The Little Things Mean a Lot

I have never been a great traveller, more of a home bird, content in my own environment. However, I have visited Milan annually for the last three years. The purpose of my visits is to see Simon, my friend since the age of 4, more years ago than either of us care to believe.

On both my previous visits it has been the little, everyday things about Italy that have intrigued me most. The things that are similar to what I see in England with a flavour that is distinctly Italian. The first of these is the handful of large square houses that can be seen on the plain north of Bergamo just before my flight touches down. Their sand coloured rendering and terracotta tiles tell me I’ve arrived. Then on the bus journey to Milan, it’s the road signs, familiar yet totally alien.

Other things amuse and perplex in equal measure. The seemingly erratic opening hours, have you ever found yourself at loose end in Bergamo on a cold Monday when everything is closed? In Milan itself, I like the fact that when you go to a museum, or gallery, you pay for a ticket only to give it to a man standing 3 metres away. This would be seen as gross over-staffing in England. In bars I cannot get used to getting a drink and not paying for it straight away. How refreshing it is to be trusted. Best of all are the trams. How can you not love a city that has trams? Of course I mean the old style trams, not the new ones. The old ones, with the wooden seats, which look as though they have always been part of the city, based as they are on an original design by Leonardo da Vinci. Or so somebody say.

So as my title suggests, to me the little things mean a lot. This time they meant so much more. I was booked to fly on the 6:35 flight from Luton to Bergamo on 22^nd November. Nine days before my flight I got a call from Simon’s mother. Simon, who has had cancer for six years, had collapsed at the Università Cattolica where he works. At that stage the details where sketchy, but one thing I was sure of was, that if Simon still wanted me to visit, I wanted to be there for him.

Our reunion, at Ospedale San Paolo, on that Thursday was an emotional embrace not the customary “alright mate, how you doing?” It was there I witnessed first hand the kindness of Simon’s friends in Milan who had rallied round him. I heard how Michael was on hand when he had collapsed; of the mysterious guardian angel, in the guise of a female student, who administered first aid and offered soothing words. Thank you whoever you are.

Simon was unable to leave hospital until the Friday evening. This left me to occupy myself during the day. I will admit that I am linguistically inept. However, I am not one of those English people who believe that you can make non-English speakers understand by saying things louder and slower. I tend to adopt an awkward, apologetic approach. Guilty, as I am, of not learning my hosts’ language. So it this manner I bumbled about the city by myself for most of the day, except when I met Michael for lunch. However, I was touched by how helpful the Milanese people were to me. There was the man in the café, opposite Porto Genova station, who showed me which direction I needed to go on the map. There was Matteo Lagana who humoured me while I studied his beautiful paintings, all the time knowing I could not afford to buy one. Lastly the girl in the tourist office who gave me my copy of Hello Milano, and promised it would stop raining on Saturday afternoon.

On Saturday I got lost going to collect Simon’s laundry. I did not realise there were two branches of the same shop in close proximity. I kept being directed to the wrong one, much to the confusion of the laundry staff. Eventually, I sought help from the staff of Bar Simon in Valfurva. They kindly telephoned the correct launderette and established that the errant clothes were there.

If you are reading this, and recognise the picture of the damp, awkward Englishman thank you for all the kindness you showed him, and more especially his friend. It may have only seemed a little, but it meant a lot, an awful lot.

By Andrew Lawther