Every morning, I wish to wake up in Milan. Not the city that never sleeps (home), nor Paris. New York City has an early, busy morning. In Paris, garbage trucks wake at 7 in the morning, without sparing a single bottle that they throw into the trunk, but the city does not actually wake up until after 10. Thus I feel like the only person awake. But in Milano…

Mornings are a dream (since I’m still actually asleep). Milanese mornings are early, yet bittersweet slow. In the country of cappuccini, “un cappucho” as the barista in Saint Ambroeus prefers, can a morning really start off on the wrong foot? A euro or less for the favorite Italian energizer and a cornetto (Italian croissant) filled with nocciola for perhaps even less, and here I have the best things from NYC and Paris: coffee and croissants, in the best country on Earth.

A fidel New Yorker, a Parisian by attitude, I am not-so secretly an Italophile. The only Italy I knew of before Milano, however, was south of Rome. Tradition, vino tinto, family and sleazy southern men too charming to resist made me feel at home. In fact, boarding the plane home from Rome once, I thought, “How could I live again without Roma?” Without all this color, passion, beauty… A year later, boarding from Paris to Milan, I feared that through all the stereotypes of Milanese poshness I would never feel the same way.

I try not to listen to cliches, but they are all true. The rain, the monochromatic tones and the less amiable culture of northern Italy did not gain their reputations for no reason. But I woke up in Milano and lived in these cliches that wrapped me in a warm blanket (way warmer than Paris by temperature) as if a relative’s home. Not my home, but a place where I can eat better, feel more profoundly, live more! That is Milano, that is Italia, no matter what coordinates, as long as the Italian tongue flows in your ears.

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, “The Last Supper,” etc. I saw it all, but the Milano that I know consists of courtyards that give off a regal atmosphere. Locked away behind gates, yet open enough to tease the passerby. A kind of northern arrogance, if you please. Meticulously planted gardens, vibrant balconies, valuable statues all hidden away from the fashionistas and tourists Milano is known for. Surely, Milano’s compact size makes it easily accessible within a day, though that is not Milano. Milano eats well, dresses better, looks beautiful even underneath the depressing clouds that do not succeed.

“Agua?” the waiter demanded in regards to dinner.

“Vino.”

“Fantastico,” he smiled as if accepting us into his super-secret elite club of l’Italiano vero.

Every day of my stay, heavens sprinkled and hid themselves in gray clouds. My last morning, however, I saw a sunrise. The most tender, pastel colored sunrise that only Milano could boast. Baby blue skies covered in lilac clouds with smudges of pallid yellow tones making their way through. Cappuccino craving satisfied, I hung out with the plump pigeons facing the Duomo waiting for the dome to open for visitors at 9:30.

I was the first one climbing the stairs of the Duomo that morning and I cannot forget the feeling of being alone as I entered on the roof where even the guards had not taken their position (they were taking the elevator just behind me.) The still damp, marble floor on the roof reflected the sky even though the imagine was within the stone already. Gothic spires guarded yet guided my way all the way to the top where I felt at home on one of the seven hills of Rome.

From the top, the most beautiful view in Milano was that of the clouds, because Milano is in the streets, the pasta, the umbrellas and the pigeons, and of course in the clouds themselves. Magical kinds of clouds.