Black Friday, Venerdì Bianco

It’s the day after thanksgiving, and I woke up from a really bizarre dream to see snow falling outside my window. Although Milan is very close to the Alps, it is not terribly common for it to know here, particularly with the ferocity with which it’s snowing outside right now.

But let me rewind about 14 hours and recount the events of Thanksgiving dinner. I had been told (and emailed) about a turkey dinner here at a bistrot somewhere in Brera (a very fashionable neighborhood in the northwest part of the center). The flyer had indicated the menu, the price (35€) and had called it a dinner/party with Football on the big screen(!). I surveyed my friends, but between the price and the vicious cold that’s been going around, I found myself pretty much on my own. I made a reservation for one for the 9:30 seating. At about 7:00 I was sitting in bed, bored and lonely, trying to decide whether I was going to go to this thing or not.

One of my reluctances in going to the dinner had been that I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a sit down environment, or something a bit more interactive. I was not entirely convinced that I could cope with sitting at a table by myself, eating turkey. It’s just fucking turkey right? Who gives a shit about the turkey?

At Bill’s suggestion, I finally decided to get my ass up and get out of the house. I got dressed, hopped on the Metro and walked around a little bit to find the itty-bitty street (thanks Rebekah, couldn’t live without the moleskine).

So, I arrive to the restaurant, which is, in fact, a restaurant with lots of tables where people are being seated for dinner. Damn it. I find the host (who is actually the owner), a Texan as a matter of fact, and he tells me that since I booked alone, he had put me at a table with someone else who was also alone, so that I didn’t have to eat alone. That was nice of him (right?), but unfortunately my mystery date hadn’t arrived yet. He asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes and offered me a seat at the bar. I sat at the bar and drank a glass of prosecco, all the while feeling strange, out of place and alone. There were tons of Americans around, so I’m sure I could’ve made friends, but I didn’t really feel like it. Those Americans weren’t a suitable replacement for my Americans, so why bother right?

Finally I got sick of waiting, and by this time it was already about 10pm, and I was very hungry. I went back up to Danny, the host/owner/Texan and said that I was ready to be seated with or without mystery date. He said, “Are you sure? I don’t want you to have to eat alone.” I responded, “I really do appreciate it, however, the fact is that I am alone. I’m alone in Milan, it’s the daily reality of my life so thanks again, it’s very sweet of you, but I’ll just take the table.”

I was seated in a two-top right at the top of the stairs, facing the stairs. So everyone who walked up the stairs got to look at the sad American woman eating thanksgiving dinner in Milan alone. There were moments when I felt like I was in a zoo. I ended up talking to the couple at the table next to me, two American college kids who are studying abroad for a semester. I had also brought a book, grazie a dio. So, in general, despite lots of indicators to the contrary, I was doing all right. The food was decent, slightly over-salted and the cranberry sauce had quite a suspicious quantity of blueberry flavor, but overall I give it a not bad.

When I had finished my turkey/potatoes/stuffing/cranblueberry sauce/spinach plate, I had to get up and use the restroom. For everyone who doesn’t know, it Italy, restrooms are unisex. You walk in and generally there’s a sink and a couple of stalls with doors, that are more like little rooms than regular bathroom stalls. I went into one of the stalls and locked the door. When I was just about finished, a guy opened the door (despite the fact that it had been locked) and started to walk in. I screamed. I only saw his pink button down shirt. I think at that point he retreated back up the stairs, because when I came out of the bathroom, he was nowhere to be found. I breathed a sigh of relief; at least I didn’t have to look at him. Little did I know that this particular pleasure was to be reserved for mere seconds later when I was halfway up the stairs and he was coming back down. It was a narrow staircase and we conveniently ran into each other on the landing where we had to maneuver a little bit to walk around each other. He made a discernible effort to not look me in the face while we continued in our opposite directions.

Welcome to the land of complete mortification…it’s nice to meet you.

I returned to my table to find my dessert waiting for me there: a little square of “pumpkin pie” floating in an almost completely melted vanilla gelato soup. It was, shall we say, slightly disappointing.

Then, I had a nice little reprise with Mr. Pink Shirt when he came back up the stairs and had to pass my Thanksgiving-for-one table, which was so conveniently centrally located.

At the end of it all, I was really glad that I had gone out…even to a ridiculously traumatic meal like that one. I got to come home, call some family and talk to the people who I really wish I had been with. Conveniently, by that time, I had enough of a buzz going that I had already mostly set aside the, what one might call, horrific events of the evening.

So, now it’s almost noon on Friday morning, black Friday in the US and, as it turns out, a white Friday in Milan. I’m going to take a shower in a few minutes and get outside and enjoy the snow. Right about now in Chicago, the lines are building outside of all the electronics stores and the Wal-Marts so that people can have themselves a merry little Christmas in the midst of a worldwide financial crisis. I’m going to go get a panino and drink a cappuccino, and disavow all knowledge.