VIII.iii. A Lombard Trek

"The future starts today, not tomorrow."
- Karol Wojtyla

It was probably the most sober Sunday morning Italy had woken up to since that infamous defeat at the hands of the Croatian soccer team during the 2002 World Cup. John Paul II, the beloved Pope who had implored the Roman crowds to correct him if he erred in their shared Italian tongue, had died the night before. All of Italy was draped in black, an inevitable shade, not one of surprise or injustice, but rather of tearful acceptance; this was the end of the most beloved foreigner to ever live in the among them.
    I left Lissone early in the morning, saying goodbye to Cecilia and Sarah. I boarded the train back to Milan without a ticket, because no one was willing to sell me one so early and at such a time. Cecilia joked that I ought to tell the inspector I was on my way to Rome for the funeral, but I feared that the state run railways had gone secular long ago. The reason why they run more trains for Easter is so that riots won't break out, not for spiritual purposes. At any rate, this was my first ticketless ride on an Italian train, and I have taken the train more than a hundred times since my arrival. I even scrupulously keep a record of each voyage through a growing stack of used stubs sitting in my apartment. Still, even a lifetime of good behaviour wouldn't provide a shred of defense in this situation; not wanting to expose myself to a potential twenty five euro fine, I was forced to get off at the next stop as I saw the Capotreno advancing through the cars. I alighted in Monza, the historic city that was now a satellite of Milan, more famous for its Grand Prix than its charming old quarter. In the town, all the flags were at half-mast and the people looked sober. Stuck here for some time, I gravitated towards the Cathedral, gothic, frescoed, founded by Queen Theodolinde in the sixth century. It was the natural thing to do in a time of national mourning.
    Within the glorious multicoloured marble façade of the building people had assembled in a sort of sacerdotal vigil, waiting for the first mass of the day. As the time approached, more and more people started arriving, and finally they came in hundreds, children too looking uncharacteristically grave, dressed in the dark tones of a Lombard Sunday Best. Some were crying but most just looked lost; I was upset not to be in Rome, the epicenter. Not having been weaned on images of the Pope, nor having grown up subject to his doctrine, I couldn't really feel sad. I felt moved more by the unfolding history of the moment than anything else. In ages past, a Pope would already have been elected by the time most churchgoers heard of his death. Queen Theodolinde probably couldn't have conceived of such a timely gathering when she built the Cathedral. Nevertheless, in a world where spiritual centres are increasingly figurative this was a nice dose of actuality. They hardly use the Cathedral, but they still use it sometimes, and that is all that matters. In a time of crisis, head to where the bells toll.

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    The train schedule back to Bologna this Sunday morning was difficult, and so I decided to make a day of it and move further into Lombardy rather than out of it. I went to Bergamo, a bustling medium-sized city with an exceptionally beautiful old town, nearly but not quite ruined by the masses of English and German tourists who make convenient stopovers here thanks to a prominent low-cost airport that attracts, for the most part, a set of decidedly low-cost people. The airport is notorious for being difficult to reach, even though some carriers insist on it being in Milan. A clever advertising campaign by less low cost competitors announced that they flew to Milan sul serio, for real, rather than to Orio al Serio, the name of the Bergamo airport. The last time I was in Bergamo, more than three years earlier, it was much different. Ryanair was still an obscure entity and the city was essentially unscathed by mass tourism. Now, in the narrow cobbled streets of the ark-like upper town, visitors jostle to window shop the plethora of newly opened boutiques.
    Bergamo still delights, though. It is home to one of the region's better art galleries, its hilltop location makes for spectacular panoramas, and it is ringed by villas with stunning terraced gardens, all of which were alight with the product of an early spring. I was able to continue my Lorenzo Lotto tour, one I had begun in the Marche a few weeks prior; the painter worked here, quietly and unnoticed by his Venetian competitors, for some of the most productive years of his life.
    Before returning home on a long and complicated three leg train journey, I stopped at one last city, Brescia. Dustier and less trafficked than neighbouring Bergamo, Brescia still has its treasures, among which are the two little Raphaels in the civic museum. The old town, ringed by fortifications, is embellished with buildings in almost every architectural style imaginable, from decaying Roman temples to the severe façades of the fascist-era edifices that intrude on almost every Italian city.
    Finally, I headed back to Bologna and fell asleep on the train, with all the world in limbo.



The Marble Façade of Monza's Duomo


The Exquisite Architecture of Bergamo