Milan: Where the Coffee Slaps, and Sky Sparkles

An Indian girl in Milan, learning to slow down — one espresso at a time.

There’s a slowness in Milan I haven’t yet learned to carry in my bones. People walk like time is theirs. They board trains without the anxiety of a missed second. They sip, not gulp. I envy that stillness — the kind that doesn’t chase the clock, but walks beside it. Even when they’re late, they’re… graceful about it.

It’s unfamiliar. I come from a place where even standing still has urgency. Milan is slower. Softer. More certain of itself.

Adjusting hasn’t been seamless. Public transport has its own logic. Trams and metros that take their time but still somehow arrive when they should. Every system feels like a maze on the first day. Then again, doesn’t every city?

Being vegetarian is its own adventure. Some days feel like carb overload — pasta three times a day. I’ve made peace with mozzarella and tomatoes becoming a food group. And when everything else fails, there's always the vending machine. It’s oddly comforting to know you can get coffee, chips, and a tiny sandwich without saying a single word.

And then there’s the weather. We were promised summer. What greeted us was nine degrees and wind that cuts. One sweater. Two weeks. Denial. Milan said: survive it, or don’t. No in-between. It’s getting better now — 20 degrees, sunshine, and skin slowly remembering how to breathe.

But one thing still confuses me — the sunsets. They refuse to happen. 8:30 p.m., and the sky still glows like it's 4. The sun rises like it’s on time, but forgets when to leave. It’s strange. It’s beautiful. It messes with dinner time and body clocks, but I don’t mind.

I still feel foreign. Not in the sad way. Just… quiet. There are days I walk through entire streets without hearing a single word I understand. The language is melodic, dramatic, and absolutely unreadable to me. Yet, people are kind. Strangers guide me through maps and fingers and gestures. There’s warmth in the way they help — not performative, just present.

I’ve stopped trying to “blend in.” Now I let the city pass through me instead.

Let’s talk about the fashion. It’s not just that people dress well. It’s how effortless it all feels. The older women are style icons. They wear red gloves with trench coats, or printed scarves with metallic sneakers — and somehow, every look lands. I’ve seen a woman wear mint green pants with a copper sweater, and make it look like couture.

Milan doesn’t dress to impress. It dresses to express. And that’s the difference. That’s what I came here to learn.

The sky deserves its own section. Clean. Wide. Dewy. Some mornings feel like a scene from a movie I forgot I wrote. And at night, there are stars. Not just twinkles. Real constellations. Real clarity. Pollution doesn’t fog up my camera anymore — even my phone captures light like it’s been upgraded.

There are days I take ten pictures of the same corner, because the way the light hits it has changed by just a sliver. And that sliver changes everything.

Coffee? Don’t get me started. Even vending machine espresso slaps. From tiny counters to giant stations — every cup is strong, creamy, and somehow comforting. There’s no such thing as “just coffee” here. It’s always a little ritual — a tiny pause in the day. I have my favorites now. One spot for mornings. One for when I miss home. One for when I feel good and want to celebrate with €1 caffeine.

Then there are the small, absurd joys. Wine is cheaper than juice. There’s Wi-Fi in the middle of the street. Water fountains that actually work. You walk, and walk, and walk — and suddenly, you’re somewhere beautiful. A random sculpture. A side street filled with orange walls. A bookstore that smells like rain.

Every corner tries to tell you something — but it never shouts. It waits for you to stop and listen.

One Sunday, I did nothing. Just walked to no destination, sat on stone steps, watched pigeons pick fights, and drank lukewarm cappuccino that still tasted divine. And that day — no deadlines, no directions — felt like a full story.

I still get lost. I still walk too fast. But Milan is patient. She doesn’t ask me to be perfect — just present.

I haven’t explored her fully yet. Still figuring out routines, roads, myself. But I’m here — and I’m hoping she treats me good.

And if she does, maybe that’ll be enough.

Coffee Of The Day

Vending machine espresso, €1 — still better than most café brews back home. Strong, no nonsense, no sugar. Just like today.

~The Stressed Potato