Mannequins and Mushroom Chocolates: Taylore’s MFW Diary, Part Two

On day three of Milan Fashion Week, our senior editor Taylore Scarabelli misses a show, crashes a dinner party, and finally makes her way into a Prada event.

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10:00AM

I wake up with a sore throat but I tell myself it’s just the European Marlboro Lights I’ve been smoking. It’s way too early in the week to get sick. I work for a couple of hours and then meet my friend Sina for lunch. Afterwards, we walk over to Via Monte Napoleone to windowshop. I try on some sunglasses at Celine and we notice a gorgeous girl standing in the corner in a skirt suit from the latest collection. In America, all of the mannequins are plastic. 

4:00PM

I frantically glue down my pixie cut and throw on a vintage Thierry Mugler suit and YSL heels. Somehow, I only ever have ten minutes to get ready and I’m always ten minutes late. I take an electric scooter to meet Lyas at his AirBnB. I wanted to hire a hot Italian on a motorbike to shuttle me between shows but this feels just as ridiculous.  

4:55PM

A PR woman comes up to me outside of the MM6 show and tells me I’m brave for publicly admitting I didn’t get a Prada ticket. I’m not sure whether or not I should be flattered. On the runway, a procession of models are dressed for a corporate fashion rave. There’s a plastic bag styled as a shirt and a lot of gold accessories. I call it Bushwick recession glam.

5:36PM

I help Lyas change into his look for the Moschino show while our overly enthusiastic driver blasts Lady Gaga. The “survival jacket” is equipped with everything you need for fashion week: an iPhone, a charger, AirPods, and notepads. None of this comes in handy when we’re late for GCDS.

7:55PM

By the time we arrive, the show has already begun. Outside, a group of content creators with handles like @hautelemode and @ideservecouture whine about the traffic. “Stylenotcom was at the Moschino show and he made it on time,” PR kingpin Lucien pages tells the boys. Perhaps he was getting paid a higher rate than the others for his blue text Instagram post. 

9:35PM

 

I get that ASMR tingly feeling while I’m watching the Emporio Armani show. Everything is perfectly executed and I feel like I’m witnessing a glamorous procession of people from another planet. I should probably eat something. A mahogany-toned Giorgio Armani comes out on stage at the end of the show. He smiles and gives a model a foot taller than him a little pinch on the cheek. He’s 90 years old. 

10:15PM

The Armani-branded frittata I had post-show isn’t enough to tide me over so I take Lyas up on his invitation to crash the Purple Magazine dinner at Galleria D’Arte Moderna. Someone at the table passes me a tiny piece of mushroom chocolate and I’m surprised by how delicious it tastes. Then I remember we are in Europe. I down a glass of champagne and a few raviolis. No one wants to wait in line for the Prada party so Lyas gathers a group to ride in his car. It’s rude to leave after the first course but not even the Vogue editors seem to care. Everyone’s already wasted.

11:30PM

There’s no line at Fondazione Prada. The party is a massive rave, or at least the idea of one. I smoke and gossip with some photographers and stylists about how [REDACTED’S] fiancé has been accused of [REDACTED] and then go inside for another drink. It’s almost one am so I order an Uber while my friends make their way to the porta potties for a pick-me-up. On the way I’m beyond exhausted and wonder if I really am getting sick. In bed, I close my eyes and see a kaleidoscope of images and remember the delicious little chocolate I had earlier.