‘Like a Tomb,’ Milan Sees Teen Warriors Come Out And Play: Cling-Cling-Clink
A Midnight Summer’s Park: Part two on eye-opening English lessons. When school’s out and Mom and Dad are away, Tomfoolery’s in play.
A care-free August is on the docket for fashion-conscious Milanese teens, some of whom curl forehead locks via hairdryers.
Five boys are breaking sweat carrying witching-hour loot through a park in mid August when half of Milan has fled the city for summer holiday.
“Hurry,” says their leader, the one with a wiry build who’s like Artful Dodger to Oliver Twist. “The trolly bus is coming. If we miss it, we’re screwed.”
Toward the ring road, an old fogey is walking a Jack Russell Terrier. He’s no threat. It’s the green-and-white cruisers—Polizia Locale—they have to look out for. Bus 90, the most dubious in the city, will be full of stinky bums from East Europe, cerveza-swilling Peruvians, stooped-over Italian junkies, Moroccans in fake D&G, African bag ladies, and Filipino caregivers off filthy shifts.
Like carpetbaggers on the fly, the juvenile quintet sticks to shadows under pines. Tiny glass bottles of orange Aperol rhythmically cling a melody to high steps, poking through industrial-strength garbage bags: ‘“Warriors, come out and play.” Tomorrow night, they’ll mix it into Spritz, texting over the few well-off buddies who aren’t at seasides or mountain chalets. In their dreams, hot girlfriends in black halter tops will slide off maxi scooters, looking on as their boys do wheelies in tandem.
Supermarkets in Italy sell readymade Spritz, a cocktail that traditionally includes Aperol and sparking white wine Prosecco. Milan will be more than 90 degrees (32 Celsius) the entire week, peaking to 95 and muggy, prompting Milanese to refresh via the orange beverage.
In daytime, ring-road trolly bus No. 90 is a pickpocket’s haven. “It’s their job,” says Milan native Franco, 78, speaking through experience. On board, it’s best to cup phone and wallet in front pocket. At night, women with purses are prime targets of thieving trios: Two create a diversion and one snatches as doors are about to close. Tourists with fanny-packs make for easy pickings via blades. New York has more spontaneous mayhem whereas Milan’s is calculated. Bus 90 will pass by the 2026 Winter Olympics Village.
The green-and-white Polizia Locale patrol Milan streets.
School’s out for summer: Today’s Italian teens employ electric scooters to get around town. At age 16, they may get a license to drive gas-powered scooters with engines up to 125 cubic centimeters. Compact cars come at age 18, no earlier. Sports cars and SUVs must wait.
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Alessandro puts away the joystick used for Grand Theft Auto (GTA) and kicks back in the small bedroom, on the spartan side except for a framed AC Milan jersey autographed by Ballon d’Or winner Andriy Shevchenko. As is typical of Italian families, a framed portrait of a kindergartener rests on a bookshelf. A woman in her early 30s has her arms wrapped around him at the beach, with mother love nurturing sweet innocence.
The beanpole 16-year-old with in-vogue forehead curls that require gel and a hair-dryer seems to be brooding about something. Mom is at work and Dad lives up the road in a posher part of town. Over there, the princely three-storey apartment includes a top-level balcony from which to shoot peas at passing vehicles via a plastic straw.
Mom’s cramped apartment is modest.
“It’s the first week of school. How are things going, Alessandro?”
“Not bad. I go now to a different school. All is new for me. It’s different.”
“Oh, what happened at your old school?”
“It happened that I took too many debits.”
Debits mean F’s.
“Oh, I see. Don’t you hate it when teachers make you do extra work during summer?”
“You’re right. We need to relax.”
Alessandro had been attending a science high school but basically flunked out. In contrast to pass-and-promote US educational philosophy, the Italian liceo bombards students with homework and oral exams. Good behavior and athletic talent don’t factor into grades. Tormenting freshmen are advanced algebra, physics, Latin, philosophy and Italian itself, with English the least of their worries. Those who can’t keep up are out and have to do the year over unless, as a last-ditch option, they study over the summer and pass a special make-up exam in early September.
Others then opt to attend less rigorous vocational schools, as Alessandro did.
“Well, let’s talk about August. What beautiful destination did you visit?”
“No, no, nothing. In July, I went in Liguria for one week—and stop.”
“Oh, that’s all—only to Liguria, I see. So how did you spend your August?
He smiles and comes to life.
“Milan is like tomb after Ferragosto. It’s vuoto. There’s nothing to do.
“Oh, it’s empty, void of people. All you can do, maybe, is play sports, right?”
“Milan is like a tomb”—16-year-old Alessandro
Ferragosto, Aug. 15, is the national holiday by which time fortunate Italians are bronzing on beaches and dancing en masse in skimpy swimsuits to evening disco tunes, as in Rimini (Emilia-Romagna) and Gallipoli (Puglia), all while drinking Spritz. Ferragosto is rooted to an ancient holiday, Feriae Augusti, created by Emperor Augustus two millennia ago.
Alessandro squirms in the video games chair, looking away before hunching over. It’s as if he wants to get something off his chest.
“We did a crazy thing.” His foot starts tapping.
“Oh, what crazy thing did you do? I know it’s sometimes crazy to be 16.”
“I and my friends ride bicycles to all parts of the city, right? It’s like we are kings. We don’t care if cars are angry at us. We ignore everything when it’s dark.” He’s now getting animated.
“I see, so it’s after midnight. Go on.”
“One night, we are in a park. We see a place that sells food and drinks but it’s closed. Nobody’s there, zero people. One of my friends—in reality, he’s a stupid boy—decides that we must return to the park the next night. We are five.”
“Oh, yeah, the following night. I got you. There are five of you guys.”
“Quindi, quindi, there’s a lochetta on the door of the kiosko . . . ”
“Right, so there’s a lock on the door of the kiosk.”
“Exactly. So the stupid boy, he has a cacciavite—he’s really a bastard boy—and breaks the door.”
“Oh, a screwdriver, I see. That’s bad news.”
“Yes, very bad. So he opens the door, and you can’t imagine inside how much food and bibite—no, I know—drinks. Also chocolates, potato chips, muffins. An immense quantity of snacks and drinks.”
“Oh, my gosh, so what did the stupid boy do? What happened?”
“It happened that he finds inside giant sacchetti di plastica.”
“No—please don’t tell me. He found giant plastic bags. OMG.”
“The stupid boy, he sees the food and the drinks. He’s like a maniac, absolutely crazy. I can’t believe his arms. Like a spider. He doesn’t stop. He fills many bags.”
“But you didn’t, right, Alessandro? I’m sure you walked away.”
Alessandro again stares out the window. An awkward five seconds pass. He leans back into the gaming chair and crosses his legs before speaking.
“Let’s talk about GTA.”
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