"The Fridge"

If Torino was akin to a close friend, Milan is the red-headed step sister. As a city, she suffers from multiple personality disorder. Every block changes so quickly it is hard to ever get a true "feeling" of Milan. And yet, like a patchwork quilt, it somehow fits all together. And even though you may look at the same designs again and again, a new pattern will always pop out at you and you will say with surprise, "Oh, that was right before my eyes this whole time."

I can only give you one small taste of the eccentricities of Milan, encapsulated in an archive I somewhat fondly and somewhat resentfully call "The Fridge." (Doug gets partial copyright credit).

 I stepped off of the bus, and while I looked around for the street placards, a fluttering sheet caught my eye. "Against evictions. Occupied since 1979" was spray-painted above the telltale anarchist symbol from the sheet hanging on the balcony. I knew I was getting close. The next street over I found what I was looking for; a low, white and grey building greeted me, adorned with a hodgepodge of Communist related posters and grafitti. A small wooden door swung open and I stepped inside.

A group of young adults were laughing in an adjoining kitchen. I would later learn that they were current squatters, and, in fact, this very building is technically "occupied." The police have forcibly evicted both the social center and the library/archive three times, yet they always manage to make their way back in.

The first thing that caught my attention when I walked into the archive was the array of books. Any and all space had been converted to hold them, the books seeming to stretch the very walls like a collection of stretched waistbands following Thanksgiving dinner. Eventually I was taken up a narrow staircase to a room filled with yet more books, even more disorganized and lying in stacks on scattered tables or shoved into makeshift containers lining the walls. At first a few people tried to help me locate my materials, and then they eventually just shrugged and said, "Why don't you take a crack at it?"

And so they drag in a table to place next to a small stove, as I comb through the chaos in search of those gems. My fingers hurt as I take turns warming them under my legs as I turn the pages of whichever book I'm reading The stove occasionally offers a sputter, as if knowing that its placement is more symbolic than practical. Wrapped in scarves and two jackets I attempt to work through the constant haze of cigarette smoke and the 80s rock blaring in the office.

I am surprised by the many faces that pass by my "desk." There seems to be no congruent age group or background. My new friend eagerly introduces me to them all, and a few of the older "comrades" offer advice (but mainly criticize) my project and methods. Gradually I sense the dynamics of this community. No one is wanting for a place to sleep, something to eat, or a chat over a beer in the makeshift bar. I've literally seen someone give another the coat off of his back. Through them, the sense of community created by squatting no longer remains an abstract academic thought as I see it in action. And although "The Fridge" may lack heat, its inhabitants quickly warm anyone's heart.