Dear readers: It's funny how things work out.
I arrived in Milan yesterday around 11 AM after a short flight into Bergamo and a short bus trip into the city. I spent the day wandering, looking at expensive shops, eating gelatto, and admiring the Duomo. The Duomo is beyond spectacular, completely breathtaking.
Well, as I went back to the airport, they asked if anyone would put off their flight for a day because of overbooking. Not being one to miss out on an adventure, I said I would. So I stayed last night at a cheap but clean hotel, which was extraordinarily difficult to find because of bad signage. But, the guy at the desk was adorable and pleasant (even if he kept calling me Jennifer!), so it was a-okay. Wound up crashing early after the long day.
The next morning, I checked out, and began meandering ag ain. I went to one of the most beautiful museums I've ever seen, the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana. While the many paintings and things were cool (they have Da Vinci's "The Musician" and the gloves Napoleon wore at the Battle of Waterloo), the actual architecture of the place is amazing, including a marble spiral staircase with glittering mosaics.
After that, I ate a nice meal. Now, part of the travel experience is to try interesting local specialties. But let me tell you something, reader: that is not my job. My job is to make sweeping cultural generalizations and prove them true, and let me tell you, those Italians make a damn good pizza! Seriously, delicious. Oh, and in a four-flavor comparison, pistachio gelatto in Italy is easily the greatest thing in the history of the world.
After that, I wandered into every bookstore I could find looking for Harry Potter. Couldn't find it and I eventually gave up. (I did find it at the airport bookstore eventually. So Harry Potter in Italian was my one souvenir from Milan.)
Now, here's where it gets interesting.
My feet were tired, so I decided to catch an early bus back to Bergamo and just chill in the airport. I grabbed a random seat on the bus. After a minute, I heard a voice from behind me ask in a delightful British accent, "Sorry, is this the bus to Bergamo?" "Yep," I said, not really turning around. A few seconds later: "That's a great idea, pen in the hair. Always know where to find them. I lose mine." I turned back and a saw a very cute British boy with short dirty blonde hair. I grabbed at my hair and found the pen I'd not been able to find all day.
We started chatting, and eventually the bus was full except for the two seats next to us. A pair of women got on and lookde throughout the bus. "Shall we sit together, then?" he asked. "Sure." He moved up and sat next to me. He told me was getting to the airport early after a couple of long days, and I told him I was doing the same.
We talked about movies a lot-- his favorites are Cool Hand Luke, Spartacus, and American History X, so clearly he was deemed acceptable to befriend. Oddly enough, he favorite play of all time is Kit Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. I would like to inform you all that, in the 10th grade, I was utterly obsessed with the Faustian myth, including, but not limited to, Bedazzled, Damn Yankees!, and Marlowe's Dr. Faustus. He's a Russian major, so we talked a touch about that, but alas, I know more about film than Russian...
Eventually we got to Bergamo, where he offered to help me with my luggage, though I had none. We had quite a long time until I had to check in, so we sat on the floor and talked. He bought me a bottle of water, but when I tried to return the favor, he refused, saying he couldn't accept money from girls because he was too "old-fashioned and kind of chauvanistic." We had a great chat about everything from our life plans to politics and stereotypes. (Interestingly enough, two of his dreams in life are  to own a field and a donkey, and  to visit America and eat a realy huge burger.) He hates hates hates mayonnaise and ketchup, as do I. Thumbs up. Although he derides me for liking eggs.
We talked about siblings, and when I said how close Liz and I are, he complained that he goes to the third best uni in the countyr, and his little brother had to upstage him by going to Oxford. He asked me what my parents do, and I told him, but when I asked him about his, he was a little embarassed. Turns out his dad is a priest for the Church of England.
After four hours of non-stop talking, I had to leave, but we exchanged e-mail addresses, and he promised to buy me a proper pint next week in London... hope so!