I won’t mince words here. Milan, at night, is a sexy place to be. I’ve always loved the nighttime, though certain changes in my life (read: offspring) have changed my relationship to it. But the draw is always there. The magnetic darkness. The being out of doors when the majority of domesticated folk are “safe” inside. The feeling that something in the air is alive, something is going to happen.
Here, it starts on the street. Wherever you are going after dark, getting there is part of the seduction. The city closes around you in an architectural embrace. The street marks your passing with the rhythmic percussion of cobblestones under tires. Car lights, street lights, balcony lights—all assume a warm, alluring glow that speaks of something slightly naughty. Or if not, at least very intimate. The bars wait for their patrons, bottles aglow in an array of jewel-like colors. Night comes on at its own pace.
There are the broad avenues with the cars passing too quickly, bouncing on their suspension systems across uneven intersections and tram tracks. The distortion of a radio flying by at too many kilometers an hour. People going in all directions in the darkness. And then there are the small streets. The truly irresistible places where your own footsteps echo against ancient walls, and who knows what could happen with whom in the shadows. These are the hidden places for kissing and mind-reading.
And above it all, the moon—or is it a streetlight?—hanging, witness above your head. And what time is it? What year? Of what century? It doesn’t matter. Your secrets are safe here. No one’s looking, no one cares. Because everyone else has lost themselves in the velvety nighttime as well.