Pavia

One day in Milan, as I mentioned previously, we went to Pavia for the day to see our cousin Nicola and her boyfriend Jean-Claude (he’s half Swiss, hence the French name). Emily had told me that Pavia was like the Oxford of Italy - an elite campus town, basically. And so, naïvely, my mind’s eye had pictured a landscape that looked like Oxford, particularly in spring - lush and green and manicured. I realised how stupid that was when we reached Pavia after half and hour on the train, and it was freezing cold, and the air was white-grey with fog. 

Oh, and on the stairs up out of the train platform, we encountered this, written in blood on the wall:

I was very scared to meet them, being as I am a socially-anxious twit who overthinks every nuance of interaction. Thank god I had Emily as a crutch, who had met Nicola before, and was older. Nicola and Jean-Claude are both 25, and Emily 23, so there was some comfort in knowing that I was the baby of the group - less social expectation. Maybe that’s why I like to be younger / youngest in most situations. They were running a bit late, so we sought warm refuge in the station bar where we got bottles of sparkling water (that’s another homely thing about Italy - everyone drinks sparkling water without occasion). Strange old men stared at us. I don’t know what they were doing in the station bar, because they didn’t look like they had a train to catch. Was that their social nexus, their “third home”? Odd choice. But we had taken about 2 sips and Emily received a message that they had arrived. So I stuffed my bottle wonkily in my handbag (I don’t know if it’s an ED hatred-of-indulgence thing, but being seen with anything other than plain water embarrasses me), and we walked out into the main hall. And suddenly, Emily was running up and hugging this stranger who looked nothing like what I had expected. I’d assumed our cousin (albeit like thrice removed - our great-grandfather’s sister’s daughter’s daughter’s daughter) would look - well, like us: dark-haired, maybe dark-skinned, long face, big nose, maybe tall. But no! She was short, blonde and pale, with a tiny little nose and big fabulous librarian-esque glasses. And Jean-Claude; I had expected him to be a tall skinny softboi. But no, he was about Nicola’s height, normal weight, with long wavy brown hair.

I stood awkwardly next to the hugging pair smiling like a git. And then she hugged me, and introduced us to Jean-Claude. He was very Swiss, or at least what I am told Swiss people are like. He said, “so, what are your intentions for your itinerary in Pavia?“ (ie, “what do you want to do today?”), and then, after we said just to see their town and where they live, he said “and what are your time constraints?” ie, “and how long are you here for?”. It was very endearing. And, in Italian, they arranged an itinerary right there: we would see the piazza, the Duomo, see their apartment, have pizza for lunch nearby, and see some more churches. (There are a lot fo churches everywhere in Italy, in case you haven’t noticed - they’re about as ubiquitous as temples / shrines in Japan.) Andiamo!

Another very Swiss-Jean-Claude moment, between me and him, as we were walking to our first destination. Emily and Nicola had walked up a few steps further ahead and started their own conversation. After about three seconds of silence, Jean-Claude, walking to the right of me, turned his head and said, “we will begin our own conversation. Otherwise it will be awkward.” So we did.

Now, as I have talked about in the post “Asakusa”, going to churches and temples and even museums when travelling depresses me, because they mean nothing and blur together and make me despondent. So I’ll gloss over the numerous churches we went to. After the first church, we went to a fancy cocktail place for coffee, and Nicole and Jean-Claude had breakfast too (Italians don’t really eat breakfast, only espresso and maybe some biscuits or a croissant. They had espresso and a croissant each). I’ve noticed that in Italy, espressos are commas in the day. And ristretto in the moka after lunch is an ellipsis…

Jean-Claude’s English is really quite excellent. He did most of the talking and translating, because Nicole’s was less good, and also he REALLY likes to talk. He said that his English was ok from high school, but he really learnt to be fluent by watching Gopher youtube videos. Reminds me of how girls in primary school would literally learn Korean for K-dramas, or Japanese for anime.

More churches, one of which had originally been intricately carved on the outside, but, due to using the 'wrong' material (my guess is limestone), they had pretty much all washed away. This was one of the only preserved bits:

We went to Nicole and Jean-Claude’s apartment, which is almost medieval-looking on the outside - there’s a giant wooden gate into the rectanlular courtyard, and within the giant wooden door is a tiny door cut out, in which you put your key and then have to bend your knees to crawl through. They share the courtyard with 3 families who also live in the complex. Two of the families are annoying, apparently, and the one right next to them is really cute and the mum cooks dinner for them sometimes after they get back from the hospital (they’re in med school) at the end of the day. And sometimes, if Nicola or Jean Claude are cooking something and it’s simmering and they have to go somewhere, the mum will come in and stir it every now and then. So cute. And Nicola and Jean-Claude actually have 2 tiny apartments - one that they cook and bathe and do laundry in, and another that they sleep in. Very cute.

We then went to a pizzeria for lunch. Nicola and Jean-Claude go there a lot, so they knew the people running it, which would make me shrivel with embarrassment but not them because I suppose they’re normal functional people. (Side-note: I found it soooo weird hearing Chinese, Indian, African people etc speaking Italian fluently - I forget that people migrate to places that aren’t English-speaking. How anglo-centric.) Anyway, we all had a pizza each (I love that that’s just what you do in Italy, that everyone eats a whole pizza to themselves without batting an eyelid. The thing is in Italy they don’t cut your pizza for you. When I posted a photo to insta, with Nicole holding up her fork and knife eagerly, Caito commented “don’t Italians eat pizza with their hands????” and the answer is yes, but you gotta use the fork and knife to cut it into slices first. Weird, I know, but I guess everyone has different ~slicing preferences~.

After lunch we went to - you guessed it - another church! This one had the remains of St Augustine in it.

Nicola: “What did St Augustine even do?”

Sa: “He named one of the months!”

Jean-Claude: “Oh yeah you’re right!”

We then went to “the covered bridge”, which, you guessed it, is covered! I know I sound really bratty but it was really nice just walking around and talking, and it’s hard to describe things that you can only go “ooh pretty” to, even in real life.

We left soon after, and i relished in the solitariness of listening to music on my phone on the warm train home. We got back to the hotel and were so tired that we fell asleep at 7 and didn’t wake up for dinner.