March 7, 2017 (revisited)

Apart from WordPress imitating Nazi Germany in the morning, it was a great day. The sun made its debut without its usual oppressive cloud cover. I decided to eat two breakfasts so that I could continue the trend of going to my adopted café while also sitting outside on the balcony enjoying the weather. People started pouring into the streets around 10 and I enjoyed the ambient noise of incomprehensible syllables while I sipped my tea (Jesus, I just realized how pretentious this sounds) and read random Internet shit.

After a while of overhead observation, I wandered back down to the canal to read a bit. I plowed through a few chapters, but the best aspect of sitting by the canal is the cavalcade of dogs that pass. I don’t know why I thought there would be some huge culture change regarding pets, but twin golden retrievers shocked and awed me. Puppies are fucking dope, is my point.

Riding on the high of pups and beautiful weather, I dropped off my book and steeled myself for my mission of infiltration into Brioni. I donned my best (just kidding, I wore jeans and a button down. I had to walk 2 miles to get there so they were just going to have to deal with my peasant-ness) and marched confidently into the store. I was immediately met by a young guy whose nationality was hard to pin. He asked what I was looking for (this dude, thank baby Jesus, spoke impeccable English), and I responded that I was just there to browse but asked if he could direct me to the suits. Instead, he took me on a whole tour of the 3-story building and gave me a history lesson of the entire company. We made it up to the top floor, where he guided me into what he described as the VIP room, in which he claimed to have dressed Brad Pitt a few days earlier. I have literally no idea what his motivations for all this were, but he invited me to have a seat and proceeded to pour us both a glass of amazing whiskey while he continued to preach the Brioni gospel.

Around that point, I started to feel bad that he was going through all of this trouble even though the chances of me buying something were miniscule. But, to my surprise, he then started a diatribe about how I should hold off on making such a big investment in a suit until I had a stable (and sizeable) income. I told him that I was in complete agreement. We finished our drinks and he asked if I wanted to try on a few pieces just to see how I liked them. That led to me picking out at least 7 different suits and trying on garments that ranged from 4 to 15 thousand euros. Suffice it to say I was in heaven. The best part was that my new friend was there to be my conscience and not let me lose control and buy one. This well travelled (he said he has been to 18 different countries and speaks 6 languages) angel could not have made a better impression unless he would have gifted me one of those suits.

Four hours after entering the fashion district, I made my way back to the apartment and started preparing my liver for what was to come. I went back to Pinch for the final time and found my boy Fabio working. He informed me that he was super fucked up from a Japanese gin tasting earlier in the day. He claimed that this was the best gin he had ever tasted. He claimed this at least five times in the span of twenty minutes. He also went on a very long-winded explanation about why everyone needs to get cheated on by “some fucking bitch” at least once in their life. I love Fabio. I told him that I was in his hands, drink-wise, for the rest of the night. I ordered steak tartar (incredible) and proceeded to watch him make increasingly unlikely cocktails. This exercise culminated in what I can only describe as a gin fizz mixed with an old fashioned infused with celery. If that’s not a good enough explanation, then fly your ass to Milan and find out for yourself. That was the seventh drink of the night, not including a pint of Guiness, so I was about ready for bed. I thanked everyone at the bar profusely and asked to close out my tab. Fabs stumbled behind the bar and half stuttered, “Fuck it, just give me 20 and you all good.” Milan is the fucking best, man.

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