I’m up early– my body’s internal clock is keeping Italian time now and it’s my turn to pay for parking, early–before the meter-readers check the cars, competing for scant parking places in a city that wears many faces.
This city is teeming with life, starting early but dwindling off earlier than some cities– earlier than New York, for instance.
Why do Americans shorten the city’s name to Milan? If the name has been Milano all these centuries, who are we to change a name? Wouldn’t that be like calling “Ohio”, “Ohi”?
It is a grand adventure, coming to Europe for the first time. Long awaited, I marvel that the trees, countryside and people look much the same–was I expecting Oz and orange poppies? Or people with Spock’s pointed ears, perhaps? I probably have “naive American” painted all over my face (it occurs to me that only 1 letter separates “naive” from “native”, after all).