I am in the process of trying to like Milan better. It is a battle, sometimes it has its nice moments, and sometimes it doesn’t. Of course there is one amazing reason for me to like it here, but still, I need to find my own swing here. Therefore, this Saturday I did what any Dutch person would do in order to feel a bit more at home in a relatively new place: I bought the funniest looking bicycle I could find at a flea market. Honestly, I look at this excuse for a bike and I laugh. It is foldable and it even has a mandje on the front. I bought a big lock for it, but somehow I feel that his biggest insurance against theft lies within his looks.

So yesterday, I thought I would attempt. Yes, it took me a few days, this due to the antibiotics (they helped so much that I get to go to the specialist now. Sigh. I am tired of being deaf), which made me feel like I took more drugs than Jim M. in his best days. I had my map in the mandje in the front, and a little black line I was supposed to follow all through the city to get to my castings. I took the manly lock off (you need to find pride in something, right?), and was ready. I was feeling confident. I am Dutch. I cycled everywhere through New York. Only one difference, then I had the Mazzerati of bicycles. Now I have a DAF. My phone rang. Hey brother! Of course I have time to talk, but I’ll be biking at the same time. See, in Holland this makes sense. In New York, you know you shouldn’t even try. In Milan, well, only one way to find out. I found out.

For the next 24 minutes and 38 seconds I had precisely 49 near-death experiences, while never fully losing control of the P.O.S. or my cool. Definately partially lost control of both, but mind you, never completely. So bro, tell me, how’s life? Hang on, this Suzuki is trying to squish me. And the work? How is work? One moment, there are three posessed scooters surrounding me who undoubtedly want me dead. Of course I am listening man! A truck is trying to wring me between his massive self and a semi-parked car. I felt dried, yet somehow the sweat kept going. No Leo, I am not laughing at you, I just think this Audi is trying to eat me. No problem. Dodge the Dodge! Tramtracks! Tramtracks! Why is this light green and is everyone standing still? Why is this one red and are we all still going? My map! Ah, so how are mom and dad? Yes, I understand that you will be angry with me if I get killed now with you on the phone. After 24 minutes the heaviest traffic, the biggest roundabouts and the angriest Italians were out of the way, so it seemed logical to end the conversation. We talk a bit more, then it is time to move a bit faster, I am late for my casting somehow. Bye bro.

I felt cool. I survived. See, I am still quite the bad ass! Then I needed to hit the brakes because a mother on a bicycle took right of way. With a kid on the front, one on the back, and a phone in hand. I surpressed the urge to buy a second phone to at least out-phone here, but I just decided to accept my defeat. Not that cool after all. On my fold-up bike.

I get to the casting, where there are at least eight models outside, making it their fulltime job to look pretty damn cool. The sunglasses match the shoelaces, their fabulous hair is miraculously accurate in place, the pants are fashionably tight, and of course they are all is the best/most succesful/coolest. I park my bike, lock it, empty my mandje, swipe the sweat off my forehead, remove my floppy pants from my socks and I give them my best ‘What! You know that bike is cool, French Vogue said so’ walk-by.

Another glamorous day. I love this bike.