Before I headed out to Milan, I looked around for books on the network. Sadly, there didn't seem to be any, or at least none in English, and I didn't have time for a crash course in Italian. I finally found Italian Ways: On and Off The Rails From Milan to Palermo, by Tim Parks, but I didn't enjoy it. Parks is a resident of Northern Italy and the book catalogues a series of rail journeys he'd taken over the years, but it came off as somewhat patronising to me. What he enjoyed, on his trips around the nation, was when the service was chaotic, when the trains were a mess or broke down, when the staff were rude. When high-speed services with new electric trains are introduced, he grumbles about their efficiency and their seat reservations; when Milano Centrale is rebuilt and modernised, he complains that it has lost all the charm it had when he got his bag stolen and you'd be accosted by random panhandlers.
It's a very middle class English attitude, that the Continent should be a bit ramshackle because it's so much more authentic, and that Italians are completely wrong to want trains that are reliable and clean and decent. I imagine that when he comes back to London and a suburban service is cancelled he's furious and hisses "typical British Rail" but because it comes with an Italian accent it's somehow delightful.
The reason I bring this up is because my next station was Lambrate, and Parks specifically mentions it in his book. I quote:
"This is the station where the Gypsies gather, on the southbound platform on the metro, the Green Line. They take over the stone bench opposite the last carriage when it arrives. There are three or four swarthy men, unwashed and unshaven, half a dozen women, one or two with babies in their arms, and a few adolescents, girls and boys. The boys have violins or accordions. Often they have painted nails, sometimes even lipstick. The girls have an infant in tow. As each train comes and goes, one or two Gypsies get on it. They start at the back carriage and work their way forward, the men in scruffy waistcoats playing their musical instruments, the women begging in their long dresses, repeating their mournful spiel over and over in a high pitched monotone...
...As a rule they work the Green Line down to its southern end, then take the train back and spill out onto the platform at Lambrate for a break. No sooner do they stop begging than they cheer up at once."
Reader, I travelled all over the metro for an entire week, up and down the M2, in and out of every station, and I encountered beggars on the train exactly twice. One was the student girl singing Hallelujah I previously complained about; another was a clearly homeless man who shuffled down the train when I was on the M3. Now admittedly, Parks' book was published in 2013, so perhaps there's been a huge crackdown across the entire network in the past decade that has seen them wiped off the map. I will say that I disembarked at Lambrate, went all the way up through the metro station to the exit, and didn't see a single fake Romany ready to fleece the innocents of Milan.
This isn't to say that Lambrate was a charming country halt. Outside it was like any other urban European railway station; a bit grubby, a bit panicky. There were dodgy looking salesmen with armfuls of Temu-level crap. There were backpackers who were blissfully unaware of anyone else in the world and who stopped in front of information screens without warning.
The underpass beneath the tracks also served as a public walkway, so I went through it, delighting in destination boards listing exotic places like "Verona" and "Brescia" and "Bergamo". Places you knew about as holiday destinations stuck on the front of a train the same way "Leeds" or "Birmingham" would be in the UK. Travel broadens the mind, and also reminds you that every beautiful tourist trap is just a place where people live and work and shop.
At the back of the station was a newer extension and a car park, plus a large gyratory which I negotiated to get to the Via Ronchi opposite. It was a long straight road with flats and shops, much the same as I'd seen elsewhere in the city. I crossed over to the far side where there was a hint of shadow; it was almost noon and I was feeling both the heat and the exhaustion from all that walking.
Udine station was at a busy roundabout surrounded by bars and cafes and a small park. A group of students looked confused outside the entrance, checking their phones obsessively, in a way that implied they'd somehow ended up here against their will. Old men sat on the pavement with their cigarettes and coffees watched them with bemusement, absolutely not offering to help in any way, but enjoying their befuddlement.
Udine is also the last underground station on the
M2. The track goes on the surface after here, taking over old tramways in some cases, and as such this was my last chance to experience the distinctive Milan Metro architecture I'd become very familiar with.
As though it knew this, Udine offered up an ideal example of the form. The station was clean and well-maintained. At the mezzanine level, there was not only a newsagent-slash-miscellaneous store, but also a coffee shop in one of the underground units.
Much as I love a metro station, I don't think I'd be happy sitting at a table to have my lunch in one. They're places to pass through, not to enjoy the moment. I liked the untouched 1970s aesthetics of the bar, though, and wondered if it would be allow to continue now there was a private company involved in the letting of station retail. I wondered if it'd all be ripped out and replaced with a Starbucks because they signed a deal to appear in every station on the Green Line.
The overground section was arriving at almost exactly the wrong time for me. The brief moments in cool dark depths gave me time to recover and regroup. Now I was being sent into thirty-odd degree heat, at lunchtime, covered in sweat and general unpleasantness and tired.
Cimiano station did give me a moment of nostalgia. A long station with a canopy roof, wedged between a motorway and tall apartment blocks, I was reminded of Stockholm's Green Line; specifically around
Kristineberg station.
I headed down the steps to the ticket hall, which is under the railway viaduct; as at Lambrate, the underpass doubles as a right of way. The busier, more dense part of the city was to the right, but I turned left.
I was following the track along the backs of apartment blocks on a route that was theoretically parkland. It felt neglected and unloved, boring lawns and winding paths that you wouldn't let your kids play on alone. A homeless man slept on a bench in the shade.
I was following a small woman with a shopping basket, at a reasonable distance of course so she didn't think I was a pervert, winding round the car parks of flats and the back walls of homes. Now and then a cyclist would pass in the opposite direction. On a corner, a fly tipper had abandoned a fridge freezer and a broken wooden sun lounger.
My next station, Crescenzago, presented a problem for me as it was closed for refurbishment. This whole section of the M2 was getting a comprehensive makeover; indeed, if I'd gone to Milan a few weeks later, I'd have had much more severe access issues.
There was a rail replacement bus linking Crescenzago with its neighbours, but no train services at all.
We now have a dilemma. The rules - the rules I invented - say I need to get a train to or from the station for it to count. I couldn't do this. But I had walked there, and I would pass through the station on my way back into the city (and also when I subsequently collected the Gessate branch). So as far as I'm concerned, I have been to Crescenzago.
It's me, it's a Metro M, it's the station Crescenzago. Job done. As always, if you disagree, please proceed to my
Ko-Fi to give me airfare and hotel money so I can return when the station reopens in September. Happy to help!
I turned into the streets then, away from the railway line, happy to have a little bit of shade. I was really flagging now. Once again I'd forgotten that I'm nearly fifty, that I can't just decide to walk ten miles a day in record temperatures without any advance preparation, that I need to lose a lot of weight. My knees were starting to complain about the lack of care and attention. I drank deeply from my vending machine water bottle and made a decision. Bus.
I imagine I was quite firmly judged by the bus driver. I was less than a kilometre from the end of the line; this was in fact the last stop before we got there. I didn't care. I had a few minutes of blessed sitting down in an air conditioned seat until we pulled into the bus station.
Cascina Gobba is a major confluence point for transport of all types. It nestles in a cloverleaf junction of the motorway, and so it's got a massive car park, a bus exchange, and fast regular trains into the city centre. There are works underway to extend a tram line to the complex, with a footbridge under construction to take you straight into the metro station.
It also had, for twenty-five years, an automated people mover called the MeLA. This was an elevated cable tramway which connected with the near, but not near enough, San Raffaelle Hospital. However, the people mover closed "temporarily" in 2024 and has never reopened. It's officially meant to be coming back, but there's no word on when or how. It should be noted that the MeLA wasn't integrated into the transport network, and needed its own separate ticket for access, which makes me wonder about its financial viability. I was mainly disappointed that I didn't get to ride it.
One thing Cascina Gobba* doesn't have is a station sign outside. This is a ridiculous oversight on ATM's part and rest assured I will be writing a strongly worded e-mail via Google Translate. As such I will have to provide a platform sign as proof that I was in fact at the station.
If you can somehow manage to see round my enormous head there, you'll notice that the station has four platforms. This is the point where the M2 splits into its two branches, and so the station is laid out to accommodate that.
Irregular font alert on that station sign as well. That e-mail just got even narkier.
On the train to Cologno Sud, I made a decision. The last three stations are all within the municipality of Cologno, spread along the track at an even distance, and I realised... I couldn't be bothered. I decided I'd go to the stations, of course, that wasn't up for negotiation; but I wasn't going to walk from one to the next. I was too hot, too tired, too irritable. I'm sorry Cologno, I let you down, but I'm not sure I really missed much.
Certainly the view outside the station wasn't exactly picturesque. The line runs on a high concrete viaduct and so the entrance is housed on a bare stretch of land that's overshadowed. Nice and cool, yes, but I wouldn't fancy wandering around here late at night.
It's this viaduct that's caused the whole line to be closed at present. At fifty odd years old it's reached the point where the concrete needs to be examined for flaws and reinforced where necessary.
Back up, onto the train, then off again at Cologno Centro behind two ATM workers arriving for their shift. I tried not to be distracted by their extremely tight trousers and headed out, through the ticket barriers, and into the extremely similar exterior space for the sign picture.
At track level, the stations are great; there is absolutely no chance a similar station in the UK would get a roof these days, and the glass everywhere keeps them bright and open. On the street though, they're no looker.
Picture taken, it was back up to wait for my penultimate train. Outside peak hours there can be a fair wait. I sat on one of the cool marble benches and drank my water. Only after about five minutes did I notice the sticky patch right next to me, swarming with ants, which caused me to leap up hurriedly. I hoped that none of them had breached my short leg and given me literal ants in my pants.
And then the end of the line: Cologno Nord.
The line had dropped down to ground level now, meaning my poor knackered legs had to climb a staircase to get to the exit. Just beyond here there's a depot for the trains.
Up, over, down to the car park and the station's back exit. The final station on Milan's longest line. The behemoth. It was all easy from here. (Yes I know there's still one branch of the M2 to go. I'll get there. Another day).
*(note to self: write children's book with a loveable character called Cascina Gobba)
