Where Do Milano Cookies Come From?*

The next few posts will venture away from French fry land and instead chronicle my exciting trip east, my first time in Eastern Europe. Three snaps for me for exploring 5 cities in 4 countries, taking a total of 5 planes, 3 regional trains, 2 coach buses and 10 nights in hostels all for 300 euros (this, of course, not including spending money and FOOD costs, which with me sadly doubles it).

First stop, mainly for the convenient airport layover... Milan. Though less than 20 hours weakens my chances of meeting my lover boy KaKa (you hear me, AC Milan fans!), I still can steal a glimpse at the European fashion mecca.

Alright. Milan.

It's pouring. Damn. While waiting for the rain to cut it out, I make my way through the central train station to get the first thing on the agenda... Gelato. Shivering yet high on creamy swirls of pistachio and chocolate, I parooze through the many clothing stores, imagining how I'd look in this leather jacket or that fur hat. Able to afford none of it, I decide to go to my hostel. My worries about the pitter patter quickly vanish the moment I step out when hundreds of umbrellas dangle in my face. Of any country I've visited, Italy wins the prize for most street peddlers selling cheap crap. Clutching umbrellas, trinkets, puddy, you name it, they await their prey at touristy spots and shout at you in what they believe to be your mother tongue. Very Nice Price! Buen Precio! Günstigen Preis! I settle on a 5€ one (the next guy was selling them for 4€... drats!)

The woman at the hostel resembling Janice from Friends tells me the room "no finish." I am quite familiar with this Italian tardiness; while other Europeans may apologize for the delay, she simply shrugs her shoulders as to say 'well what did you expect?' Another fun fact: Italians love surprises, the kind that make you pay more. The hostel I booked online said 15€, but with adding in the 'tourist tax' plus the extra 3€ for linen, the price no longer feels so right. Add to this the pleasant surprise of finding two French lesbians spooning in the bed that should be mine (why can't I ever escape the French?!) and I understand the establishment's mere 54% rating on hostelbookers.com.           

Doumo, the Magnificent!

With no city maps available (Janice did kindly offer one of her cigarettes as consolation), I creepily followed other tourists to get to the famous Doumo. A master piece of a church, with an incredible view of the city from the roof (sadly it had already closed for the night). More street sellers do their thang in the church's piazza, though this time more creatively than umbrellas... They place corn kernels in the hands of ignorant tourists so pigeons flock AT them, resting on their shoulders and stabbing at their hands and feet. In return for this bird rape, they expect a 5€ bill. Uh... No thank you.

By this point the rain is pouring so hard that I must settle for a cafe panini rather than continue on to an aperitivo that offers complimentary buffets with a cocktail purchase. But don't get me wrong, when I say 'settled' on a panini, I mean a mouth-watering concoction of grilled zucchini, ricotta cheese and prosciutto in a crispy flatbread followed by a second helping of gelato (what, it was only 2€... very nice price!). I take the underground back to the hostel and chit chat about the Big Bang Theory with Janice before heading to my room (thankfully the French amoureux have gone out for the night).

I leave around 8 the next morning to head to the Bergamo airport (the French girls have yet to return). I assumed going to the gate would be easy breezy (aside from layering on all my packed clothes to meet the WizzAir cabin baggage restrictions). Turns out to be the most gruesome passport questioning to date. True, my little blue book does resemble a first year teacher's lesson plans, with visas and stamps and security check stickers haphazardly scattered throughout. Yet i naively assumed that the perched eagle and lines "We The People" on the first page automatically allowed me entry wherever I so pleased, no questions asked (isn't that like the 5th amendment or something?). Yet for 3 whole minutes the border control officer grilled me in an aggressive Italian accent "Where you come from? Why you go to Romania? Where you stay? How long? Why you here? You work? What you do? Why these days? I don't see entry stamp. Why you here?" What a relief to finally get the stamp. I cannot even imagine the stress of those coming from other countries who must face a thousand times the scrutiny every time they try to visit Europe or the U.S., let alone leave their own country.

My pits fuming from both the interrogation and the 4 layers of shirts, I now await my plane, fanning myself with my ticket and imagining what questioning I'll face at my next destination: Romania.




*Milano Cookies are an American invention by Pepperidge Farms in an attempt to sound posh. It's the taste that counts, right?