DIARY DA MILANO
In the past, I used to easily plant my spoiled editor's bottom on the back seat of a roaring taxi. Not to mention the period when we had Andrea, a particularly well-made Italian creature who picked us up from the airport in his mother's car and took us to shows and dinners. Now that I am an entrepreneur, I take an Easyjet to Malpensa (= cheap) and go with a shuttle to another terminal to take the train to Milan from there. It was too much for me to take the metro from Milan Cortena station to my hotel (which is a bit less low budget, sorry), so I got into a taxi. But it went the wrong way, so I managed to negotiate the price in my best Italian. I prefer to spend that taxi money wisely. On a Prada bag, for example.
Upon arrival at the hotel (which is in the same building as the location of the Gucci show), I immediately dive into the restaurant. A strong wifi connection, a glass of Chardignon (or was it Sauvignay?), a salad, my Macbook, and I was intensely happy. At seven o'clock, I was picked up for a pre-dinner drink in Chateau Monfort (the place to be in Milan) by Ilaria from Gucci. One of the sweetest and nicest PR ladies I know. My dinner was a tower of Pringles in the hotel room. Too tired to eat, I fell asleep.
On the day of the Gucci show, I get a wake-up call from my love. My daughter's library book is missing. And the teacher gets really angry if someone forgets the book. Or loses it. Give us deadlines and a million viewers (my husband makes TV shows) and we don't lose a drop of sweat. But an angry teacher, we can't handle that.
I almost forget to write that the window display of Prada had a magnetic effect on me
Couldn’t find the book from a distance and after breakfast with a friendly bartender, who has worked with Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana, I went to my appointment with Valentina. Another lovely PR lady. Valentina welcomes me in the beautiful, classic (what else did you expect) office of Tod’s on Corso Venezia. We catch up and I, as always, swoon over the jewelry she has made herself every time.
Since I am already on Corso Venezia, the step to some serious serial speed shopping is particularly small. Not to say; nil. Picking up some shirts for my husband at Vittorio Marchese (we ordered them last fashion week and now they were neatly ready, I feel like a Milanese), a flared skirt at Cos, and some hairspray and elastics at a small hairdresser's shop. I get the hairpins for free. I almost forget to write that the window display of Prada had a magnetic effect on me. I left the building with a chihuahua bag. A smaller version of the Prada Saffiano. If I don’t take taxis and eat simply during my entire stay, I will have saved it back.
While the taxis are honking like crazy, I quickly change for the Gucci show. What a chaos it is outside. It’s raining so hard that all the paparazzi and bloggers disappear under a hedge of umbrellas. I take a few snapshots and rush inside. Anna Wintour is already waiting nicely on the front row. This time not in Prada but in Gucci, as it should be. I nod and am treated to a smile. I have an Anna crush. Can't help it.
The Gucci show was amazing. From glasses to snakeskin boots and everything in between. I want it, I need it, I will have it. After the show, it’s really time for a bite. I set up my laptop, check in on the wifi, and the same recipe from yesterday repeats itself. A glass (it’s already 4:00 PM. During fashion week, you should start the day with a glass of fizz), a salad, a fast internet connection, and a Mac that sends all my stories to the editorial office. Across from me sit John de Greef (Elsevier) and Michou Basu (De Telegraaf). It’s a straightforward, Italian throwaway place that fashion people sometimes need. After half an hour, the Gucci girls trickle in. “Where did you buy that?” one asks the other. “Was it on sale?” she asks before taking a sip of red wine and a bite of pizza. Fashion people. Sometimes they suddenly seem very ordinary.
