Would it be too much to ask, however, to serve different sludge every now and again? Not every flight, of course, or even every day-- that would be too much to ask. But certainly it would be possible to serve something uniquely, yet equally, repellent on flights going in opposite directions. You know, give us something new to cringe over on the return journey.

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Milan was cold. It was also supposed to rain constantly, although after Thursday it only rained intermittently, which was enough, really. And it was grey; a lot greyer than I remembered. Friday brought a series of wide-ranging strikes, complete with the mandatory student demo policed by many, many carabinieri in full riot gear. The price of metro, tram and bus tickets has gone up, and so has the price of cigarettes. Maggie and I waited 45 minutes for our lunch bill, only to discover that-- out of a total bill of 39 Euros-- 4 Euros was for cover and 4.50 was for "service". I got attacked by a pigeon. An extremely dirty, drunken and B.O.-ridden man sat right next to me on the Metro and drooled on my left boot.

In short, it felt like home.

Why is that? I am not Italian. I do not have, to my knowledge, an Italian gene in my entire pool. Oh, I suppose it's possible that one of my impossibly remote ancestors had a dalliance with a Roman soldier (or he with her), but it was hardly Italy back then, was it? Nevertheless, Italy does feel like home to me, in a way that Lisbon, or even Dallas, does not. It feels right, somehow, and I don't particularly care why, just that it does.

We arrived Wednesday evening, at around 11pm, only to discover that there was no room at the inn. I knew I shouldn't have trusted that guy: he really didn't sound that bright over the phone. However, I did bring hard copies of all my emails. The guy at the desk (not the guy I'd been talking to on the telephone), said that they did have a room for us for the rest of our trip-- just not on Wednesday. He got on the phone and called around (and called around), and eventually found us a room right down the road from the Mardi Gras, our favorite Milan watering hole. Which was good, or bad, depending on how you look at it, I suppose.

So, we ended up at the Mardi Gras until closing time. Well after closing time, if you want to be specific: it's always good to be friends with the owner. Things haven't changed all that much, and some of our favorite people were there, so that was good. I have no idea what time it was when we got back to the hotel, although I do know that Tommy walked with us, and distributed beers for the road for our epic, four-block walk.

I didn't finish mine. What a waste, I thought, as I dumped the majority of it into the bathroom sink Thursday morning. I hadn't asked for it, but still. After that, it was a mad dash to make check out time, check into the proper hotel, and meet Maggie at Caffé Guido.

Remember Guido? He wasn't there, but the owner and the other barmen remembered me, which was nice. Maggie and I sat down, and Maggie ordered a white wine. I ordered coffee. What's wrong with this picture? After I had my coffee intake, however, it was straight on to the prosecco for me, just like old times. Added bonus to Guido's absence: when you order a normal sized glass of prosecco, you get one. None of that gigante shit. After all, it was only half past twelve, and we had a long day ahead of us.

A prosecco or two later, and it was off to the aforementioned restaurant, where I wolfed down an excellent pizza. Nice and saucy and everything. I miss being able to order a decent pizza whenever I damn well please. With lunch, we had a very nice bottle of Barbera.

I miss having a nice bottle of Barbera whenever I damn well please.

After that, some power shopping at my favorite clothes store. Somehow Maggie, who was pretty much along for the ride, ended up getting fawned over, with a constant procession of salesgirls appearing with something else for her to try on "because I know it will look just fabulous on you!" This is possibly because Maggie has lost some weight whilst I... ahem... have not. Although I'm still wearing pretty much the same size as when I left, so it's not all that bad. Nothing that a few hundred miles on the treadmill wouldn't cure.

Still, it wasn't all that bad. Maggie ended up doing some serious credit card damage. I just did some run-of-the-mill damage, ending up getting pretty much what I had planned to buy at the outset. After that, we hauled our purchases to another café, where we met Elvis and had some apertivos. And then I switched to prosecco, and we had some more of those, until it was time to meet Mr. V for dinner at our favorite restaurant, where the food is as excellent as ever, as is the service, I'm pleased to say. More expensive, too, but then again, so was everything. Lisbon's not as cheap as it used to be either.

I was complaining about paying 25% for service and cover at the restaurant where Maggie and I had lunch. Mr. V just goggled at me. "How quickly they forget. Tell me again," he said, "how long is it you've been away?"

I think he might have had a point, but I pretty much ignored it. I didn't mention that Portugal charges cover, too, although they don't tend to charge service on top of it, unless you're unfortunate enough to land at a gratuitously tourist-oriented place.

So. We had a leisurely meal, accompanied by two bottles of excellent red wine, and we talked and laughed and generally caught up with each others' lives. It was a very good evening indeed.

It was great to see them both. Maggie is insanely busy, and she's keeping them both in the social whirl, as well. A few weeks ago, some friends of theirs asked if they fancied a weekend away. Sure, says Mr. V, as long as it's someplace warm.

Friday morning they left for Prague. A nice place, to be sure, but hardly somewhere that could be called warm, especially at the end of October. In any case, I'm glad we got to see them, even if it was only for one day.

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