An Ashkenazi in Milan
My friend Alan leads an itinerant life. He has been blessed with living in exciting locales in the Americas and Europe. Not too long ago, he left his spacious rental in the heart of Madrid, for a slick apartment near the heart of Milan, across the street from the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio. Alan’s reputation as a host and local guide is nothing short of stellar. He has been asking me to visit with him for some time. Last week, I was finally able to grant him his wish, courtesy of my daughter being away at camp. (I shall leave for another day the subject of my waking up in a sweat realizing that my daughter was in a separate continent).
I arrived at the Milan-Malpensa airport on a sunny and warm Sunday morning. I took the express train to Cadorna station, just a few blocks from my friend’s house. Being Sunday, there was hardly anyone on the street. It felt very peaceful after navigating a connection at the Frankfurt airport earlier that day.
I settled in, and began a week of amazing sightseeing at a very leisurely pace. I had visited Milan before for a short stint, but now I had the chance to take my time and absorb the city at a more profound level. And much there was to absorb. In preparation for my journey, I had mapped out several nearby towns to visit via the surprisingly reliable Italian rail system. But as the days wore on, I felt quite content peeling the layers of the Milanese onion.
Alan is blessed with wonderful local friends. They invited me to dinner virtually every night, and forbade me from even hinting at paying for any of them. And believe me, these meals were definitely worth paying for (another subject ripe for an article at a later date – pun intended). The highlight of these meals was a fantastic shabbat dinner at a gorgeous old apartment. I have never wanted such a kitchen more in my life. It would be hard to pin a label on the kind of Judaism that my hosts practice (Italian Jews are a category of their own). But the ritual and meal were fully consistent with the way we do shabbat in Alexandria.
The next morning, I got up extra early, and headed to the Sinagoga Centrale. My walk took me past the famed Duomo di Milano (the third largest cathedral in the world, and by my assessment, the most strikingly beautiful). Then, a quick standing-up breakfast of decaf cappuccino (yes, they have decaf in Italy, and I got no attitude by asking for it) with a delicious cornetto (or what the rest of the world calls croissant). A few blocks later, I arrived.
The synagogue’s website stated that shabbat services start at 9:00am, and I believed it. As a man of Jewish and Argentine lineage (with a strong Italian cultural influence), I should have known better. The only people I saw in front of the building at that time were two Italian soldiers guarding it. They saw me skulking about and took pity on me. One of them explained that the party does not get going until about 9:20am. So I did what any pious Jew would do under the circumstances. I walked into the Saint Barnabas church across the street to enjoy a bit of catholic psukei d’zimra.
At around 9:20am, I stood outside the sinagogue’s gate with two fellow travelers trying to crash the party – one American from Las Vegas (observing yertzait for his father), and another Italian passing through town. A dour-looking gentleman approached the gate and asked me if I had sent them a copy of my identification in advance. I had not. He shook his head signaling that I was no going to be able to get in. But I was not worried. I had danced this dance before at synagogues in Mexico and Poland, and I always get in. He told me to wait, which I did.
A few minutes later, a gentleman straight out of central casting approached the gate and proceeded with my expected mossad-style interrogation. He was dressed very well (this was Milan, after all). Jacket, tie, tweed cap. He started perusing my passport and asking me questions. “What city are you from?” “Alexandria.” “What congregation do you belong to?” “Agudas Achim; I used to belong to Adas Israel.” “Who’s your rabbi? “Steven Rein. Used to be Jack Moline.” “Why is your first name Spanish and your last name Jewish?” I suggested he review the main page of my passport showing my place of birth. For some reason, that put him at ease and he started conversing with me in Spanish. I was in.
As expected, they led me to a downstairs room rather than the main sanctuary, which in hindsight, I never got to see. I had borrowed a kippah from the shabbat dinner the night before. They had a variety of tallits to borrow as well. I picked one and was ready for davening. As I found out soon after, there were two services that morning: a traditional Sephardic and what is known as the Italian or Roman ritual. I was assigned to the first, which gave me no pause as my best friends growing up were Sephardic. In fact, I grew accustomed to breaking the Yom Kippur fast with delicious Syrian-Lebanese treats.
The room was laid out in the old-style fashion, with a raised bimah in the center and auditorium seats laid out in the round. It felt very much like the “cheder” that my Sephardic friends would take me to when we would make the rounds during the High Holidays. There was a mechitzah on the right side, with see-through glass or acrylic on the top portion. Needless to say, the room was filled with only men (about 18 of us or so). On the other side of the mechitzah there was a woman with two children.
The young rabbi introduced himself, and suggested that I pick up a siddur (only in Hebrew) and a chumash (thankfully, the Artscroll variety with Hebrew and English). The service began with a congregant leading rather quickly from the audience (not the bimah). The combination of the usual prayers (with some Sephardic differences) and the unfamiliar nusach felt comfortable and strange at the same time. Imagine hearing the Kaddish with words in it that you’ve never heard before. It felt as though I was hearing an early demo tape of a familiar pop tune.
After a 30-second brake, it was on to Torah service. To my grateful surprise, the gabbai looked over in my direction and signaled with his arms in a closing motion. I assumed that he asked me to close the ark after the torah procession, so I proudly made my way to the ark and waited for his sign. The inside of the ark was beautiful, with torah scrolls contained inside beautiful and ornate self-standing round boxes (unlike us Ashkenazi savages who keep them in velvet covers and pray to Hashem that they stay up when we set them down). An open box at the center of the ark proudly displayed outwardly the day’s parashah.
After some singing, the gabbai looked at me and again signaled with his arms that I should close something. So I began to close the ark’s doors, which was strange because the Torah had not gone anywhere yet. The gabbai then rushed to my side and explained that I should instead close the Torah box and carry it around the room. After a quick apology, I closed the clasps at the top and bottom of the box, and carried it around the room, which felt very familiar. It was a bit heavy, but somehow easier to carry than the loose scrolls that I’ve carried around before. After a quick spin around the room, I handed the box to the rabbi, who placed it on the bimah and reopened it. I was thankful for the honor, and returned to my seat.
The Torah reading service was very similar to ours, with a few exceptions. For starters, they don’t do triennial – they read the whole thing. Moreover, the rabbi himself read the entire thing, with his father standing by his side, physically conducting the trope (and occasionally correcting a word or two). In addition, the standing Torah box allows them to easily turn the scrolls through a bottom lever. As I said, we are savages who have to lift the scroll and drag it to advance to the next column.
After a few aliyot, I was surprised to be offered one of my own. I did my blessings in proud Ashkenazi nusach, and felt very much at home. Following the second blessing, I copied the locals and hugged the box instead of hanging on to the Etz Chayim handles. The rabbi’s father asked me if I was observing any special occasion, which I was not (other than being in Milan that is!). Then he blessed me in a very private way, which felt very comforting.
When we finished reading, they asked me to carry the scroll once more back to the ark, which I did with great pride. After each honor, everyone greeted me with a hearty “chazak u baruch!” which is the Sephardic version of “yasher koach.” By the way, if you haven’t seen the comedian Modi explain the differences between the ashkenazi and sepharadic traditions, run to YouTube and watch him. But be warned that you may hurt yourself laughing.
After the Musaf service (both Amidah and Musah included reptitions), they invited me to their kiddush. I must say, in all honesty, it did not live up to either Milan or AAC standards. But it was lovely to break bread – well actually little square pizzas – with them. Oh, and there may have been some whisky involved as well; I can’t remember.
The rest of my shabbat was very restful. My friend Alan and I walked around the city, and enjoyed the only dinner that he would allow me to pay for during the entire trip. In traditional Milanese style, we paid 13 Euro each for a drink (the obligatory Aperol Spritz) and all-you-can-eat buffet.
After a couple of excursions to Lake Como and Bergamo (both very much worth your time), it was time to head home. My flight from Milan departed late. After running around the Frankfurt airport from terminal A to terminal Z (if it sounds Kafkaesque is because it was), United informed me that I missed my flight. Lufthansa was kind enough to put me up for the night. The next day, I flew home to Dulles and took the Metro home, if anything because I wanted to continue to bask in the glow of an enlightened society with amazing public transportation options (my friend Alan does not own a car).
Most tourists lust after Rome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. I say, skip the lines and go straight to the treasures of places like Milan, Torino, Bologna, Verona, and Bergamo/Brescia (2023 Italian Culture Capital). I’m glad I gave Milan a second look, that I stayed there for several days, that I shared my time with amazing local hosts, and that I got to do Jewish there. Next time you travel, I suggest you give all these a try.
