In the words of Tom Jones and others: “She’s got style, she’s got grace, she’s a winner. She’s a Lady…” Indeed, Milan’s beloved Sciure (pronounced “sh’iu-ra”, or “sh’iu-re”, in plural form)–the city’s impeccably dressed, impossibly poised “elite” housewives of a certain generation–are society’s real “winners”. Unofficial (maybe even official) “Queens of the Pavé”, these local Milanese donne set the tone in particular neighborhoods–the ones where they’ve resided for most of their adult lives–gracing the likes of Via Brera and Piazza Sant’Ambrogio with their signature air of effortless grandeur, and delicate wafts of Lily of the Valley.

The Sciure have clocked up an impressive number of Bar Basso aperitivi, private couture fittings in Via Montenapoleone, society charity galas, and chit-chats in the neighbors’ salotti during their time on earth. They have now reached a point in life where they can choose their cares as carefully as a new-season handbag or a Marchesi mignon. In fact, according to some, ultimate success in life looks like… a Sciura. 

According to many, in fact, Milan’s Sciure are right up there on the list of Italy’s national treasures, nestled in somewhere between the Dolomites and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, for which, they’ll wholeheartedly confirm, you must cram yourself into an airtight chamber to see the ghostly remains of when visiting their home city. Adorned in their Loro Piana cashmere and pearls (flung on in a last-minute change of heart, because the Buccellati choker didn’t feel quite right), Sunday-strolling down their beloved local thoroughfares, smiling when recalling the real meaning of the phrase “Milano da bere”, they are national treasures of their own kind.

But how can you be sure if the Sciura you think is a Sciura is really a Sciura? As mere mortals and keen admirers of the Milanese Sciura, there seems to be a few “criteria” that place her in this elite social sphere and give her this title. Though, it must be said, she would likely never refer to herself as such. Nor would she bat a lightly frosted eyelid about any “external” analysis, criticism, or admiration of her stature and lifestyle because, for her, it’s simply life, and Milan is simply home. Instagram accounts with hundreds of thousands of followers dedicated solely to documenting and adoring the Sciure’s style?… “Eh? Ma perch​​è?” one Sciura remarked–squinting out into the horizon with a perplexed look–when asked about the fame she didn’t know she had out there in the strange social media ether. 

So you get all dressed up in your new trench coat and patent brogues, and hit the streets of Milan thinking you look pretty chic. That is, of course, until you walk past a Sciura and realize you have a long way to go, in many respects. The words “sciura” and “style” are often used in the same breath, and this reflects the idea that, by many accounts, she’s the embodiment of classic Milanese taste. A Sciura seems to have an innate sense for grooming and dressing that has been part of her identity since birth, nurtured by the fact that she flourished into womanhood during a time when elegance and refinement reigned in all matters of style, decorum, and social conduct more generally.

She probably still remembers the thrill of seeing Gucci begin printing its GG monogram onto canvas handbags in the early 1960s. She probably still wears her Flora print scarf that debuted in the house’s first ready-to-wear collection of ‘81, which she snapped up quick-smart at the time. And she’ll never forget the butterflies in her tummy when she wore that scarf on her first few dates around town with dashing Mr. Sciur, when they were both just teenagers. She knows what pure silk from Como feels like, and she also knows that there’s certainly no “occasion” needed to wear it; a stop in at the corner panetteria for a pizzette snack, a sunny sit-down in Parco Sempione, a stroll across the cortile to check for mail. Safe to say, the Sciure invented “streetstyle” before “streetstyle” invented itself in Milan. They are the city’s style gatekeepers, raising the bar by simply by dressing, and being, exactly as they are. Fashion influencers, kindly step aside. 

Where is one most likely to spy a Sciura in Milan? Put it this way, if you can call yourself the neighbor of a Sciura, you’ve landed yourself in a rather sweet spot in the city. Admired on the streets (often in pairs or trios, safety in numbers…) in their tailored double-breasted blazers and oversized Prada frames, often with a compact canine companion, they are locals in neighborhoods of “historic Milano” near centro including Brera, Sant’Ambrogio, Porta Venezia, and the like. If a Sciura is progressing towards you with her Cavoodle and there’s no room for both of you on the footpath, obviously, you get out of her way without delay. She is, as mentioned, Queen of the Pavé, or sidewalk. 

You’ll also likely spy the Sciure at some of the city’s most adored heritage bars, pasticcerie and hideouts where the local style set have flocked for years. The morning cappuccino and brioche alla marmellata at Pasticceria Cucchi, maybe a light lunch at Sant Ambroeus or LùBar after a patron’s meeting next door at Galleria d’Arte Moderna, a stroll around Villa Necchi’s gardens for some fresh air… but never all in the same day, heaven forbid! The Sciure know the secrets hiding in the walls and gilded picture frames of historical hangouts like Bar Basso and Camparino in Galleria like the backs of their hands. They have watched, with a mixture of amusement and trepidation, these institutions transform from local meeting spots to iconic tourist destinations in their city. They’ve tasted their fair share of risotto perfumed with saffron and butter to know the real-deals from the fauxs, and they’ve simply lost count of how many times they’ve stared up in awe of Teatro alla Scala’s 300+ lightbulb chandelier on the opening night of opera and ballet premieres. Milano, a Sciura’s playground, her home.

Do Sciure exist in other Italian cities? Sure, well-to-do donne of a particular generation who put us all to shame with their artfully curated outfits, head-turning aura and incomparable nonchalance are certainly spotted in many Italian cities–most in fact. But, a Sciura, in the truest sense of the word, can be found only in Milan. The word “sciura” literally means “lady” in traditional Lombard dialect, and she is inherent to the city’s soul and splendor. She has lived through its transformation from Italy’s industrial hub to an exuberant international metropolis and style mecca that sees hoards of visitors–welcome and otherwise–descend throughout the year. And now, at this blissful stage of life where those “hands on” years of raising kids, regular international travel, and weekly swing dance classes might have wound down, there’s likely few prospects more appealing to a Sciura than enrobing herself in a mink coat, sitting out the front of her favorite local haunt, sipping on a cappuccio (with the lightest dusting of cinnamon on Mondays and Wednesdays, cocoa on Tuesdays and Thursdays), and watching the world go by.

Long live (and long love!) the Sciure, these priceless Milanese locals. They continue to exemplify what it means to not only take immense pride in oneself, but to also cherish the nuances and Campari-flavored pleasures of the city that shaped them into who they are. In fact, it’s sometimes hard to tell if the Sciure are Sciure because they live in Milan, or if Milan is Milan because the Sciure live there. Either way, we must take a moment to thank them for sticking by their faith in the enduring allure of traditional elegance and classic taste. While she probably observes them with some sense of amusement or even curiosity, it’s unlikely a Sciura feels compelled to chase today’s fleeting, fluttering trends or “must-have” wardrobe items. They come and go as quickly as the young couples living on the floor beneath her.  

This particular generation of Milan’s Sciure are in fine form, inimitable even, and we can’t help but wonder, will the next generation of Sciure be the same? Allora, will there even be a next generation of “Sciure” as we know them? They embody that–dare we speak French here?–je ne sais quois in Milan that’s difficult to describe in words. So we’ll sing it instead: “She’s a Lady, whoa, whoa, whoa, she’s a Lady…”