As I said, it was a nice plane. Each seat has its own LCD screen. You can select one of about twenty video feeds. Each channel has either a movie or a variety of TV programs and they loop throughout the flight. For example, channel 12 will play "Ocean's Twelve" over and over. So you can choose a couple of movies and watch them in whatever order you want, or surf between them picking up enough little pieces of plot to fully understand none of them.

Between choosing a channel to watch, food and drink service, turbulence announcements, and the telephone ringing sound they used to censor forbidden language (despite being in international skies), I missed enough of the movie to prevent my enjoying it but saw enough to spoil it for a future viewing. By the time the channels looped back to the beginning, my control in the armrest gave up changing the audio to focus exclusively on video. I could watch whatever I wanted to so long as it was accompanied by the soundtrack of "Meet the Fockers". So I just turned it off.

The overhead 300 Watt halogen "reading" floodlight seemed a little rude to engage while my adjacent companions tried to sleep. I devised a way to supply some less intrusive light by using a plastic bag to tie up and suspend my flashlight from the hook of the tray table.

I had a mini bottle of wine with my salmon, only because I was offered. It sounds better than it was. I also got two desserts which would normally elicit from me anything but a complaint, however, one of the desserts was in lieu of a salad and I wanted a salad. The first stewardess (flight attendant) was not going to let me keep my extra dessert, but the second one who actually found me a salad was a little more generous.

It was about an hour before landing that I realized I had entirely miscalculated the time difference and employed the antipodal strategy of keeping myself awake when I should have been getting some sleep. Oh well.

The lounge in London Heathrow Terminal 1 was dreadful. Full of silent, weary travellers, overpriced goods, and complete with an open smoking section, the mood was distinctly depressive. When I went to the British Airways ticket desk to ensure I had a window seat for the second leg of the journey, rather than wave you forward to the next available agent or say "next please" like any other airport in the world, they have their own system. Blending in with all the other airport sounds, a buzzer rings and a red LED display in your peripheral vision indicates to which wicket you are to step forward.

The agent suggested to me with disdain, when I failed to immediately respond to the beeping, that their system was "quite simple really". Insulting me later was either less effort or more rewarding than waiving me forward as he watched me earlier waiting at the front of the queue. Mental note not to fly British Airways.

Arrival
I arrived in Milan and through some "no parlo italiano" ("I don't speak Italian") and hand waiving, I managed to secure a ticket and find my way aboard the Malpensa Express on my way to central Milano. Now things were starting to get exciting.

Laden with luggage, I disembarked at Cadorna station as instructed and with little difficulty, found my way in the direction of the agency. Unfortunately, knowing only the street and not the agency's position on it, I found myself taking the longest possible route to my destination.

Finding the building, but unaware of how to locate the actual office, I paused only for a confused second before a man in the entrance way sized me up and pointed me towards the office entrance.

Joy's office is nice. White paint with blue trim, mostly black, modern furniture, and dark (fake) hardwood floors. The tall ceilings and large windows in most Italian suites make them seem, in general, more attractive and spacious than their Canadian counterparts.

I had a chance to partially rehydrate myself while I was presented with my "book" (portfolio) and a stack of temporary comp cards, one of which I spotted amongst the array of other models' adorning the wall. It all started to seem very real and I actually began to feel like a model.

I gave them all my details and received a map of Milan and the address of my apartment. Exhausted and disoriented, I still keenly offered to go to the remaining casting that day which would end in an hour. Getting my bearings and asking a few remaining questions, one of the bookers impatiently ushered me out the door. "Should I take a taxi?" I asked, having not yet attempted to navigate the public transit system.

"Whether you take a taxi or take the bus does not matter. You go now, or you miss it!"

I left the office and found my way to a closer metro station. I was carrying all my luggage, but still made good time to my casting arriving about 15 minutes early to the area. Then disaster struck. Where was the building? The buildings are numbered in increasing order with odd on one side and even on the other, much like in Canada. But I could not find the numbers and when I could, I could not follow them to the number I was looking for!

I walked up and down the street moving faster as my time grew shorter. I kept reaching the end of the street or a different intersection to no avail. I stopped four different people on the street to ask for directions. Two had no idea where to find the address and two led me entirely in the wrong direction. The sky was starting to spit rain. By the time I found it - the street continued on the opposite side of a piazza - I was 15 minutes late and a sign on the door read "Casting is finished!" So much for starting on the right foot.

Apartment
I gathered my composure and trudged off towards my apartment. Again, I found it a long walk from the metro station closest to the address. I rang number 64 and after announcing my arrival was buzzed in without any greeting or instruction.

I walked up the stairs to the third floor, hoping to see an open door welcoming me or at least a clear indication of the unit. Instead, three brown doors stared back at me. One had a brass plate with a very italicized inscription with a first initial and a name. The name given to me of the landlord was Pietro and using my imagination, I could visualize the first initial as a "P".

I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a young girl. In my best "I'm a stupid foreigner" voice, I asked for "Peter" unsure of the pronunciation of Pietro. She eyed me suspiciously before my purpose became suddenly apparent to her and she pointed up with an expression of amusement.

I plodded up one more flight and then it was quite obvious from the little illustration on the door which unit was mine. A scruffy boy with long blond hair who, despite being unkempt was readily identifiable as a model, greeted me at the door.

He let me in, excused his poor English, and pointed me to the bedroom before returning to his conversation with a model in the other bedroom.

Let me now dispel any myths of glamour about the modelling industry. The apartment was disgusting. Before the eyes register unchecked filth, a noxious mix of stale cigarette smoke, discarded beer bottles, bathroom humidity and overused air saturates the nostrils. If you get past the fumes, you can assess the visual damage.

Empty wrappers, dirty dishes, beer bottles, ash, cigarette stubs and joint butts cover every visible tabletop space. The floor, especially in the bedroom, has a layer of dust making you uncomfortable about putting anything down, quashing any desire to remove your tired footwear and set foot without protection. There is mould on the walls.

The stained shower curtain sticks to itself. The mat in the bathroom looks as though it has been retrieved from the rubbish and desperately deserves to be returned. The brown dirt covering the tub is absent only in the center where it receives the highest traffic.

I collapsed, with resignation, in the cold bedroom, on the bed farthest from the door.

I awoke a few hours later to the sound of a vivid Italian discussion. Pietro introduced himself, welcomed me, and gave me a quick tour of the apartment. He showed me to the closet of "clean" sheets, all of which smelled stale, and he made my bed, knocking to the floor and rendering useless my sleeping mask, but I was too tired to care. Though occasionally punctuated by the chill, I slept long and woke up refreshed the next morning.