I’m sure you have all figured out by now that this was not, in fact, shot in Rome. As a matter of fact, I’ve never even been to Rome – and though I’m told it’s lovely, today, I’d say many a cold and fluey Sydney-sider would sooner hop on a flight to Bali, than the long-haul to pizza. I, too, have managed to come down with the dreaded head-and-throat cold, partially attributable to a late school night (as many of you pointed out), but mostly thanks to too much class, and fellow students sneezing into the ventilation system.
And so, we find ourselves in Bali to distract from unattractive sniffles, and to discuss how I found myself in a floral maxi dress. We all know I’m not a dress person, nor would you find me in a field of flowers in a bandana and a pan flute (though I wouldn’t mind shooting that editorial). My personal style, as the web likes to call it, has found itself in pyjamas, underwear, and all too many garments at once. Yet, somehow, when in Morocco, I’ll roll in blue, when in Paris, I happily embrace what has become the tackiest of striped stereotypes, and when in Rome, we do as the Romans do.
I often find myself unpacking from trips away with trinkets and all assortments of hand-something’d, artisinal-somethings from a little old man in a little old stall, that would be completely incompatible with my home game. That’s when the universal problem of a wardrobe of clothes, but nothing to wear, rings true – at least, for me (seriously, where was I planning on wearing an ombre macrame skirt?). On the flipside, the more I travel, the more I find myself packing for the destination, rather than touting a pinstripe man suit on a white sand beach. White cotton for Cote d’Azur, all-black for New York, and apparently breezy blues and Pendleton for a brief break in Bali.
Give it enough time and you’ll find me in cut offs in Miami.*
And that’s ok.
*you’ll never find me in cut offs in Miami.