MEETING MANDELA IN MILAN
Madiba was there as always, waiting for me. Walking from the Cadorna train station in the chaotic center of Milan, I crossed the busy, building-lined piazza as cars, buses, taxis, and trams snaked around. Escaping the claxons and confusion, I took the shortcut onto quieter, pedestrian-only Via Puccini heading toward the Duomo. A yellow ochre theater was to my left and a few cafès to my right, and dog-walkers sometimes in the middle. Then I crossed the street (San Giovanni sul Muro) and followed what became a narrow alleyway flanked by the greyish stone walls of offices. This was now called Vicolo San Giovanni sul Muro (the alley of San Giovanni sul Muro). It eventually changed names a couple more times and curved into a major pedestrian way, but before it did, I had my rendezvous with Madiba.
The first time I saw him in the late autumn of 2015, I was startled. Suddenly there he was, Nelson Mandela, life-sized, modest, accessible, approachable, so realistic in spite of his bronze patina that my first impression was that he was impatiently awaiting my arrival as I turned into the alleyway.
But no, no impatience in his stance. His shoulders were a little hunched over, one hand was always calmly folded across the other, his eyes were sad but serene. When I walked there at odd moments, no one else was around since this is not a high-traffic corner of the city. And I would have a…
