Refried Neurons

I’m Not a Designer, But I Went to Milan Design Week Anyway

I can’t really call myself a designer. I mean, I design things, but I don’t have the scarf collection or the temperament for it. That said, there’s nothing stopping me from tagging along with some actual designers on their trip to Italy for Milan Design Week. So after about ten minutes of deep, soul-searching deliberation, I booked the tickets.

By Wednesday evening I was enjoying that familiar rite of passage for all budget travellers: a Wizzair delay. At least I managed to turn up at the right airport—small win, considering I’d only just realised I wasn’t flying to Bergamo after all, but to a completely different slice of nowhere called Malpensa. There went my €14 return ticket from Bergamo. Fabulous.

Still, Malpensa has a train. Or so I thought. Turns out, thanks to the delay, the last one had already left. Grand. With a quiet panic brewing, I started researching bus options. You’d think in 2025 Italy might have cracked the concept of One App to Rule Them All, but no. Instead, I bounced between various half-functional websites trying to decipher which midnight bus might take me to Milan—not to be confused with the heart of Malpensa, wherever the hell that is.

After some light hysteria and a bit of blind luck, I snagged a spot on a different coach departing in ten minutes. Just had to make it through passport control. Bless dual nationality—thanks to my British passport, I could pick the shortest queue. A new stamp later (exciting!) I was full sprint, lungs on fire, but I made it. Of course, the bus was heated to blast furnace, because that’s the law with these things: you’re either in a meat locker or a sauna. No middle ground.

Milan, 1:40 a.m.

By the time I stumbled out at Milan Central Station, it was 1:40 a.m. and I was in no mood to go sightseeing. My hostel, thankfully, was only four minutes away. Not that I was particularly excited about staying in one—hostels and I have been on a break for a few years—but with every hotel charging Design Week extortion fees, and the cheapest 6.0-rated horror show on Booking.com going for €200 a night, a hostel it was.

I’d booked a small five-bed female dorm. A hopeful attempt to avoid snoring and Eau de Backpacker. I crept in, realised too late I should’ve used the communal loo downstairs, and promptly woke up half the room anyway by colliding with the world’s loudest metal locker. Naturally, the only person not disturbed was the one snoring like a diesel engine.

Climbed into bed—third level up, which is fun if you enjoy sleeping with vertigo—and tried to sleep. One woman was coughing, another snoring. So, headphones in, noise-cancelling on. Whoever invented those deserves a Nobel.

At 6 a.m. came revenge. A Spanish girl began her extensive morning routine, including hairdrying with the bathroom door wide open. A full hour of clattering and humming later, just as I dared to doze off again, another one commandeered the bathroom like it was her personal spa. I nearly wet myself. Finally, a slot opened up. Quick shower, minimal dignity, and off I went for breakfast.

Sequins, Sweat and well deserved morning coffee

I put on my designer sequin jacket—figured I’d make an effort—walked out, and immediately walked back in. It was roasting. Forecast said 13°C, but the air said T-shirt weather. So there I was, looking less like a designer and more like someone who forgot their jacket at Lidl.

Still, I found a café near the station that didn’t terrify me or have plastic grapes dangling from the ceiling. The great Italian coffee quest began. In Italy, ordering coffee is a sport. First you pay the cashier, then you slap your receipt on the bar and do your best “serve me” face at the barista. Everyone else was playing it wrong. I nailed it. Got my coffee, sat down… and immediately got a message from the girls telling me to hurry.

Metro time. The queues for ticket machines looked like refugee lines. Then I spotted the same tap-and-go sign as in London. Headphones on, gate tapped, and I was in. Tourists still queuing behind me, bless ‘em.

High Heels and Designer Palaces

On the metro I had a bit of a people-watch. Milanese girls dress differently. High heels, giant blazers, vibes of “I could own this company if I wasn’t already too bored.” High heels! In 2025! In London we’ve moved on to trainers and trauma.

We arrived at Rho Fiera and met up with the gang. Some of them I hadn’t seen in years—lovely reunion. Then through security and into Fiera Milano, which is not so much an expo centre as it is a small continent. 340,000 square metres, pavilions connected by 1.3km of glass-covered catwalks. It’s huge. We started at one end, thinking we’d cover everything in a few days. Cute.

The first hall was packed with brands I’d never heard of but thoroughly enjoyed. We were snapping photos like we were on assignment—textures, shapes, weird light fixtures, maybe even a few things we could actually afford.

After about two hours I realised that furniture, like fashion, tends to repeat itself. You start out amazed, then it all starts to blur—oh look, another boucle sofa. Still, I was getting inspired, even if my bank account wasn’t.

Before diving into the world of opulence and overstimulation, we stopped for lunch. Not a romantic plate of pasta al fresco, but a kebab. Which, frankly, hit the spot. Yes, we were in Italy. Yes, we had kebab. Yes, it felt like a tiny betrayal — but God, it was worth it. We did have a glass of wine with it, though, which surely makes it a bit more Italian.

Then we moved into the “opulence porn” section. Gold, marble, chandeliers, velvet everything. Think Russian oligarch meets Dubai sheikh. We almost ran through that bit—nothing any of us would be interested in unless we win a chateau and suddenly decide that what it really needs is a golden peacock lamp and seventeen velvet thrones. Technically masterpieces—stone mosaic floors, ridiculous marquetry—but very “castle for sale on Rightmove” energy. If I ever inherit a chateau, maybe. Probably not.

Zona Tortona: Hipsterland or Hype?

After five hours, we decided to head to Zona Tortona, allegedly the hipster haven of Milan. But first—aperitivo. We spotted a sign for a rooftop bar, starting from 5 p.m.—it was 5:05. The place was suspiciously empty, which felt both ominous and like a gift. I ordered my first Campari Spritz. It’s bitter and brilliant. Younger me would’ve spat it out. Older me wants a bucket of it.

K’s sister-in-law joined us somewhere between drink one and the ghost of drink two. She’s not a designer either. More “bored rich lady with a Pilates habit.” We chatted, took in the view, and tried to order a second round. And then… nothing. We waited fifteen minutes, waved, asked—ignored. Eventually we gave up and left. Naturally, the second round we never received was added to the bill. Like we were the inconvenience. Stunning.

They carried on after that first drink, leaving us with a helpful tip to skip a showroom with a two-hour queue for a single chair. Thanks, but no thanks.

Zona Tortona itself? Massive letdown. We were expecting immersive installations and avant-garde studios. Instead, we got… one underwhelming exhibit in a beautiful building. At that point, our excitement had died, our feet had blistered, and all we wanted was a hearty Italian dinner.

Unfortunately, the restaurants were all too cool for us. We waited for a table, asked politely, were ignored thoroughly. Not sure if it was our tired faces or general aura, but after fifteen minutes of being blanked we gave up. Screw ‘em.

A few steps later, we stumbled into Kaja Bistrot—tiny Asian place with barely five tables. Warm, welcoming, run by the loveliest people. The food was unreal. To this day, I’m grateful the Italian place was rude. This was miles better.

We lingered. Ate too much. Laughed a lot. Left with bellies so full they deserved their own seat on the metro. Speaking of which—on the way back, I almost got my friends killed. Forgot that most of the world  actually does care about their live and crossed on red like usual; they followed, screamed, then glared at me like they’d seen death. Maybe that helped them sleep better. Who knows.