Letter from the Editor: February '06.

Excess Baggage

T

here's an Italian television reporter who covers the fashion shows as if she's opening in Vegas. She wears sequins in the morning; leopard print, slit-to-the-thigh gowns on Sunday afternoons; and bustiers, miniskirts, and boots at all times and seasons. In these getups, she perches on the edge of the runway to narrate the shows, shaking her sexy blonde head for emphasis. It is a riveting performance. She's a one-woman foxy news channel.

Most of the fashion press is decidedly more subtle. We aspire to drama with a little less cleavage. When I prepare for the shows in Milan and Paris, I start by hauling out a gargantuan suitcase, checking weather.com, and arranging every velvet boot, beaded evening bag, and lace cocktail dress on my bed. This is not the time for traveling light. I load everything into that one suitcase and head to Milan, where I wear a mere fraction of its contents. At the end of the week, I pile it all back in the bag, place tissue between the layers, and send the suitcase to Paris via DHL.

Last season, the bag took a detour somewhere along the way. The people at DHL believed it was in a warehouse on the outskirts of Paris, or maybe in Brussels. One phone call came, inexplicably, from a DHL representative in Costa Rica. My clothes were having an adventure.

And so was I. If you're going to lose ...