Milan

We came to Milan for the Duomo and stayed for the aperitivo. The cathedral is absurd up close—all those spires and statues, centuries of marble filigree that shouldn't work but does. We stood in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II with a spritz at Camparino, watching tourists spin their heels on the mosaic bull for luck. Later we sat outside at Piz on one of those too-bright yellow tables, three pizzas between us, the kind with puffy charred crusts and not much else. Sometimes the best meals are the ones where you don't overthink it.

The Last Supper requires a timed ticket and feels smaller than you expect, faded and holy in a way that makes you lower your voice. We walked out into the heat and found ourselves at Dal Bolognese for lunch, then again at Il Salumaio for another meal we didn't need but wanted. Milan rewards aimlessness. We stayed at the Mandarin Oriental the first nights, then moved to Palazzo Parigi, both the kind of places where the lobby feels like someone's very rich uncle's living room. One evening we ended up at Botanical Club, then Drogheria, then 1930, the nights blurring together in the best way. Milan isn't trying to be anything other than what it is: stylish, practical, and uninterested in your opinion.