Carolina Herrera, in October 2019 in Madrid.
Many years ago, being young and daring, I spent an afternoon as a clerk in a Carolina Herrera store for a report of luxury brands.
The journalist card was my visa to access that forbidden paradise outside the sales period.
I was young and daring, yes, but I had neither the solvency nor the genetic inheritance nor the aplomb necessary to walk around that image of a New York apartment, full of prohibitive models, and go out with nothing.
A great trip, I already said.
Still, what struck me the most was that, in that opulent world, money was the ordinary.
Who cared for the ladies ...
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