Ciao tutti!! (Yep, I'm greeting y'all in Italian now. I think I've been here long enough to start doing that. I know, my language skills are impressive.)
Well, it has been a while and there is absolutely no way I can cover all that's been going on lately. I'm not sure anyone out there is reading this anymore, seeing as I haven't posted in almost a month. However, those of you who occasionally visit me on the FB may have noticed that I sorta-kinda went to Milan and got to sorta-kinda experience approximately 4 hours of fashion week. I don't think I've even mentioned this on this blog yet, but I have a sorta-kinda internship (it's a loose term) with a weekly publication for tourists here in Florence. It's a lot of fun, really lax, and is helping get me embedded in the city's culture because I have to seek out people to interview and events to attend. And you never know, I may want to write. For some publication. Someday. But for now, it's a good enough thing in itself.
So one of the main reasons I haven't posted on this blog in forever has to do with the newspaper. I was going to wait to post until I had this VERY exciting news confirmed, and then I was pretty much going to make an elaborate post and brag about it. Cue bad karma! (Well, not bad...just a twist on things, I guess). To make a long story short (many of you have probably heard this already) my editor/coordinator lady was going to get me a press pass to some of the weekend shows during Milan fashion week September 22-28. It ended up not working out. That's the short version. However, I decided to just, well...go...anyway. And I still wrote about it for the paper. (The paper is filled with lots of little editorials, features, and personal-experience-essays and whatnot, so it fit). Since I didn't have a legitimate pass, my piece ended up being basically all about me trying to beat the system and the fun I had along the way more than the clothes and the spectacle of fashion week itself. (I actually had to tone it down/not go into too much detail about some of what went on.) Hope you enjoy.
Crashin' Fashion: A Mississippian Conquers MilanThe words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to escape at any moment. I wanted so badly to wait until my big news was officially confirmed before I told anyone about it, but I was powerless before my own need to brag. Just as I was about to sign off from my lengthy Skype call, I decided to throw in the one sentence I’d been itching to say out loud all day long. “Oh yeah, guess what? I might be getting a press pass to Milan fashion week,” I said casually, awkwardly forcing my facial muscles to halt the slightest indication of giddiness, desperately trying to appear somewhat calm and nonchalant.
On screen, my fabulous friend Benjamin, a 17-year old Karl Lagerfeld in the making, was visibly flabbergasted. He is spending his senior year of high school as an exchange student in Hildesheim, Germany, so we’ve had a few online chats filling each other in on the ups, downs, trials, and thrills of our respective European adventures.
He stated matter-of-factly that he was so inflamed with jealousy that our friendship could no longer continue. Unless, of course, I could bring him back some gift bags and designer goods. Little Ben has an affinity for expensive scarves.
Well, perhaps my eagerness to brag to Ben about the opportunity to attend fashion week with actual accreditation sent me some bad karma. Unable to procure a press pass in time for the weekend shows, I was devastated. The sting of seeing the shops along Via de Tornabuoni on my route to school was an excruciating reminder of “what might have been.” My friend Brittany was planning a weekend trip to Milan, just to visit, not to crash fashion week, and she announced giddily that Kim Kardashian had recently updated her Twitter about arriving in the city. This was the last straw for me, and I snapped: “There are
way more important people attending than Kim Kardashian. What did she ever do besides date Reggie Bush? Why not me? Who is
she to be invited to fashion week?”
Who, indeed.
I decided that this was an opportunity I could not helplessly watch fall through the cracks. I knew full well that the Big Four fashion weeks enforce security on par with the Pentagon. I also knew full well that I was in Italy, a place somewhat known for leniency and rule-bending. And finally, I knew that if I did not at least make an attempt to get in to some shows, I would forever wonder whether I possibly could have made it past security. There would always be a tinge of regret. A thousand “tinges” of regret is more like it. Try as I might to shake the initial grandiose visions I had of me posing casually alongside Margherita Missoni, I couldn’t. I thought to myself,
how often are you in Italy? How often is the timing so perfect? What’s the worst thing that could happen?And so, after answering those questions, I did what any determined and spirited (or, more accurately, impulsive and stupid) college kid would do: I went anyway.
Worst-case scenario? I would make a complete fool of myself and my wallet would be drained of about 150 euros. Based on experiences in Italy so far, I logically concluded that if I stayed in Florence for the weekend, the exact same scenario had a 95 percent likelihood of occurring. I reasoned that if I were to have no luck, I’d simply spend the day exploring Milan; checking out
The Last Supper, visiting the Milan Cathedral, and window-shopping in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. I came abroad for adventure, and surely this day would not disappoint in that area, even if the fashion gods refused to smile upon me.
Saturday morning I rose at the crack of dawn and found myself fighting with fate before the journey even began. My spotty Internet connection was failing me. I’d planned on playing a bootlegging game of connect-the-dots, utilizing fashion blogs and glorious Google to dig up a tentative schedule of Saturday shows. I cursed my luck but remained calm. This was unforeseen, but not unconquerable; surely I could easily find an Internet café in Milan. Time was ticking, and I needed to spend it on more pertinent matters, like how to dress the part.
I recalled some wise words I once read in an article sharing advice for sneaking into New York fashion week:
Dress to impress. Be authoritative, not desperate. Act like you belong, and you will. The article was intended to be humorous. Oh, if the writer could see me now, taking her sound “advice” to literal extremes.
This was one of those times that I encountered the all-too-common problem of “a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear.” I knew wearing head-to-toe Dolce & Gabbana would seem pitiful and would give me away as an American poser desperately attempting to dress contextually. Thankfully, that was a non-issue since I cannot even afford to pretend that I own a single D&G garment; maybe if I forked over half my summer-camp paycheck I could purchase a discounted pair of sunglasses from their diffusion line. But there was no time to agonize. I ended up deciding on a simple ensemble: printed BCBG dress, black opaque American Apparel tights, trusty Tory Burch flats. BCBG may be a French label, but the whole look was thoroughly American, thoroughly colorful, thoroughly college-coed-goes-to-church (or maybe an Ole Miss football game), but I was just trying to stay true to myself. (Or, rather, all I own are clothes that are true to myself. There aren’t exactly piles of garments in my wardrobe that scream “
Milan!”)
Over the years, I feel I have generally been relatively content with my appearance, but this was one time that I wished I could trade in my cherubic, baby-fat facial features for Ukrainian cheekbones and gazelle limbs. Not because it would affect my quality of life in the long run, but because pretending to be a model would be my ticket “in;” dressed simply in a billowy t-shirt and leggings, my only accessories a cigarette and a surly expression, I would not have to explain myself or my intentions to any scary security men. We all can dream.
At 7:30 a.m. precisely I walked outside, headed for the 8 a.m. train to Milan with only my purse and my pride. The day was off to a dismal start, as the weather was particularly rainy and cold and the streets seemed abandoned. This did not bode well for the rest of the day. But then, just as I passed the Ponte alla Carraia, I saw a woman, the first person I’d seen out and about that morning, clad exceptionally fabulously, dashing somewhere with a Missoni umbrella in hand, stylishly shielding her from the rain. However silly and superstitious it might have been, I felt this
had to be a sign that somewhere along the course of the day, the stars would align for me. She was, after all, the first person I had seen that day. I admired her determination to look stylish despite the grim weather. The umbrella itself was a fantastic metaphor: style and grace despite stormy inconveniences. I walked toward Santa Maria Novella with a renewed spring in my step.
This spring was abruptly halted when I was informed that there were no available seats on the 8 a.m. train. The next train with available seating would not be leaving Florence until 10 a.m. A curveball, to be sure, but my morning coffee helped me cope. Things could only look up from here, right?
When I finally boarded the 10 a.m. train, I was seated next to a woman donning the largest and most ridiculous earrings I have ever seen: glittering ceramic replicas of Betty Boop. I averted my eyes and avoided looking at them for the rest of the journey, certain that surrendering to staring at something this tacky would somehow cosmically affect my luck at the fashion shows.
I arrived in Milan on time and immediately made my way to an Internet café, dropping 4 euros for 20 minutes to dig up information on show locations. Finding a schedule was easier than I envisioned, but printing it was a different ordeal entirely. A combination of factors, including the language barrier, the computer’s lack of Acrobat Reader, and my attempts to mask my very politically incorrect shock at the bellowing male voice of the lady behind the counter, resulted in the printing process taking over half an hour. But when I finally left the café, I felt accomplished and prepared.
As I came closer and closer to Palazzo Serbelloni, where the Blumarine show was scheduled to take place, my nerves began to take over and the realization of this day’s utter ridiculousness began to set in. But I’d come this far. I wasn’t backing out now. When I arrived at the Palazzo, I saw hordes of people swarming the streets, no doubt as anxious as me to enter, and probably just as illegitimate. For a brief moment, I was disheartened. But then I thought of the people back home I’d informed of this adventure. I thought back to the initial Skype call where I broke my news (and my good karma), and the question of “what would Ben do?” washed over me. Ben, I decided, would find a way in. I planned to make him proud.
I weaved my way toward the front of the line. Without making even the slightest effort to enter, I could tell that the security men in front were clearly intent on squashing the dreams of young idealists like myself. (Or they were just doing their job. You know, something like that). But a glimmer of hope shone near me. A group of about 15 young Italian girls wandered off to the right, with a short, loud, powerhouse of a woman herding them around the corner of the building. Curious about where they were going, I followed them, trying my best to blend in, figuring I had nothing to lose but my dignity.
Suddenly I found myself at a giant door labeled “Fotografi.” The mysterious short lady lined us all up and in an annoyed tone began tapping each of our heads, counting and then practically shoving us inside. I was baffled as to where I was and how I was not immediately shooed from the group, but I went with it. With Lieutenant Fashionista leading the charge, we walked past security, past photographers, and past signs pointing toward the backstage area. I was absolutely giddy, but tried my hardest to remain stone-faced, mute, and to look as if I had the slightest clue as to what was going on.
We stood outside the stage door for about 15 minutes as tall Glamazons walked outside for cigarette breaks and cell phone calls. I toyed with the idea of trying my luck out front, but I knew if I left, I’d likely never get back in. If this was as close to the fashion festivities that I got all day, I still would have considered it worthwhile. I was staying put.
Within a few minutes, a mysterious man came out of the stage door and motioned for our group to circle up. Remaining calm, I clumped in with the rest of the girls and watched as he held up bracelets, tops, purses, and a particularly heinous gold-studded coral wedge, talking at length about each of the items. Obviously, it was all in Italian and I understood no words apart from
scarpe, but I nodded attentively as the rest of the girls were doing, still amazed at my luck thus far. As the coral wedge fell to the floor, he held up his hands and said affirmatively, “
Allora,” pointing toward the stage door. And in we walked. In we walked, as casually as if we were walking in to the café down the street. The intimidating men guarding the doors did not question us one bit. I had absolutely no idea what group I had ended up in, but clearly they had some sort of power and permission. And I was content to ride their coattails.
Backstage at Blumarine was utter chaos. It reminded me of my days of high school dance recitals; vivid memories of stage moms, costume changes, and the stenches of hairspray and competition came flooding back. Charts of exit and entry orders were everywhere. The photographers backstage had no mercy and, to the disgust of the stage-manager types, were snapping away at models as they dressed. People were rushing across the overheated room to make last-minute adjustments. The girls were all wearing matching white hair clips, and disaster struck when some models realized theirs were nowhere to be found. A true doppelganger of Catherine Zeta-Jones struck poses for a very pushy photographer despite an angry woman’s yelling for her to focus on
preparing for the show rather than
making a show backstage.
Caught in the chaos of it all, I was just intent on remaining inconspicuous. I had not said a word since my interaction in the Internet café and I planned to remain quiet. Apparently I had the best luck that way.
The photographers formed a line on the left side of the room when a woman announced that pictures were now permitted.
Be cool. Look nonchalant, I told myself as I moseyed up beside a broad-shouldered bodybuilder type, two cameras in hand. Never mind that my tiny Canon Powershot handheld camera was an obvious red flag that I did not belong in the professional photographer line. I snapped away with the best of them, and no one questioned anything. That is,
until I accidentally elbowed the bodybuilder, who was clearly on the verge of taking the photo of his career. His face reddened in fury; he took one look at my pathetic personal camera and barked, “Little camera! You need go!”
He had no authority to kick me out, so I simply gave him a sincere apology and moved to an area less apt for taking pictures. I figured I owed it to the professionals. But suddenly I caught wind of a scary conversation taking place. A man was standing at the door, huge Nikon camera in hand, flailing his arms and begging the security officers to let him back inside. “You don’t understand, my bag is in there!” he cried. As one security officer continued to clamp the man’s arm, the other inquired about the location of his bag, went to get it, and promptly proceeded to throw the man outside. I became terrified of experiencing a scenario similar to this one, and decided I was satisfied with the pictures I got and the outrageous story I’d have to share with my friends at home. So, just as the security guys slammed the door, I discreetly and coolly slipped outside, making my way out as if I were simply a visiting friend of a model or, say,
legitimately allowed to be there. Then I turned the corner and bolted down the street before the security officers could even start scratching their heads about who I was and what in the world I was up to.
The insanely good luck I had at Blumarine set a standard for the rest of the day that was not met. The Just Cavalli, Jil Sander, and Pucci shows were all inaccessible (rightfully so, of course), and unattainable press passes swinging from people’s necks seemed to be mocking me all day long. I spotted a woman in line at Jil Sander donning a long-sleeved, acid-wash denim jumpsuit, and I questioned the inherent goodness of humanity when I saw that she was allowed in and I was not. But, at the end of the day, I could have shown up in an Oscar de la Renta ball gown and been denied entry. She may have been an acid-wash denim woman, but the bottom line was that she was still an accredited woman. What it comes down to is who has the pass, period.
But a stroke of good luck can sometimes come to any of us. Though I could not help fantasizing about how the weekend would have gone had I actually been accredited, I was incredibly satisfied with my adventure. Even just seeing the city and feeling the energy of fashion week in the air was exhilarating. The day was gratifying because I
worked for, and was determined to get, a tiny glimpse of the goings-on. I wondered if I would appreciate the spectacle and excitement of fashion week if I were someone to whom passes and invites were handed on a silver platter. Something tells me the thrill would not be quite the same.
Fashion in itself can be that way. Sure, it would be nice to be able to purchase any luxury good I wanted on a whim. But knowing that I earned every penny I spent on my favorite Zac Posen bag, for instance, gave me a great sense of accomplishment when I was finally able to buy it. Would Carrie Bradshaw get such thrills from her giant collection of Manolos if Mr. Big had bought all of them for her? Of course not. Knowing that I made this loony adventure happen for myself made the day all the more storied, interesting, and hilarious. I have a feeling that if I were to compare my experience with those of seasoned fashion editors and designers, mine would be fresher; I got a taste of the excitement without the world-weariness and cynicism that so often comes to those for whom glamour is an expectation. Grazie, Milano.
