Finding Myself in Fashion (15 page)

Our adventure started off in Dublin, at Louise's swish digs. She
lives atop her divine boutique—a restored Georgian rowhouse in historic Merrion Square. Louise had just returned from a jaunt to London, and she filled us in on Elton John's annual “tiara” party, which attracted a dazzling array of luminaries, from Mick Jagger and Naomi Campbell to Elle Macpherson, Hugh Grant, Kevin Spacey, and Fergie. The girls and I lapped up the celebrity dish, but not before the
Irish Independent
newspaper showed up to snap us for their Saturday society column.
Fashion Television
had been on the airwaves in Ireland for years, and apparently, I had a strong following there. We couldn't get over how down-to-earth and friendly everyone was, and we were especially charmed by the cabbies. That night, we dined at the fabulous loft of Louise's sister, Caroline. By the end of the evening, we were all dancing around the living room to the Chieftains'
Long Black Veil
CD in a fit of true Irish passion.

The next day, on a small plane to Galway, I read stories to Joey from a little Irish folklore book. She firmly believed in faeries at the time, and I did what I could to encourage her, speculating that it was highly likely there'd be at least a few of them living on the shores of Lough Corrib. It was an unusually clear day as we flew across the country, and the girls and I marvelled at the lush and varied shades of green beneath us.

My first big test as the fearless family leader was getting behind the wheel of the rental car at Galway airport. I was terrified of driving on the “wrong” side of the road. With Bekky acting as the navigator, and keeping me in line with sporadic shrieks, we headed out on the highway. It took every ounce of nerve I could muster. I kept telling myself that our lives were up to me now—there was no man to fall back on. It was nerve-racking and empowering at the same time. And even though I dreaded every roundabout we came across, since I was never 100 percent sure how to navigate those suckers, I ended up managing respectably (even though I did almost drive into oncoming traffic on my first turn out of the airport).

We eventually found our way to the bustling little village of Oughterard, where we met up with Cappagarriff's cheerful caretaker at the Boat Inn, the community's preferred watering hole. Outside the pub in the sunshine, people of all ages were sitting at long wooden
tables, having early dinners and knocking back pints. We followed our leader five kilometres down the narrow, windy Glan Road. On the way, a weathered man in a tattered hat who looked like he'd just stepped out of a travel poster crossed the road with a small herd of cows. The girls were charmed to witness this surreal slice of Irish country life.

Cappagarriff took our breath away. The sprawling pale yellow stucco house featured numerous white-framed windows, French doors, stone patios, and old stone walls and walkways. The beautifully landscaped gardens boasted beds of lavender and black-eyed Susans, and the grandest violet-blue hydrangeas on the planet. Inside, the vast rooms were irresistibly homey, with large fireplaces and antiques everywhere. The yellow-and-vermillion walls were lined with folk art—including some by the famed Nova Scotia artist Maud Lewis—and the entire place was hung with colourful handmade quilts and hooked rugs and yards of patterned drapery. There was a state-of-the-art kitchen with an antique harvest table and an enormous hearth. The sun-drenched conservatory was filled with white wicker. Through the glass, the rambling lawns gave new meaning to the word “green” and a heartachingly beautiful view of Lough Corrib. We knew we were blessed to have discovered such an amazing place. As night fell, our dear New York friends Carol Leggett and Tony Gardner arrived with their six-year-old son, Marley, to share the magic.

In the morning, the kids paid a visit to Rosie and Daisy, the two donkeys penned up on the property. We drove to the picturesque village to shop for hand-knit sweaters and tweed salt-and-pepper caps. The girls looked like they'd hopped off the pages of a fall fashion editorial as we strolled down the quaint streets. We dropped by the Boat Inn for chips and smoked salmon, then headed back to Cappagarriff to build a faerie house out of twigs and twine. And so it went. Each exquisite day presented itself as a gift filled with poetry, adventure, and wonder. And as we kicked back by the fire each night, waiting for the faeries to come, I patted myself on the back, proud as punch that this single mum had the guts to pick herself up, dust herself off, and with her two gorgeous girls in tow, experience the kind of cozy family fantasy she thought had escaped her life forever.

Heartened by our successful and rewarding trip to Ireland, we opted for a very different kind of getaway in March of the following year. I was about to turn fifty, and I longed to be reminded of life's exotic possibilities. The girls and I thought Mexico might be fun, but we were determined to think outside the box and steer clear of package deals to conventional beach resorts. I had heard of a charming town, San Miguel de Allende, nestled in the mountains three hours outside of Mexico City. My artist friends Marion Perlet and Toller Cranston, the celebrated skater-turned-painter, had moved there in the early 1990s. And I had just read
On Mexican Time
, a wonderful book by the Los Angeles writer Tony Cohan about his life-transforming sojourn in San Miguel. By all accounts, San Miguel was mystical, romantic, and inspiring. I could see it, smell it, feel it, and I was certain it would awaken the artist in me. I booked our tickets and searched the Internet for just the right house to rent.

The gods were with us, and the small casa we found was perfect: two bedrooms filled with antiques and local artisanal furniture, with an outdoor living room and a tropical landscaped courtyard, just three blocks from the main square. So that we could share a sense of purpose, and not just spend our days hanging out, resting, shopping, and sampling salsa, I decided art classes were in order for the three of us. Marion put us in touch with a handsome local artist, Gerardo Ruiz, who had a studio on the edge of town, and each day, the girls and I would taxi to his place and spend a few hours painting and printmaking. I worked on a couple of timely self-portraits: one of a glamorous me thrusting a birthday cake and a chicken into the air, and the other of me gingerly walking across a tightrope, parasol in hand—a statement about the delicate balance I have always been obliged to strike.

We scoured the market for just the right straw cowboy hats and carried our precious art supplies in cheap plastic tote bags emblazoned with the faces of Frida Kahlo and Catrina, the famous skeleton lady. I cruised the dusty cobblestoned streets in my faded jeans and fancy green-and-black cowboy boots, while Joey made the radical fashion statement of a twelve-year-old in flannel Paul Frank pyjama bottoms, and Bekky opted for Boho Chic, with vintage silk scarves and the
romantic peasant blouse I had bought for her in Paris. But beyond the fun we were having with fashion, each of us took great delight in getting into the Mexican groove and, above all, savouring our sense of family.

Because we missed all our friends back home, we frequented the local Internet café. The girls were intrigued to think that they were communicating from this exotic locale to their girlfriends' boring bedrooms. Joey ordered nothing but
leche con chocolate, frio
, while Bekky became addicted to a soft drink called Squirt and I became a margarita maven. We spent our afternoons having long, lazy lunches in courtyard cafés resplendent with bougainvillea, discussing art and life and just which little souvenirs to purchase. Marion was our guide, an elegant vision in white linen and a straw fedora, swaggering down the skinny sidewalks like she owned the place. She has become a highly successful artist in San Miguel these past few years, and I thought back to the days she struggled in Toronto, living in a basement and subsidizing her income by working in a bar. I started collecting her striking figurative paintings in the early 1980s, and my girls had grown up with them on the walls of our home. It meant so much for the girls to finally get to know her.

Most evenings were spent in the bustling main square, which hosted tiny parades and vendors selling balloons and toys on sticks and ice cream and cups of corn—a mecca for mariachis and artists and lovers and little kids who get to stay up late and old people simply content with watching the world go by. You could lose yourself in that square. And some nights I did, savouring each and every joyous moment.

Then there was the flamboyant Toller, my old confidant and original style icon, one of the first true artistes I had ever befriended. We had lost touch over the years, and it was bliss to rediscover him in his little Shangri-La. Toller's San Miguel estate comprised a magnificent four-house garden compound hidden behind great wooden doors, complete with a glass-walled studio filled with enormous, vibrant, and lyrical canvases. To celebrate my big 5-0, he hosted a simple yet lively Champagne-and-pizza dinner for us in his studio. The highlight was the birthday surprise he'd arranged with my sister, Marilyn, in L.A.: In the middle of dinner, a nine-member mariachi band, all dressed in
gleaming white suits, strolled into the garden and up the studio stairs. “Any requests?” they asked. I didn't know any Spanish songs and thought for a minute. “How about ‘My Way'?” I asked. To our delight, the band launched into a Spanish rendition of that classic corny tune. And I, Champagne flute in hand, drank in every last word.

But few trips I have taken with my beautiful girls can compare to our enigmatic but memorable time in Paris. The passion I feel for the City of Light dates back to 1974, when I spent a joyous few months there as an aspiring young artiste intent on mastering mime. I often think it's because I get to travel to Paris four times a year (covering the two prêt-à-porter and two haute couture collections) that I stay in this business. The inspiration I glean each time I stroll along the Seine, pull up at the Place Vendôme, see the Eiffel Tower, or sip a café au lait at a corner bistro is unfathomable. It's what feeds my spirit and soothes my soul.

For years as my girls were growing up, I dreamed of taking them to Paris to witness all the fantastic things that I had been telling them about, and to share those passions that run so deep in me. I wanted them to see the art and the architecture, taste the croissants and the crêpes, see the style on the streets, hear the music of the language, and experience the sheer joy of bearing witness to all that ubiquitous beauty. But regrettably, for me, Paris and work are synonymous, and with my days spent running around from shows to ateliers to interviews, there was never enough time to deal with the girls. Besides, between school and summer camp, their schedules were too harried to coordinate.

In July 2006, when Bekky was nineteen and Joey sixteen, and summer camp was no longer a factor, I felt that my chance to show them Paris had finally arrived. I would be working the first few days of the trip, of course, covering the fall couture collections. And I would have a cameraman in tow. But I figured these young ladies were now old enough to amuse themselves. And I would try to finagle some tickets for them to at least one of the shows, so they could witness the splendour of the runway and see me in action. They seemed pumped for the trip, and I was certain that my fondest fantasies were about to be realized.

Paris in the sweltering heat is not ideal, but with the temperature in the thirty-degree range the day we arrived, we just had to sweat and bear it. In the cab on the way from the airport, I anticipated my daughters' “oohs” and “ahhs” as the city unfolded, remembering so vividly what it was like for me the first time I saw Paris. But then I got my first rude awakening. “Feels like Montreal to me,” sniffed Bekky. “I think I like Florence better,” added Joey, getting nostalgic for the school trip she had taken the previous year. Complaints about the stifling heat dissipated as we neared the hotel. I had booked them an extra room at the Odéon Hôtel, the charming little St. Germain hideaway where I had been staying for almost a decade. Happily, they were charmed by the neighbourhood and the accommodations, though the tiny elevator to the sixth floor gave Bekky a case of claustrophobia. There was a view of the Eiffel Tower from both rooms, and the girls were delighted with that. It was decided that Joey would bunk in with me, however, so the volatile Bekky could luxuriate in the privacy of her own little room, which the writer in her saw as quite garret-like.

We crossed the Carrefour de l'Odéon for our first meal, choosing to lunch at one of my regular haunts, Les Éditeurs. It was then the real bickering began. I dismissed it as jet lag and tried to lose myself in a glass of Chardonnay. A plate of frites later, an exhausted Joey returned to her room, leaving Bekky and me on our own to savour St. Germain. I showed her all my favourite shops and cafés, and she seemed to be lapping it all up. But she did proclaim her disappointment at the way women were dressed. “I thought Parisian women were supposed to have such style,” she mused. “I can't see it at all.” I sort of understood where she was coming from: The women on Bloor Street in Toronto dressed just as chicly. I knew it would take Bekky a while longer to realize that great style goes far beyond the superficiality of what people wear.

Just when Bekky was ready to crash, Joey got up and was ready to rock. So I took her to the opening of the new avenue Montaigne Chrome Hearts boutique. Decked out in funky plaid pants, a studded belt with a skull buckle, and an old Doors T-shirt, she fit right in. The label's cool co-designer, Richard Stark, struck up a conversation with
her. I stood back and watched as Joey—my baby—got into the Paris groove, proud as punch that she was holding her own.

The next morning, I took off for the shows while the girls went exploring with my cameraman's lovely girlfriend. We met up at the end of day, and they told me about riding the giant Ferris wheel and the carousel at the Trocadéro, while I regaled them with stories of Cher at Armani and Mischa Barton, Drew Barrymore, and Liv Tyler at Dior. Bekky was zapped once more, so she napped while I took Joey to Valentino. I hoped it was as much a fantasy for her as it was for me, rubbing shoulders backstage with the likes of Liz Hurley and Martha Stewart. I even introduced her to Valentino himself.