Going Every Which-a-way....

Only here would an outlet mall consist of Balenciaga, Alexander McQueen, Stella McCartney, Valentino, La Perla, Gucci, Pucci, Burberry, Armani Jeans, Emporio Armani, Sergio Rosso, Fendi, and Yohji Yamamoto. At first I was ecstatic, practically drooling all over myself--partly because the bus ride over (that went up Tuscan hills that revealed the native Alps and cyprus trees) made me naseous but--mostly because I couldn't believe I was going to touch these clothes. I went from store to store, taking my time to really decide what I wanted. Javi would die. I pictured myself returning home with some McQueens so Javi and I could jump up and down in them (we'd take turns wearing them, of course).

How fabulous I would feel--well, at least I'd know I was wearing something fierce because, actually, although the fabrics are divine the clothes and shoes aren't especially comfortable. I thought I found the pair I wanted (and could afford) at Sergio's. They were black little witch shoes--kind of like ankle boots circa the Salem witch trials... I asked my roommate Laura for advice. "They're aweseome." And the "maseta" (cheapo) inside me confessed, "I've seen something like them in the market though." The market of San Lorenzo has them for 30 euros as opposed to these, that were 145... "Honestly, take the market ones, because these are a fad shoe." My spirit dropped. She had a point though and cheap little me knew it. So...I kept walking around more and more disheartened. What will I tell Javi when I come back empty handed?

I glared at my red H&M pants and my Zara striped sweater and my flat Mephisto boots, and felt plain. Less fabulous than all that surrounded me. But I kept looking around. I went into an outlet boutique and tried on a neon olive Stella McCartney. It was gorgeous--I looked like a hot Renaissance painter with a really expensive silk smock. 88 euros. I couldn't. I knew before I put it on that I wouldn't buy it. I lied to the lady working there and said it was too big. I was sure the only other blouse was the same size--42 (European size). She found me a 40. I tried it on out of guilt. I lied again "Ancora, grande." I left the store and started reasoning with myself. I don't need these things to feel fabulous. Why aren't I just pleased with myself? Why do I want Valentino or Alexander--just to say I own them? The bus wouldn't arrive for another hour. I almost went to the café to write but saw Diesel across the street. I went there, telling myself to turn away immediately, that this was ridiculous, that fashion is uselessly and painfully elitist, and I went in. And I liked it. It was simple-wool sweaters, great sales. Fifty percent off. I found a black smock somewhat like Stella's. It was a sxx but it fit! I had to buy it. And I got one more 100% virgin wool sweater (whatever that means). Textiles in Florence, definitely the thing to get. I asked the cashier lady if the designer of diesel was American because the style looked very AE. She said "Italiano, disegnado qui e fatto in Italia." YAAY! Perfetto! I actually got something Italian. And spent more money than I should've but I think it'll be okay. I might get boots and a hat in the market but then I'm STOPPING. I think. I should. Sales end in February.