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ITALY I arrived looking like a pauper. "Having donated most of my clothing to a homeless shelter before departing on an around-the-world trip nearly one year earlier, I'd worn the same 4 pairs of pants across 19 countries on 6 continents. Of the T-shirts that survived the journey, most were frayed and faded. My Nikes looked like shredded tires. My socks had grown stiff enough to stand up and walk on their own. What better place than Rome to upgrade a wretched wardrobe.
Beneath the handsome 15th-century Trinitá dei Monti church which towers above the Spanish Steps and Piazza di Spagna, lies a triangular grid of narrow streets. Each is lined with elegant shops that make up a virtual Who's Who of Italian clothing design: Giorgio Armani, Salvatore Ferragamo, Ermenegildo Zegna, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace, Fendi, Valentino, Missoni. Dozens of juxtaposed designer shops create a virtual high-fashion theme park crammed with thousands of well-heeled shoppers. Dressed in shabby jeans that had recently endured the back roads of India, Egypt and Ethiopia, I stepped through the glistening glass doors at Salvatore Ferragamo and immediately felt out of place. An army of salesmen in dark, stylish suits, seemed to whirl around and stare at me. Wearing gleaming leather footwear and expensive silk neckties, any one of them could have stepped from the pages of Gentlemen's Quarterly. I looked as if Iíd stepped out of the gutter.
"You want to buy?" he said, in a clipped, Italian accent. "Yes, but I'd like to try on the shirt first." "You know your size, sí?" "Yes," I said, smiling. "Then you do not need to try." I once sold men's designer clothing at Bigsby & Kruthers, which, before closing its doors a few years ago, reigned as one of Chicago's finest clothiers. I could therefore understand the salesman's reluctance to unpin an expensive, pre-folded dress shirt. Especially for a customer whose appearance seemed inconsistent with the purchase price. But I was willing and able to buy. I tried to make the salesman aware of this fact.
With brisk, judgmental eyes, the salesman looked me up and down. "I am sorry," he said. "You cannot." "You don't understand," I said. "I'm not paying this much money for a shirt unless I can try it on first." "I am sorry." More embarrassed than angry, I handed over the shirt and crept out of the store. Traveling alone for so long, with scant attention given to appearance, I had apparently fallen into a state of disrepair far worse than previously imagined. During the somber walk back to my hotel, I took note of my surroundings. Everyone and everything looked good. The salespeople bustling behind the windows at Sisley. The teenagers sporting Guess jeans and wrap-around Police sunglasses. The men in white cotton shirts and tastefully wrinkled linen slacks. The women strutting along fashionable Via Condotti, sheathed in expensive-looking dresses and brandishing Prada clutch bags.
Alas, I was the odd man out. A walking fashion faux pau. I sat at the magnificently sculpted Trevi Fountain, contemplating a coin toss that is supposed to ensure, or so the legend goes, a return trip to Rome. I wished instead, for a return to the Australian outback. In that part of the world, where nobody cares about fashion, Dolce & Gabbana might be confused with some newfangled dessert. Nevertheless, I benefited from advice given by St. Ambrose to St. Augustine nearly 2000 years ago. "When in Rome, live as the Romans do: when elsewhere, live as they live elsewhere." I returned to my hotel room and regrouped. Donning my only pair of dress pants (made of sturdy, black polyester) and the most presentable T-shirt in my repertoire, I headed for Emporio Armani.
Guiseppe had judged correctly. Just about everything I tried on fit perfectly. In the end, he sold me several pairs of pants, a couple of shirts, even a black suit that I had not been prepared to buy. (As is the case with most clothing shops in the tourist district, non-European Union residents are entitled to a VAT refund of approximately 12% on purchases. Cash disbursements can be collected at the airport upon departure from the EU.) The next day I strutted down Via Condotti, dressed in Armani attire that made me feel human again. When I strolled into the Salvatore Ferragamo shop and paused to regard the shirt I had originally wanted to try on, the same salesman rushed over to greet me. "I'm sorry for the day before," he said, recognizing me in spite of the new clothing–or perhaps because of it. "Many people were here. It was very busy." He then proffered the folded shirt. "Would you like to try it on?" Admiring the soft cotton fabric, the crisp weave and elegant stitching, I responded in the affirmative. "Why not," I said. "I'm in Rome." click here for more images of Italy Next stop: Barcelona, Spain. |
