Beside me, India's face of Dior is trying to sleep. She fails, I start a conversation. What is she thinking of nowadays? The escrow account, she says, of the Jet-Sahara deal. Will Jet get the money back? Right. I ask for wine, and then some more. She has moved on to the Middle East, is the bombing on Lebanon justified?
Now I want the muffin. She doesn't. She's had fresh fruits and juice for breakfast. I am eyeing some bacon and sausages.
Then, she turns a perfect face at a perfect angle and says sorry. W-w-hy?, I stutter.
She is taking off her canvas shoes and socks. Her feet is hurting. "My feet are downright ugly," she says. I stare hard at the white feet. As good as feet can be, clearly. "Terrible," she adds. "I don't like my feet too much."
And then - "My nose is not quite right." By now, I'm fairly enamoured by the pert nose. So... Right.
"And my fingers..."
I call for more wine. I am going to Rome with huge guilt. I flew out of Delhi the night Mumbai was rocked by the blasts. The Western line, which I use everyday to get to work, torn apart. I should have been there. Standing through night, serving information. Instead I'm drinking a 2003 white and a nicely done chicken, surrounded by models. By the way, here's something, most models talk only to other models. There goes that great myth that fashion journalists schmooze a lot with leggy lasses. They don't. At least, I don't.
Well, perhaps that's because I'm not even sure that I am a fashion journalist. I hate tags. Why can't I be just a journalist? Why this or that?
Anyway, so I'm still not over the fact that the Face of Dior talks only of flaws in her looks, when she begins to talk of backpacking through Europe. Hmmm, I think, not a bad idea. Turns out that she has no intention of going backpacking with me after all, darn!
We discuss the movies. In The Mood For Love - how apt, and, flying over Vienna, classical music.
I am thinking this must be the most cliche-breaking model ever. I tell her so.
At a distance, another model is sleeping, huge Chanel shades perfectly in place.
This is my lucky day though. Seems that Face of Dior and I have common roots - a Bihar-Bengal mix. Strike One? Maybe not.
In the aisle, a Burberry bag-carrying blonde is nursing a puppy. A puppy! And the puppy seems awfully quiet. Like me, it licks on Austrian chocolates from time-to-time.
And finally, a Pico Iyer moment - Gautam Diamond store in Vienna!
(Coming Next: Roman Holiday: Part II - Kiss The Hand?)first published:July 18, 2006, 13:08 ISTlast updated:July 18, 2006, 13:08 IST
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Right, so I'm sitting in this plane. Lauda Airlines and the pasty-faced stewardess is asking for money for food. 3 Euros for a 'homebaked muffin', 2 Euros for water (for water?). Visions of Air Deccan swim by.
Beside me, India's face of Dior is trying to sleep. She fails, I start a conversation. What is she thinking of nowadays? The escrow account, she says, of the Jet-Sahara deal. Will Jet get the money back? Right. I ask for wine, and then some more. She has moved on to the Middle East, is the bombing on Lebanon justified?
Now I want the muffin. She doesn't. She's had fresh fruits and juice for breakfast. I am eyeing some bacon and sausages.
Then, she turns a perfect face at a perfect angle and says sorry. W-w-hy?, I stutter.
She is taking off her canvas shoes and socks. Her feet is hurting. "My feet are downright ugly," she says. I stare hard at the white feet. As good as feet can be, clearly. "Terrible," she adds. "I don't like my feet too much."
And then - "My nose is not quite right." By now, I'm fairly enamoured by the pert nose. So... Right.
"And my fingers..."
I call for more wine. I am going to Rome with huge guilt. I flew out of Delhi the night Mumbai was rocked by the blasts. The Western line, which I use everyday to get to work, torn apart. I should have been there. Standing through night, serving information. Instead I'm drinking a 2003 white and a nicely done chicken, surrounded by models. By the way, here's something, most models talk only to other models. There goes that great myth that fashion journalists schmooze a lot with leggy lasses. They don't. At least, I don't.
Well, perhaps that's because I'm not even sure that I am a fashion journalist. I hate tags. Why can't I be just a journalist? Why this or that?
Anyway, so I'm still not over the fact that the Face of Dior talks only of flaws in her looks, when she begins to talk of backpacking through Europe. Hmmm, I think, not a bad idea. Turns out that she has no intention of going backpacking with me after all, darn!
We discuss the movies. In The Mood For Love - how apt, and, flying over Vienna, classical music.
I am thinking this must be the most cliche-breaking model ever. I tell her so.
At a distance, another model is sleeping, huge Chanel shades perfectly in place.
This is my lucky day though. Seems that Face of Dior and I have common roots - a Bihar-Bengal mix. Strike One? Maybe not.
In the aisle, a Burberry bag-carrying blonde is nursing a puppy. A puppy! And the puppy seems awfully quiet. Like me, it licks on Austrian chocolates from time-to-time.
And finally, a Pico Iyer moment - Gautam Diamond store in Vienna!
(Coming Next: Roman Holiday: Part II - Kiss The Hand?)
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