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Not surprisingly, but still to my utter dismay, I discovered cockroaches in the apartment last weekend. Not the medium sized red ones like I saw scurrying in the streets in Hong Kong, But the big black kind like the one that crawled up my bare leg at my friend's apartment in Tokyo.
I think we take it for granted in Canada that rats and insects are an infrequent occurrence. Still, I know my condition here is not really typical of Italy either.
In better news, I had a very interesting Sunday. Expecting Milan to be hot, I anticipated I would need warm clothes only for Toronto and packed only one sweater. So, to keep from freezing in my apartment, I went shopping to flesh out my wardrobe.
Alessandro and Nicola (keep reading...)
I headed for H&M. Everything in Milan is expensive, but H&M seems to be less so. I found a white hooded sweatshirt that would do well to compliment my deficient closet and proceeded to the checkout. The checkout was closed and another man faced with the same dilemma spoke a few words in Italian to me before promptly switching to English.
That brief encounter led to an invitation for lunch and to an entirely spontaneous and magnificent afternoon.
The man I met, Nicola, gathered his friend, Alessandro, from the fitting room. We went by metro to Nicola's apartment in the suburbs and chatted while he prepared an eggplant tomato sauce with thick penne for the first pasta dish. We had the pasta with a flavourful bottle of red wine. For the second dish, the carne (meat), Nicola had only planned on cooking for two, so he extended the two pieces of meat with mozzarella.
Mozzarella here, at least the kind I had, is not a hard block of cheese you grate on pizza, but a soft cheese. The best way to describe it is as a soggy white blob. It comes in a sealed tub in a milky liquid. The outer skin of medium thickness yields to the knife to reveal a spongy inside. This big blob of cheese goes on the plate unmodified as the "carne" part of the dish. Alessandro had meat, Nicola had mozzarella, and I was served both!
We finished the meal with some fruit, then coffee - Italian style - which we call espresso, then a strong liqueur made from some type of flower which I thought tasted like anise.
While chatting after dinner with Alessandro who is from Bologna, I made the shocking discovery that the world famous dish "Spaghetti Bolognese", does not even exist in Bologna! Judging from his description, I also think the meat we call "Bologna" is completely different from the "Bologna" here.
We went later to an Irish style pub. Ubiquitous American pop music droned from the speaker system. Not too loud to occlude conversation, but loud enough to ensure the clientele would speak in raised voices. Most of the patrons were young.
In Japan, displays of affection are never public save for the occasional holding of hands. Italy adopts the opposite extreme. Lip-locked couples at many of the other tables tuned out the environment, and their present company, to appreciate each other in a way even Canadians - liberal by Japanese standards - would normally reserve for the bedroom.
I took the long metro ride home feeling that even if modelling turned out bust, cultural experience made this trip worthwhile.
My mum spotted me on the lead page of Mode Models where my profile has also been updated. Go to "International New Faces". She also noticed something interesting if you search for "William Metcalfe" on Google.ca and select "Pages from Canada".
I will probably only enjoy that ranking until the end of the month when the Mode Models front page is changed, so check it out while you can.
Here's one more pic from my Montani shoot, since the one on the Mode site is the one I already posted:
That's my natural hair.
Also, I have new Milan snapshots posted for your perusal.
Without my own computer, or at least one that I have unrestricted access to, I am stuck using public computers with poor configurations. Many of you will have no idea what I am talking about, but those who do will understand my frustrations. The monitors in the library here have a refresh rate of 60Hz. It is slow enough that you can see the flicker while looking straight at the screen and I find it painfully uncomfortable. I am sure the monitor can do at least 80Hz.
Many of the internet cafes have LCD displays capable of 1024 x 768 pixels or higher, but the video cards are are set to 800 x 600. On the better displays, this is just a waste of visual space, but on the cheaper displays, the rendering is blured as the monitor poorly scales down its resolution.
Most of the systems, of course, restrict the user from modifying the display settings.
This is a long entry, so I haven't put all of it on the main page. Click 'Continue reading "Milan Day One"' and if you don't want to read, at least skip to the part about the apartment! There is no way I can write this much about each day, so you will get impressions in bits and pieces. I am now typing entries on my Zaurus, so I can upload them when I use a computer.
Day 1
Flight
I flew with British Airways first to London and then onto Milan. A Boeing 777 carried us the first leg of the flight and it was my first time on such an aircraft. The plane was nice, but the flight was not fantastic.
I always ask for a window seat because I often like to sleep, but more importantly, I love to look out the window. Either I lost my window seat when I changed my tentative itinerary before booking the flight, or my travel agent told me he could not reserve a window seat and I completely forgot. Nevertheless, I was surprised when I found myself in an aisle seat in the center row.
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.
I finally found free Internet access at the Biblioteche Comunali di Milano or the "Milan Public Library".
The library I found is a little out of the way, and I only get one hour per day, but this should still save me a lot of money. Registration for a library card is free and despite being a foreigner, there was no hassle involved. You do, however, need to bring your passport.
Despite confirming the address, I almost turned back from this intimidating edifice when I thought I had perhaps been looking at a list of government offices rather than libraries. I did, however, enter the building and there was nothing library looking about it inside either.
I approached the information desk and though the attendant did not speak English, I was lucky enough to have the words "I'm looking for" and "library" in my Italian vocabulary. I was in the right place and the door for the library was along the hallway and just around the corner.
I bought an adaptor to plug in my Sharp Zaurus PDA so I can type entries at home and upload them later. I spend a long time writing when I add entries, so I don't want to spend too much money sitting at the computer in the net cafe. Anyway, hopefully I will soon be adding some interesting stories.
For now, you can check out my new snapshots from Milan. My profile on the now online Joy Models website. And last, but not least, here's one of the shots from my recent test with photographer Maurizio Montani:
Here's my phone number: 34 735 749 68
We're 6 hours ahead of Toronto, 8 hours ahead of Calgary, and 8 hours behind Japan. So if you're in Canada and you want to phone me, don't phone in the afternoon because you'll wake me up at 3 am or something. Phone in the morning or around noon so you get me in the evening which would be best.
It's GSM with Vodafone, so feel free to text message me. I have to pay about $5 per hour to use the Internet, so I won't be checking email often. SMS text messages are the best way to reach me, but you'll have to figure out how to send them.
39 is the country code for Italy. Try sending to +393473574968 (you can usually get the plus sign by holding down zero or something else; check your phone).
"We get signal!"
Coinciding nicely with my trip via Toronto to Milan was the Candian Hairdresser Mirror Awards show in which my friend Vinh ("Vinnie"), hairstylist extraordinaire, was a finalist.
Held at the Westin Harbour Castle hotel on Queens Quay, the event is like the Oscars for Canadian hairstylists. Attendees all sport the latest fashions and looks in a see and be seen soiree. At $135 a pop to attend, you were either a nominee, photographer, industry rep... or Vinnie's friend.
With seven guests and only one ticket, a little creativity was in order.
How would we get in? I thought to myself "what would James Bond do?" and the answer was immediately obvious. I would have to render a passing waiter unconcious with a discreet karate chop to the side of the neck and borrow his uniform.
Vinnie went ahead with his ticket through the heavily manned doors while I waited outside. Noticing the closed, but unlocked doors to the left, I used the opportunity created by an exiting participant to surreptitiously enter, negating the need for my original plan.
I scanned the room, spotted Vinnie's friends, and made my way to their table. But Vinnie had already left to get more friends; I would have to sneak in a second time!
Fortunately Vinnie had a plan. Armed with the tickets of his collegues inside, he passed them to those of us waiting on the outside to use to gain entrance. Once inside, there was one further obstacle.
Tables are pre-assigned like any typical banquet and there were no empty seats at Vinnie's. We would have to find some "extra" spaces. Hung found us an empty table and we perched ourselves uncomfortably on the edges of the seats as guests continued to pour in.
It was only a matter of time. Soon a group of new arrivals made their way towards us. As they approached our table their expressions began to change from "hello party!" to "where's our table??" Taking the queue, we all rose and tried our best to act like we were just resting.
Under the pretense that the seats at our table were taken by someone else, we negotiated our way into a table that currently had enough remaining seats to accomodate us. After a tense wait, the MC, in what appeared to be full Romulan dress uniform, declared the event underway.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, I leaned back in my chair and prepared to enjoy the evening. Then, as the last few latecomers trickeled in, another group appeared at the door. They began a concerned discussion with the doorman and then cast their eyes in our direction with the same "where's our table??" expressions written across their faces.
As they approached, the delicious salad I had already begun seemed a lot less appetizing. I tried to draw my accomplices attention to the potential problem developing - in case they had any sort of brilliant backup plan I was unaware of. However, I had a feeling that the word "plan" was not very involved with any part of our agenda.
Making note of the exits and deciding which one of my lame excuses I would try to present, I put my cutlery down and braced for impact. They walked right past our table.
It was only after the main course was served and I was down one glass of red wine that I really began to enjoy myself. The sweet sense of satisfaction made a nice complement to the rich desert.
Besides crashing awards shows, I had time to visit a few friends and fit in some gambling with Max and Yvette at Yvette's friends' condo (below). My flight for Milan departs tonight at 19:55 and I will arrive tomorrow, Tuesday April 12th at 14:05.
On Monday I arrived in Georgetown, a small satellite town of Toronto, and spent the night at my relatives house. On Tuesday I rented the only available vehicle, a Hyundai Santa Fe, from the only available rental agency.
Tuesday afternoon, I drove to London to sort out for (hopefully) the last time, anything remaining in our recently divested, inauspicous rental property venture. Last night I drove back to Georgetown and today I will make the journey to Toronto.
I will spend the weekend in an active state of mental and physical meditative preparation; a state which I call "partying".
My phone number during my stay in the former Province of Upper Canada is (416) 624 1638. I will be primarily in London and Toronto until Monday, April 11th.
Over the past few months I have been working away in Calgary under clandestine secrecy. I decided to give modelling a shot and in October landed a contract with an international agency based in Calgary, Mode Models.
While I waited for my first break, I have been doing part time IT work at the agency. Because it can take so long to get a placement with a booking agency and because so many models never make it to that stage, I was reluctant to announce my new ambitions to the world. I wanted to wait until I completed my first modelling job.
I decided that instead of waiting for my first client, it was a sufficient accomplishment to be placed at my first international agency. In a weeks time, I will arrive in Milan to really begin my modelling career with the agency Joy.
I will tell you more about the modelling and my entry into the industry in the future. For now, I will leave you with one of my recent test shots by Sina Birjandian.
I also bought a Canon SD300 digital camera to finally replace my theived Ixus V. I plan on posting photos from my adventure in Milan so stay tuned. However, I still have to solve one minor oversight: I forgot that I need somewhere to store my photos once the memory card is full. My dilapidated old laptop is no longer travel worthy so I am only going with my PDA.
While I work on that problem, here are a some of the first photos taken with my new camera. These are some friends saying goodbye at WildWood on 4th Street.
