I have weekly Friday afternoon dates with myself.
The Castello Sforzesco Museums, or Musei Civici, are free on Friday afternoons, and they are glorious. You can walk through room after room of ancient Lombardian ruins, Lombardian Renaissance sculpture, and finish at the last sculpture Michelangelo ever worked on, the Rondanini Pietà ; you can wander the art gallery and take in the view of the courtyard from the windows; and right now, you can ogle photographs and prints from the original produciton of Madama Butterfly in an exhibit devoted to the opera and guarded by a 400-foot-tall, weeping Cio-Cio San (picture coming).
Or, if the mood strikes and the weather is good, you can just wander the grounds and take in the castle as a sight in itself. It is rather majestic; it's laid out in a large square and fronted by an enormous piazza. In back, Parco Sempione stretches far into the northeast of Milan; previously all that land belonged to the Sforze, who, I suppose, were rich on a Medici scale. The buildings themselves encircle a spacious courtyard and comrise several turrets, a fortress, and a large, imposing central tower.
One of these days I will post pictures. The camera saga ended with me picking up my camera and getting my dad to scour Walmart for an extremely cheap alternative. Consumerism, obsolescence and The Man: one. Danielle's social consciousness: zero.
Anyway, this particular day, I was at the museum in the art gallery alone.
Alone is something I never thought I minded until I came here. I really only mind it sometimes. In fact, I only mind it when I think too much about it.
I really enjoy being alone, so much so that I feared I wouldn't even bother trying to achieve any sort of social life while I was here; I love living alone (I don't here) and eating alone (at home), and I love going to concert, movies, and cafes by myself, and I actively seek out places like libraries and museums where I can move amongst the fixtures and lose myself in my thoughts. Sure, I look at the stuff, but it's like knitting: you occupy your mind with something gross-motor-ish to do so it can abstract itself from reality and figure crap out.
Not that that is why I go to museums -- in fact, I am an avid learner and I like to read all the panels. I really appreciate well-curated collections. But sometimes art or carpets or dead people's stuff can be useful in this way as well. I could never go to a museum and brain-knit with a companion.
Anyway, I, who normally do not mind being alone, mind it here. It's the extremely social aspect of the culture that is a painful reminder of my solitary status. Itlaians travel in packs, and tourists tend to travel in two's, usually lovey-dovey two's; I look twice when I see someone else silently wandering around, because it is so rare. I am still shy about sitting down for a coffee alone here; at home, I have no problem getting my drink at the counter and disappearing into a chair at Second Cup for an hour or two. Maybe it is the lack of anonymity in general that makes it impossible to escape from scrutiny. You have to own up to being alone, because interactions are more personal. But isn't that a good thing? Isn't that what I wanted, or at least part of it?
Also, there are no benches. Because I am too shy to plop down at a table by myself for a coffee, when I have a half hour to kill before a meeting or a concert I am forced to keep walking, walking, walking, until I find a park (few and far between) or enough time has passed. I miss roadside benches.
But you know, sometimes it's nice to be alone. I had a rough day at work and I came to the museum searching for something to evoke a reaction in me, to help the bad mood pass. I guess I wasn't too open to that today. But there is always next Friday.
