Feeling thoroughly un-glamorous and making promises to myself to wear more red lipstick, garter belts and velvet, I returned with Katie to the bar. We grabbed some champagne and explored where the plebeians (see: non-VIP) were forced to loiter in-between shows. At this point we had become painfully aware of how important FLAB was to Sergei and pretty much every person working at Fashion Week. Intrigue was fast hitting critical mass. Should we go talk to him? He’s American. I’m American. We have that in common. I’ve been to LA before. I speak English. He has to want to be friends, right? Who only wants to be surrounded by Russian models? Oh, right. Every hot-blooded male ever. So once again I find myself stealing furtive looks at this stranger with the leggy blonde who looks suspiciously like she was hired to “entertain” him during his stay in St. Petersburg. Ugh. Quick do something chic. To the Bentleys! Standing next to a Bentley always makes me feel better about myself. I call it luxury-good association. I may not own it, but damn do I look good standing next to/with it/in it. So Katie and I headed to the Bentley stand. See below:
Beside the Bentley stand there were several fashion exhibits, one that included real models standing incredibly still.
I am clearly not meant to be a photographer….
Soon the bell rang for the last show of the night, a Swedish designer whose name I cannot for the life of me remember. During intermission I had noticed a group of people who I became insanely envious of. It was a group of beautiful, unnaturally hygenic, insouciant teenagers. I referred to them in my mind as the cast of the Russian Vampire Diaries (this show does not yet exist. Hint hint channel 1 …) They laughed when everyone else was quiet, acted as if they grew up at fashion shows, saddled the benches during shows, and had more inside jokes than an Andy Kaufman skit. When an important looking Japanese-American designer showed up with posse en tow, he greeted them by name. Who were they? And how do I make friends with them. During the show, Katie and I sat nearby and I found myself watching them more than the models.
Here are some photos from the show I did not watch. It was very Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. This could be true. Or there could be the chance that as an American, I instantly associate anything Swedish with Lisabeth Salander.
After the show, Katie and I decided to grab some food. Should we go to the after party we were invited to by Sergei’s assistant? Or grab some sushi to continue our cosmopolitan night? Or should we go to the walk-thru McDonald’s window that is open 24/7? McDonald’s it is. We made the short walk to Nevskii Prospekt where I ordered a Royal with Cheese and Katie got some nuggets. As we were waiting for the verrrry slow woman behind the window to arrange our food, we spotted a very fancy Lamborghini parked in the middle of the road surrounded by two black Escalades (it could also have been a Ferrari and two Explorers, a Porsche and two Range Rovers….). What in tarnation? Who parks their car in the middle of the road? Wait, I’m in Russia. Naturally, we were curious so we waited to see who got out of the Lamborghini. Lo and behold out pops Sergei. And out of one of the black SUVs pops FLAB and his entertainment for the night. Oh good lord for all the people to be on the same 100 meter stretch of road as us at 2am, it is Sergei, FLAB and his honey boo. What to do? If they see us, any gains I made in my X factor immediately get wiped out. Where to hide? How to hide? Should we hide? Or should we run away triumphantly, mouths full of corn-fed beef in a 1976 Lada we flagged down on the corner. We’ll take the latter.
As a rusted-out Lada (not pictured above because that is one cool Lada) rounded the corner, we hailed it down gypsy style and climbed in. To the mansion! We declared to our Uzbeki driver and as we rolled by FLAB and his entourage, we giggled into our value meals, thinking of the absurdity of coincidence and the night we had just had.
I’ll leave you with this: