This weekend, Ellen and I took an impromptu day trip to Milan for Fashion Week. We had this perfect idea that we would show up looking all trendy and designers would insist we watch their shows for free and then invite us over for after parties and then omg we're best friends. Events didn't unfold in exactly that manner, but we had a great time nonetheless and even though our feet were bleeding by the end of the day, it was one of the best ideas we've ever had.
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| The Duomo |
I'd seen the fugly parts of Milan before on a bus ride from the airport to the train station, so I wasn't expecting anything magnificent apart from the Duomo on my first legitimate visit to the city. I'm very happy to say I was wrong. I know it's Fashion Week, but it isn't hard to believe that Milan could be as trendy on a regular basis as it is during one of fashion's most important events. I could never live there because I would constantly spend money trying to look like Posh Spice on my walk to the grocery store and back, while simultaneously having to compete with other skinnier, trendier girls. So I'll just spend the same amount of money and dress like Posh here in Bologna, where people have the audacity to wear jeans, flat boots and puffy coats. Embarrassing.
We stopped at a café in front of the Duomo and had coffee (hazelnut-infused, gone in 10 seconds) and lunch. People were literally staring at us like we were a pair of cyclopes. I'm sorry that my sandwich is offending you. Please carry on.
After our snack, we stalked out the Frankie Morello show. Apparently this was the first year a show was ever held in Piazza Duomo, and it's not difficult to understand why. I imagine the area is busy normally, but the street across from the tent was blocked with people just like us pretending they were a) going to get into a show free of charge or b) see their favorite celebrities. Since Frankie Morello isn't as high-profile as, say, Dolce & Gabbana, we didn't linger for too long and instead made our way to the Roberto Cavalli show across town. By "across town" I mean a 30-minute walk in flats, an hour in heels, 90 minutes if you stop and take a sitting break halfway through, get harassed by men selling ugly friendship bracelets and then have an obnoxious self-photo shoot in Parco Sempione. I liked myself much better when I didn't know how to use the self-timer on my camera.
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| Most popular douche in Piazza Duomo |
The atmosphere outside of the Roberto Cavalli show was very different from that of Morello's. First of all, the symbolic white tent was at least three times bigger than the one in Piazza Duomo, its entrance settled under the immense Arco della Pace. There was a large crowd, "organized" (whatever that means in this country) into sections like "Photographers," "Buyers," etc. directly under the arch harassing attendees as they shoved their way into the tent, and in the piazza below, there were all kinds of people taking photos and stalking the lucky skinny rich people who get invited to such shenanigans. Most of the "photographers" (apart from legit paparazzi) were little kids like me with their paparazzo dreams, many of which we deduced must have fashion blogs or columns - so that unfortunately makes them significantly cooler than us.
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| Roberto Cavalli's Tent |
We stood outside the tent for a good hour or so. People would show up (mostly adorable girls dressed in killer heels and amazing coats), pose for the fake nerd paparazzi (us), walk on and give an interview or two, and then make their way to the tent where I assume they had champagne and talked about yachts and adoption. If you were really a bit more famous, like Kelly Rowland, however, you'd "sneakily" walk along the edges of the piazza with your sidekicks and still be mobbed the entire way by 40 creepy men with their dSLRs and Maried Rivera's lens couldn't even get within 5 feet of you. I'm assuming that a lot of the people who got attacked the by the paparazzi were Italian fashion icons, designers, stylists, etc. that I just didn't know, so I didn't care. This means I have to study up for next year.
Unfortunately, Posh & Co. did not grace us with their presence. But let's be real. They were probably transported directly into the tent via helicopter. The reason it's that big is because the bird requires regulation-size landing space.
After we fangirled for a little while (Ellen got to creepily stare at her idol, The Blonde Salad's Chiara Ferragni), we realized it was dark, the show was about to start and our services were no longer needed, we met up with one of my friends I'd interned with this past summer, Sophie, who's studying abroad in Milan for the semester. We embarked on a futile search for an aperitivo place, but no worries - our search led to my dinner, which obviously had to be Italian McDonald's.
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| Chiara Ferragni |
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| Chiara Ferragni |
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| Ellen looking chic |
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| Me looking like a douche |
Being in line at McDonald's was probably the best part of my day. Let me explain. Naturally, since I was hanging out in one of the fashion capitals of the world, I wore a gray sock and a brown sock. And naturally, at the end of the day, when I was on the verge of tears and my feet were about to explode, I eviscerated my platform heels with my invisible space gun aka took them off, pulled out my disgusting flip-flops, slipped them on over my socks and, with a smile on my face, walked down a few streets and into the metro. Head held ever so high.
It was the lowest point and the highest point, taking off my heels. On one hand, in a moment of weakness, I sacrificed my entire outfit. On the other hand, when my feet were flat on the ground, I almost cried wonderful tears of joy. Throughout the whole day, Ellen and I planned our fake lives and vowed to forever be trendy and cuter than everyone else so we can marry our Spaniards we don't yet know. Once the pain set in, it was back to "I'm never wearing heels again," and once our feet remembered how to be flat again, we were once again saying things like "We need more heels" and making mental lists of all the things we need to buy in order to become Chiara Ferragni. We'll unfortunately need our rich Spanish husbands in order to have legs that are 3 miles long and 6 inches wide.
By the time we were back in Bologna, my outfit was not the outfit I left the house in that morning. I looked like a man, you couldn't see my cute blazer (Liz Lemon shout-out) and I was wearing sandals with socks. I don't care: comfort will ALWAYS trump fashion
NEVER.
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| She was my favorite |
Maybe I'll take a day trip to Paris Fashion Week next week. Spend five minutes trying to touch Miranda Priestly before I get back on a plane and weep.
