My Italian Journey. Sunday 24 May. Day thirteen. Milan to Paris

My walk takes me through the warm but somewhat gloomy streets of Milan. I sit in the garden and read and then drink tea in a cafe. We decide to find breakfast at Stazione Porta Garibaldi. Our taxi driver speaks a limited version of all European languages: “You have to as a taxi driver.” The streets are empty on a Sunday morning, and we will be very early at the station. Just as well, the taxi driver tells us, because in an hour the Giro D’Italia will pass through Milan and the streets will be closed. While I eat a sandwich, Chicken goes to look at the departures board and panics when she does not see a train to Paris. I set out to solve the problem, walk to platform one, and see people queuing for a French train to Paris. The notice says it will depart at 10.40 not 10.55 as it says on our tickets. We scurry round to catch the train, where soldiers are vetting everybody getting on board the train. For some reason—too old to be illegal immigrants?—we are waved through. The train leaves…