A long windy road up a vintage Sumirago hillside in a very refined black car driven by a sturdy man who is clearly delusional: he believes he's racing in the Formula One Italian Grand Prix. We've lived and slept though his imaginary speedway, sounding like a few jets revving their many engines on the tarmac just before take-off. Suddenly he stops gently and opens the door, a dignified driver again. We see a very modern set of glass walled dwellings; very Le Corbusier and international. The factory is set against startlingly green grass, like walking through an especially vivid David Hockney.
This wasn't where it began. My first buying trip, Milan's Linate Airport and the taxi to the Train Station and three hours on the Fashion Train to Florence. Arriving at midnight and lost in time, hungry and finding one truck stop open. Fiorentine Bistecca with lemon, fresh bread with a dry crust served without butter. Sleep and walking past the bridges of poems.
Pitti Palace old and concrete floors. Maybe it's not really filled with miles of clothing but I think it is. We stop and say hello to Aldo Pinto. Krizia is nice but a little heavy, better for cities with weather. But in the back we spot something light and colorful and move past him to touch silky rayons, soft silks. The label is Missoni. Aldo says we can buy it if we buy Krizia too.