Pitti Travelogue 00:
Waiting to board the plane from Frankfurt to Florence is an adventure on itself. There are more cuffed jeans than one usually sees; more scarves, more squares, more sprezz.
I waste time trying to guess who's attending the fair. The young Japanese guys with Raf Simons runners, layered tank tops and hankies in pockets are almost too obvious, as is the man with multiple bracelets, jeans cuffed high above his chukkas, and a wool overcoat draped about his shoulders.
Others are less easy to spot. Are those Nikes unlaced for a reason? Are too-slim suits really a #Pitti giveaway? I know that my own hair is only unruly from the sardine-sleep of the airport-weary, rather than any attempt at unkempt swag. So far, I'm the only guy with a sheepskin coat, J. Peterman-worthy cargo pants, and a face like death. I look more like a dad than the actual dads in the airport. I could blame it on the three flights it took to get this far and the twelve hours spent on hold with airline agents, but I can't ever remember looking good when getting off a plane.
No sleep for the swagged.
Dinner was obtained at an Osteria tonight, with @unbelragazzo
. It is difficult to describe how to it feels to meet these two pillars of style knowledge in the flesh. I felt like Miran, staring up at a statue of @StanleyVanBuren
, unable to even lay my head at the Olympus of my betters.
And so I wrestled with my delicious carbonara while they used words like "market projection," "CPI," and "Hedge." Unsurprisingly, Italian food tastes different in Italy, and the noodles in the thick, rich sauce were - dare I say it - unctuous
#Pitti starts tomorrow. Y'all best be ready. Shit's about to get real.