Three hours in Milan: American where-wolf in Italy
I’ve spent the last couple of days wrappping my head around my few short hours in Italy. As I sat down to write up this part, I decided it was better suited for the sports blog to which I contribute. It’s just a short look at what it’s like to end up in the middle of a foreign sports rally without knowing the language or the sport.
It was a Tuesday afternoon and not any holiday I ever celebrated. But the square was packed. There was chanting like I’d never heard. Kids carried cases of beer on their shoulders from nearby stores. The crowd seemed to move and speak like a huge, red, Italian animal. They shouted at each other. They beseeched some unseen sky god. They did the wave. The only reason I didn’t run and hide in my hotel was that it seemed like it was something big–whatever it was.