Twenty years ago, on December 1st, I boarded a train in Rome, connected via Milan, and spent the night on a couchette headed to Zurich. I had one or two cracked ribs, was on antibiotics for a respiratory infection, and my left side was still covered in bruises from the Ethiopian Isuzu crash. But I was recovering after the aid of an Italian doctor, and I had just enough energy to leave the Milan train platform to walk outside to see the grand hall of the station, and then walked out front to glance around.
The area in front of the Milan train station at night didn’t tell me much about Milan, and after 11 months of local transport travel, I was uninspired by my quick glance around. Plus, I was looking forward to my trip on the Bernina Express through the Alps. I wasn’t really there for Milan.
