an overhead speaker that immediately saw all the ladies get up, walk up to the dance floor and started dancing slowly.

I paid my 65 euro check, the most expensive drinks tab I've ever received in my life and walked out. As the well suited man at the door opened the door for me to get out again, walking away from him, sex club I said, Yes he replied, looking at me like I had asked a stupid question.

Fola.

STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN IN MILANO I

I have always thought of bringing a guest writer on board. So when Fola, my childhood friend and one of my best friends would send me an email about his adventures in the far away Milano, I knew I had found my very first guest writer. And to be honest, I have been too busy in the last few months to write. Alas, Fola has rescued me with this.

Fola writes in the most humorous way so enjoy. Strange things happen in Milano will be in two parts. Here is the first part.

A West African proverb reminds us that no matter how tight a monkey's trousers are, there will always be room for its tail.

Literally and figuratively, last weekend I wore tight trousers and on two occasions, had cause to flee with my tails between my legs. Not that I'm calling myself a monkey of course, because that would be self deprecating although I've had cause to eat a lot of bananas as my staple diet out of a matter of necessity in the past 3 weeks because of how expensive Switzerland is. Maybe that also explains my tight trousers in keeping with the theme of poverty that I've come to appreciate and live by these past weeks. And oh I also thought my tight trousers attracted the affections of a supposedly gay man which made my life generally awkward. But more on that in a separate piece. No more tight trousers for now.

So Milano. I have always romanticized the idea of visiting Italy. The language rolling off the tongue, incredible food, opera and of course the well tanned women with black hair. So my excitement on arrival in Milano should be quite understandable.

A long walk exploring the sights and sounds of the city culminated in a rest in the afternoon shades of the Castello Sforzesco gardens. Sitting in a park and attempting to take unsuccessful selfies, I naturally smiled at passersby including a gentleman of respectable appearance. The kind you knew rode scooters and probably was a newspaper boy as a child in a vineyard village cycling around the village. He nodded and smiled back at me and came to join me on my park bench. This gesture interrupted my thoughts on how racially different Milan was with the number of black people around particularly in the park hanging around, playing basketball and riding their bicycles.

It reminded me of scenes from the classic TV series, The Wire, in Baltimore’s downtown drug infested areas. At this point, I was also thinking how much I miss seeing black people after the last three weeks in Bern. In Bern, there's that unspoken camaraderie of brotherhood in poverty when you see another black man holding a fruit or drinking water because there, that's all your worth can afford and you nod at each other in acknowledgement. But again I digress.

My new friend at the park greeted me in Italian and muttered words I did not understand. I smiled and on realization he was asking me questions, I shook my head to indicate a lack of understanding. He kept on looking at me keenly speaking in low tones and looking confused asking one word questions. I could pick out the word that sounded like Maria repeatedly, but I sure knew he wasn't trying to preach the gospel.

Then it hit me what was happening. Oh no, it can't be. I'm black and I'm sitting in a park. He wants to buy drugs and he thinks I'm a dealer. Oh no. So this time around, you can imagine I was shaking my head more vigorously like an agama lizard and waving my hand hysterically. He seemed to get the message and sat next to me quietly. I was getting ready to leave when a fellow very black man with curly rough hair riding a bicycle stopped right in front of us at the bench. He stared at me and started talking to the man next to me occasionally glancing at me in fast Italian in what sounded like an angry tone. The man was trying to respond whenever he could and suddenly he had a stammer. You can imagine how I played out the conversation I did not understand in my head.

What are you doing trying to buy cocaine from a new dealer? Are you not our customer? I'm going to deal with both of you, cut off your heads and fingers and drop your bodies in the lake to be eaten by the swans. Of course there was a lake with swans in front of us so my imagination was quite vivid.

What I did hear however was a negotiation in what sounded like figures and the man glancing in the direction of a park bench in front but further away from me. Our black acquaintance rode away and the white man opened his wallet, took out a 20 euro note, smiled again at me and said gracias while he walked away to the bench.

Quite thankful for my trademark English gentleman cap which I now wear these days, I observed the man as he sat and lit up a cigarette. It was not long before our black acquaintance rode down again to stop in front of the Italian, let us call this black man Omar, for the benefit of those who have seen The Wire to capture how reverent his presence and appearance had now become to me.

In plain sight, casually, I watched money and a small package exchange hands. As they both disappeared out of sight, I picked up my bags and here, my first story ends with my tail between my legs, in my tight trousers, walking as far as I could out of the park.

Fola.