I was freshly 18 when I briefly fell in love with a junior violinist of the Milanese orchestra. 

I was fortunate enough to travel a lot as a child, but there was something exciting about going on my first real solo trip as an adult. I had saved up over the school year and had booked to stay in Italy for the last two weeks of May; it helped massively that my parents had a friend from university who was willing to let me use her spare bedroom. So off I went, traversing the winding Roman streets and marveling at the Colosseum for a few days before taking a bumpy bus ride to Milan. After settling in with Margaret (who turned out to be a wonderful host), I began my exploration of the city. 

Now, I like nice clothing as much as the next person, but I must admit that the extravagant Quadrilatero della Moda and Corso Vercelli didn’t interest me. I know what you’re thinking. “But Andi, Milan is the city of fashion!” Yes, it is, and deservedly so. And I enjoyed looking at the vast window displays of luxury watches and designer dresses, but it wasn’t the main allure of Milan to me. That honor belonged to the historical sites. I took Latin in school, and had always been a huge history enthusiast, so the Duomo, the Galleria, and the Pinacoteca di Brera were my much-anticipated activities. 

I dedicated a day to each. A whole afternoon was spent looking up at the soaring, vaulted ceilings of the Duomo di Milano, before going outside to enjoy the vendors peddling on the Piazza outside of it. The Galleria Vittorio was full of the same high-end brands as the other shopping centers, but the architecture was so beautiful I hardly noticed them. The Pinacoteca, the Milanese art museum, had a Caravaggio I had wanted to see in person for ages. (They also house other academic institutions, like the astronomical observatory, which are worth visiting.) 

But after I had checked everything off my list, it occurred to me that I still had five whole days left in Milan. I didn’t want to try and book a hotel elsewhere, as it seemed like a waste of money, and I got along with my mom’s friend Margaret well, so there wasn’t much reason to leave. So, I began looking for activities to do and stumbled across the Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano Giuseppe Verdi. It was odd that I hadn’t considered it before; I love the symphony. So, I booked a ticket on a whim. I put on the one evening dress I had brought, dolled myself up for the hell of it, and went to the performance. 

I hadn’t known how close the seats were to the stage, but they were much closer than I was used to. Close enough, in fact, for me to make repeated and awkward eye contact with a violinist, who I was looking at far too often. After the show, I shuffled out with everyone else to the reception and stood against the wall as audience members waited for a chance to talk to the musicians. I hadn’t planned on talking to him, really, but I guess I had stared more than intended, because he walked up to me. After a bumbling explanation that I didn’t speak Italian (only Latin), he began… flirting with me? 

“You have the eyes of a deer.” Does he mean doe eyes? Or like a deer in headlights? 

“You looked at me a lot.” Way to go, me. Why does he have to point that out? Am I being negged right now? 

“Would you like to come with me to dinner?” What- oh wait, that one’s definitely flirting. 

By dinner Vincente (as I learned his name was) had meant a little trattoria down the street. The pasta was good, but it tasted twice as good on his lips when he kissed me at the end of the night. A bit bold, but he was nearly the same age as me, and you’re only 18 once. We went on like that for the rest of my trip, with him showing me some local spots, including the music conservatory he was attending. At the end of my trip, I was utterly convinced I was in love with him. Maybe I was. Or maybe it was just Milan. 

Photo credit: Ouael Ben Salah on Unsplash