Yesterday was my birthday.

This now means I am 37 years old, and one day.

Very few people registered that it was my birthday. Very few were actually informed. It passed a lot of friends by. Not a single person at work knew the “importance” of the date.

I just don’t do birthdays. Other people’s – yes; my own – no.

Not sure why? I care not about age. I’ve always been of the opinion that, with the exception of hair, teeth and brain cells, you should accrue more of everything the older you get – thus adding greatly to your life; your experiences.

I guess I fall in to that “would be a psychologist’s dream ticket” camp – in that I regularly over compensate for any nerves or uncertainties, by gregariously dominating attention – the very loud voice helps. Yet at the same time, I hate the idea of being centre of attention – just because of an act of nature.

I also hate the whole gift receiving thing. People should never buy me anything. My dad, when approaching 60 just a month ago, summed it up best:

“Son, if I really want something, I’ll buy it for myself today.”

Which doesn’t really help when trying to get something for him – but then, I can’t complain as I feel very much the same. Amy hates it, so I set up a pinterest board to guide for such occasions. It worked. Score!

Maybe next year I’ll tell people. Update facebook with my date of birth – isn’t that the way others are usually reminded? I might even throw a party. I might even pretend I’m actually interested – because that is the key. If it’s your birthday, I’ll be interested. I’ll go where you want to go, eat what you want to eat and drink, lots, of what you want to drink. It all seems too much like unnecessary bother to be arsed with my own.

There, I said it.

I just can’t be arsed.

I’ve written this as it is quite clear that, even though I am a miserable bastard, others do seem actually happy to pass on their best wishes on a day like yesterday. It shouldn’t take Amy posting a picture of a birthday cake for them to do so. I should just let people know.

And so, all good things – and some very wet and drab things – must come to an end.

As I alluded to in my opening postcard of this viaggio, I’m really not one for spending time on my own. So if that has shaped some of the postcards, in a negative way, then I guess it is part way understandable.

That isn’t to say I haven’t had a good time – far from it. Moments like being on the terraces with the Pro Vercelli fans, finding a great pub in Lambrate to hitting the Birrifico Italiano brewery for their pils festival were so good – they they have given me ideas for future visits – just with others included.

I like Milan. I’m not sure i’m cut out to be Milanese. Not centrale Milanese with the over priced coffee, shops and bars – but maybe the suburbs. They still have a relaxed mix I could definitely warm to.

I’m sure I will be back soon. The most direct link to Northern Italy is through Bergamo from Leeds Bradford Airport. I could do a night here next time we go to Turin, or possibly if we get round to doing the Lakes next year. I might even come back and set up a mini-cab firm in Lomazzo – seeing a €75, jewel encrusted bottle of water in Milan is nothing compared to the €80 cab fare I was quoted for a 10 minute journey on Saturday night.

Until then – Ciao Ciao *kisses both cheeks*

Memories, friendships, calories and Mulino Bianco products – are just some of the things I will be taking back from this trip.

They are the lucky ones. For not everything I have with me in Milan will be making the return leg home.

My shoes, which have served my working life and rare smart social appearance requirements so well to date (they’ve been crap, actually) – did not quite make the full trip.

Neither did the toenail on my left foot.

I’m not exaggerating when I say how much it rained yesterday – and how wet I got. My trusty Harrington is still damp, some 15 hours later – but the shoes are beyond saving; well, beyond wanting to save.

The sole gave up the ghost. The uppers drying white in parts – the insides a mess of material that, even with sole repaired would make them uncomfortable.

As for that toenail – well, it had seen better days before this trip. Wearing shoes, for months, that never quite expanded enough was its undoing. It was only a matter of time.

And yet it still rains. I’m down to my last pair of boxers, half damp jeans and a jacket, that absorbs water quicker than I can drink beer.

Now, is as good a time as any, to replace that umbrella I broke a year ago!

Anyone know how to burn sodden shoes? #valhalla

Everybody has the right to do to their body, what they so desire.

It’s not for me to say if smoking is wrong, or that people should not smoke around me. It doesn’t bother me that much – accept for a very short window of the day; when I’m sat, eating a meal.

I’m still slightly surprised by how many people in Italy smoke. More so, those that happily do so as they are eating. Although it was raining, hard, it was still fairly warm in Milan tonight. Add to that, the fact that I was eating in part burger bar/part cheesy club night – sounds a pumping – and it made sense to sit outside, under cover.

That was until half the restaurant sparked up.

I appreciate it is difficult for smokers with the multitude of bans – indoors, displayed for sale in the UK – but can someone smoking really taste their food?

And really not think what it is like for those around them?

Sorry for the slight moan. A very good burger, could have been better had it not be served in a cloud of smoke

I was going to give this post the subtitle ‘warmth’. Not as in temperature, but the warmth shown by one person to another – or in this case, lots of people.

But then it started to rain. And rain. And rain. My whole top half is a mess of hair and cotton, stuck, like cling film, to each shivering part.

I spent the afternoon in Vercelli. A small town between Milan and Turin; surrounded by a sea of risotto rice fields. As you catch the train, the submerged fields are all you can see for miles around.

I was there to meet two lads, leaders of the Ghigni Bianchi – a supporters club of Pro Vercelli. We’d caught up earlier in the season through Facebook. I told them I was coming over and they extended an invite for me to join them.

Luca and Francesco could not have been better hosts. From refusing to let me put my hand in my pocket, to warmly introducing me to everyone of their friends. Each introduction was followed by the same puzzled question: “Why are you here to watch our team?”

I explained that I had picked a team to follow to improve my Italian. That the Italian development was non-existent, but the interest in their club was growing. I knew the history, the current players – they warmed to this even more.

So much so that when Pro Vercelli scored their winner deep in injury time, I found myself screaming and jumping with a man who couldn’t understand a word I was saying. For a moment at least, our passions, if not our words, were the same.

In my head I’m already planning next season’s trip. Obviously I’ll be bringing the family with me next time around, but until then, I really have to work on my Italian.

If only to scream the same words of celebration, the next time I see Pro Vercelli win

I’ve done a fair bit of walking on this trip.

As I’ve walked around, I’ve not, as is customary, looked in the expensive shop windows of Milan. I’ve been more interested in the grey, soulless looking buildings that sit above, or behind that gloss of fashion.

It’s no secret that I would like to live out here one day – preferably in the North, either Turin or Milan. If I was to move the family – including Nonna *shudder* then, to do it before we are too old, I would have to find a job out here.

Amy has taught English abroad before, and I guess would not be adverse to doing so again. I don’t think I have the patience/interest to spend the next twenty years teaching someone that cats regularly like to sit on mats. Three years in the same role is my upper limit.

So it has been interesting matching familiar names to buildings as I’ve walked round.

My mate Padraig is looking to use his current role with a well known consultancy firm to springboard his own emigration – and whilst I don’t have such immediate opportunities, there’s definitely scope to do it.

A background in Project, Programme and Customer Services Management must surely be transferable – even if my current language skills are not. Though my English, plus my university administration experience might find a home out here?

Sometimes it’s good to look in the windows of Armani and dream. But then there are other times when it’s good to look at the rows of office blocks behind and think:

What if?

Think of this postcard, not just as an update – but as a handy tip if you are a virgin to these shores.

You see, there’s a chance where you may have to buy something to eat – that’s cheap and quick – that requires you to interact with someone behind a counter.

Someone, who by the very nature of the counter’s presence, hates you – by default.

This situation regularly arises in train station buffet bars. I think they’re great, quick and relatively inexpensive – especially when compared with back home. The key to these places is that you have to pay before you ask. Pay, not the people who will serve your food – but a person sat at the till – usually in a corner, away from the counters.

The staff serving are clearly so fed up of telling tourist, after tourist how the system works – that they just bark “Ticket!” in their general direction. Us old hands usually step in at this point – but even if you do it right, know exactly what you want and how much it costs, you still get the same, down turned facial expressions.

They snatch your ticket, rip it to show they’ve served you and, without any further interaction, plonk your goods down in front of you.

Don’t take it personally. They’re miserable to everyone.

Just more so if you don’t have your TICKET!

I tend to talk about Ice Cream, Gelato, a lot when I am in Italy.

It is, as though, a holiday can only be measure by how good the Holy Trinity – of Gelato, Birra and History have been. I’ve already confirmed how good the beer is in an earlier post, and to be honest, Milan’s history is passing me by on this trip – but there is still plenty of space on this blog to cover gelato.

I prefer to seek out an indie where possible – it can have multiple branches in the same city; but that’s about it.

Unless I am in the north of the country. Then I seem to have found a default yardstick, by which to measure all others – Grom.

Grom is a massive chain. It hasn’t hit the UK yet, but it’s found its way to New York and Paris. It has its betters. It has a lack of punch in some flavours, seemingly missing the rough cuts of fruit or nut – but it is consistent. Very consistent. And it at least plays by the seasons – changing its range based on the ingredients of the time.

The chain has a touch of bluff about it. References to a back story and the building of a commercial family, but for all that – its gelato, nor its staff – will ever let you down.

If you can find a good indie, then do so. If you can’t – then take consistency over everything else.

There are three things that Hamley’s always seems to have on sale as you walk through the door.

Firstly there is the oil board that changes colour when you mark it with a plastic stylus. The other is a plane you throw and it comes back to you. The final thing is a small, spider like toy that you throw at a window and it slowly climbs down.

There is something similar in Milan, as there was earlier this year in Rome. It is a tomato with a face, that when you throw it on a hard surface it “squashes”, before quickly regaining its shape. It’s basically tat. The sort of tat that a small child would want, then get bored of once they realise – that’s all it does.

There’s clearly a king of tat in Italy – pushing his rubbish, through a network of immigrants, out on to the main tourist worn streets. One only imagines the meetings they have to determine what tat to sell. The fake bags, wallets and belts make sense – but squashed tomatoes must surely have a very small target audience?

There is another group of looky looky men who offer you a free bracelet, before their accomplices come up and try to charge you. The mark points out that his mate was given them away for free – before the two try to get a bit tetchy about language and that they now have to pay. I dread to think how many have been caught out this way. Thankfully the two I saw managed to get away, wallet intact.

That goes beyond selling tat – that’s downright theft

Princi.

Hidden on a side street, just out of site of Milan’s impressive Duomo, is Princi.

Princi is a bakery. It was recommended to me ahead of this trip by Gino De Blasio – firstly through tweets he’d sent from his own Milanese excursion, and then via email to make sure.

Princi is a long, thin bakery with a counter, which is split in to five sections, which runs the length of the unit.

When you walk in you will see the bread piled high in the window. Next is a patisserie area with cakes, pastries and flans of all varieties – containing cream, fruit and lashings of chocolate. Next are the pizzas and focaccias, sold – as appears to be the way in Milan – by the kilo. The customer chooses what they want, makes hand gestures to show how much they want – and the slice is weighed; a price confirmed.

Next up is an area of pasta, rice and antipasti – before the counter ends with a coffee bar, serving more pastries and croissants. It really is a counter that could feed you all day long – but for the fact that just one slice of pizza is more than enough for this traveller – which for the record was prosciutto and Brie.

One added bonus is that if you sit at the coffee bar end, you even get to see them fire the bread in the ovens – positioned behind a spectator friendly, glass wall.

I’m not one for going back to places when on a short holiday, but I think I might make an exception for Princi. It really was that good!

Princi – Piazza XXV Aprile 5, Milan