A Weekend in Milano

I arrived on a Friday evening with one small bag, a half-charged camera and absolutely no plan beyond a dinner reservation in Brera. That, it turns out, is exactly the right way to land in Milano.

The Duomo at golden hour is one of those sights that lives up to every photograph. The marble turns the colour of warm honey and the spires throw long, theatrical shadows across the piazza. Locals walk past it without looking up — which is somehow the most Milanese thing of all.

Saturday belonged to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. I sat under the glass dome with a cappuccino that cost more than dinner the night before, and watched a small parade of perfectly-dressed strangers pass by. There is no better seat in the city.

By Sunday I had drifted south to the Navigli. The canals come alive at dusk: every café spills out onto the water, candles flicker on tiny tables, and the spritz arrives unprompted. I missed my train home. I would do it again tomorrow.