Topic: A Memorable Meal

Meat Sauce & Military Coups

Milan, Italy: the last stop of our whirlwind three and a half week excursion backpacking through Europe. By this point, it didn't matter that we didn't speak Italian; not knowing Dutch, French, or German hadn't caused us any problems thus far, and Italian was at least a *little bit* like Spanish. I'd booked an AirBNB with an indoor hammock as we boarded the train in Venice, looking forward to a few days of rest and relaxation before our long flight home. If I was lucky, I figured I would be able to swing back and forth in the hammock, my feet in the air, and a large beer within reach.

Milan was a great final destination for our adventure. After navigating the bike paths of Amsterdam, the streets of Berlin, and the canals of Venice, and walking at least 10 if not 15-20 miles every day, we were grateful for a city with an easy metro system. Two of the main train lines provided a loop around the city, with others stretching into the suburbs. We spent two of our remaining four days wandering around the city aimlessly. With two days left to go, we had one last goal in mind.

One last authentic Italian meal.

Ristorante Da Oscar was so small and so authentic that it was easy to overlook when walking down the busy streets of central Milan. From my cozy hammock, I had perused online reviews until I'd found what I was looking for: a neighborhood establishment that didn't cater to tourists. Surely there we would find an authentic Italian meal. I quickly made a reservation for two for 9:00PM, placing my phone on one end table as the hammock swung left, grabbing my large bottle of beer as I swung back to the right, and settling into the lull of the hammock.

"Should we dress up?" Jake asked. "This is probably our last big meal before we head home."

"Why not?"

Although we'd been careful to load our backpacks with only the essentials - and much of our trip was planned around visiting abandoned amusement parks, coal mines, and military bases - we had both made sure to pack something "nice" for the occasional dinner. Donning our finest, we walked to the local metro station and caught the first train heading toward Milano Centrale.

"It looks like we can get off at the central station or go one stop further," I said, "but the walking distance is the same."

"Let's just get off at the central station," Jake said. With a plan in place, we settled into the bustle of the evening metro traffic, counting the stops to our destination. Finally, with one stop to go, we gathered near the door of the train, waiting for it to pull into Milano Centrale. As it did, all of the lights in the train went out. The doors opened, and a voice came over the loudspeaker. Everything they said was in Italian and we couldn't understand a word of it, but it became clear that everyone had to get off of the train.

The metro line runs through the basement of Milano Centrale, a massive train station in the heart of central Milan. We had visited it earlier in the day to photograph the beautiful internal structure and achitecture of the building - and to hop on their free wi-fi for a few minutes. As we exited our train that night, we followed line after line of people up the four flights of escalators to the main floor of the train station. Outside, military spotlights shone brightly on the train station, with local police surrounding it and alarms flashing.

"What is going on?" I asked Jake.

"I have no idea."

It was at that moment that my phone started buzzing as texts from my mother arrived, courtesy of the train station wi-fi. Are you okay? I just saw that there is a military coup in Istanbul. You're not there yet, are you? She asked, as though I would have received her messages as she sent them and been able to reply. If you haven't flown to Istanbul yet, you need to change your flight. I was looking at the American Airlines website and there are flights from Milan to Chicago for $650. Flight #AA123... My eyes quickly scanned the texts as my feet followed Jacob away from the train station and in the direction of Ristorante Da Oscar.

"Looks like there's a military coup," I said.

"Where?"

"Istanbul."

"Oh. Is our flight cancelled?"

"Not yet, but I guess we should keep an eye on it?"

"Definitely. Do you think that's why they kicked everyone off of the train?"

"I guess? But isn't Istanbul kind of far away?"

We mulled over the possibilities, arriving at Oscar's just in time for our reservation. From a tiny table in the corner, we watched as Oscar, an older, burly, grandfather of a man, emerged from the kitchen to chat with nearly each guest, the walls covered in odd tributes to Mussolini. It seemed as though everyone knew one another, and as dish after dish appeared from the kitchen, it was clear that we'd found what we were looking for. In fact, the gnocchi was so good that we went back the next night - and then high-tailed it to the airport to figure out how we were ever going to get back home.