Ciao Roma: Fashionista vs Scholarista 3...The Church of FENDI

Via Condotti. The crema della crema--the 5th Ave or Sloane Street, if you will, of la Citta Eterna. Many fond memories trotting down this little stretch of prime retail real estate, whose terminus is the famous Spanish Steps. My fashion eduction, in many ways, began here. On family trips to Rome, mandatory sight seeing as per the prerogative of my professor pater would immediately be offset by "power shopping" excursions with mater. After dragging our feet through the Vatican and the Forum (in fact, my first glimpse of the Sistine Chapel was through closed eyes as the little five year old Whisperer fell asleep somewhere between le Stanze della Segnatura and Caravaggio's Entombment and had to be toted), it was off to the Via Conodotti. Here, mother introduced me to the likes of Prada, Ferragamo and, most importantly for a Roman visit, Fendi. You see, mother has a golden rule of shopping, and she instilled it in me young: "power shopping" is like to a pilgrimage. Just like the millions of Catholics who schlep themselves to St. Peters in the hopes of just a glimpse of the Pontifex, making a major purchase, if done correctly, is somewhat of a soul-fulfilling ritual. That is to say, a big purchase is somehow made better if done at the source, the flagship--the brand's home. Never buy French designers in Italy nor Italians in France. Leave Donna Karan at home and don't buy Burberry New York. And when we're talking Rome, this leaves us with Fendi. Prada, Armani and the rest--they're all Northerners, with their flagship palaces firmly parked several hours away in Milano. Ferragamo, the heart and sole of Florence.

But Fendi is Rome's little darling. Whence mother would peruse the gorgeous racks of minks, Russian sables and chincillas at their flagship store just off Via Condotti at the time, the 8 year old mini-whisperer gushed at the site of the luxe wall to whose creation a good quarter of the world's mink population must have sacrificed their lives. She got the Mamma Baguette--I the Croissant, what a dynamic duo we were. Ahh the early installations of the "it" bag back in the 90s. And power shopping was always topped off with Bellinis and celebratory trophy photos at the famous Cafe Greco.

All grown up and on a blogger's budget, my visit to the heyday of my courtship with Italian fashion was still no less fun without Mamma Baguette, though certainly less prolific. Fendi, now relocated to a hulking five story corner building at the head of Condotti, is the St. Peter's of the street, and I paid my homage accordingly. Even though it was obvious from my tattered Miu Miu that I would not be sinking my teeth into a pair of red hide Mary Jane platforms at the cool price of 700 euro, the kind sales woman took pity on a suppliant soul and graciously wrapped cashmere/chinchilla scarves around my neck and slipped light-as-cloud furs onto my shoulders. Bless her. She took the time to show me a mink coat which had been infused with 24 karat gold at the molecular level, the result was an iridescent micro-fiber effect. Stunning. She also took the time to explain to me about the now bespoke nature of the bag which I have been coveting since last summer: the Peekaboo. Made-to-order, at 1700 euro for the large size, there's now a four month waiting list. But as you only had to put down half up front as a deposit and pay the rest whence the little jewel is safely delivered into your hands, the only thing keeping me from whipping out the plastic was the looming threat of December rent. Sigh.

All grown up and still trying to play Peekaboo at Fendi, guess I am a fashionista after all.

Palazzo Fendi

Peekaboo, sigh...

Max Mara

Ferragamo

Valentino

Tea at Cafe Greco

*fin*