Paris Fashion Week: Blagging rights

Paris Menswear 2009. Photo / Supplied

I'm standing outside the Raf Simons show with 500 other people, trying to squeeze our way in. Blocking our path are a Belgian ex-model-cum-employee, a snotty French PR agent and two burly security guards. Despite being on the guest list and a member of the foreign press the PR agent is refusing me entry. I'm faced with a dilemma. Wait it out and hope that my patience is rewarded, or make a run for it and risk getting kicked out and publicly humiliated.

What to do, what to do.

Coming from New Zealand is a great asset when travelling overseas. We have issues with very few nations (and if we do they're more than likely sporting competitors), and some countries - like Turkey - don't even make us humble New Zealanders pay tax when we enter their borders.

We're generally treated with a smile, an exclamation of "Kiwi!", and, depending on the age of the person, a few words to show off how much they know: "All Blacks! Peter Jackson! Lord of the Rings!" And these days, often a simple, "Flight of the Conchords!"

When it comes to international fashion weeks, however, I've found that hailing from this idyllic slice of paradise in the South Pacific is not ideal. Over the course of a four-day period I made somewhere in the vicinity of 170 phone calls and sent between 50 and 100 emails, requesting, pleading, begging and cajoling invitations to the Paris menswear shows. I was treated to the most classic French snobbery ...

Ring ring, ring ring, "Bonjour?" "Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais?" "Oui, a little." "Oh good. Hello, I am a journalist from Nouvelle Zelande and I was wondering..." "Nouvelle Zelande? Oh non, non, non, non, that is impossible. We ave no stockists in Nouvelle Zelande so what would be the purpose in you seeing our show? Au revoir." Beep, beep, beep ...

Good thing persistence has always been a strong suit.

Despite receiving negative responses from many of the PR agents, I sent each and every one of them an email with my details and Parisian address (and photographer-slash-girlfriend's name) then went through the same procedure two or three more times over the following weeks. Sometimes I felt like I was getting somewhere. Or maybe they were just sick of saying non. A week out, I resigned my fate to the French gods and stopped calling.

Early in the morning two days before the shows were scheduled to start, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. It was Jacqueline, the elderly lady with whom I was staying. I shook the sleep from my eyes and opened the door. In her hands was a pile of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Envelopes. Big, small, brightly coloured, monochromatic, oddly shaped, glorious envelopes. I was going to the shows.

Day one of Paris Fashion Week, I woke early and threw on some clothes. Okay, so that's not technically correct. Truth be told I'd had a little play around with a few (hundred) outfits the night before.

Jordan (my photographer-slash-girlfriend) and I hopped on the metro to the first show, Hugo Boss. It was raining. Hard. I had an invite, Jordan didn't. I was excited and made my way quickly inside, leaving Jordan to get wet. I found my seat. I was in the front row, next to an Australian reporter and the Fashion Editor of GQ India.

I started to feel guilty. Heaving a sigh, I made my way back to the entrance. Spying a PR agent, I made my move. "Excuse me, my name is Isaac, I'm from the New Zealand Herald. It's a major newspaper. My photographer is outside, can I grab a pass for her?"

She looked me up and down then nodded and handed me a laminated white cardboard square on a lanyard. It said "Hugo Boss - official photographer". We were in business. They weren't all that easy.

John Galliano showed on the evening of the second night. I'd made at least four calls to the PR agent and sent three emails, but hadn't even received a reply, let alone an invitation. Regardless, Jordan, Anouk (Jordan's sister) and I decided to try our luck and went along anyway. The invitation came in the form of a pack of playing cards emblazoned with the Galliano logo, but only one of the cards gave you entry. I befriended a young English journalist named Adam and hustled one of his dud Galliano cards off him.

The show was being held in a massive warehouse/carpark in one of Paris' seedier areas. Hundreds of people stood outside in the bitter cold, one-by-one flashing their invitations and being let in by a large team of rough-looking security guards. I waited until the crowd started to get a bit restless and began pushing their way forward. When it was my turn, I flashed the back of my dud card and walked in with a group, leaving Jordan and Anouk outside.

Twenty minutes later, there were about 15 people left outside, including Jordan and Anouk. The PR agents were refusing them entry. I was torn. Watch the show? Or be the good guy and stand in the cold with the girls. Luckily a security guard took pity on them and allowed them entry. As they walked in the door I assured them that I had put the good word in.

We made our way over to the catwalk. Three front row seats sat empty. We took them. Who says you need an invitation to sit front row?

But don't get me wrong, there were a couple of moments of humiliation along the way. Namely Dior Homme. I tried hard for this one. Really hard. I even called the Asia Pacific PR manager in Singapore to try to get an invite. I was flat-out refused. When it came time for the show I thought I could use my usual tricks to get in.

First off I tried the front door. Non. Then the back door. Absolutement non. Then the front door again. At this point the security guards started to get a wee bit annoyed with me and forced me to stand 10 metres away from the door. Peeved, I pulled out my camera and started snapping photos of them. They threatened to confiscate the camera. People started looking. I didn't fancy my chances against them and left the building.

As I was walking away, a big bronze Hummer pulled up. Out jumped Karl Lagerfeld himself. Camera still in hand, I took the opportunity to snap some shots. How does that old expression go? Good things come to those who don't get in?

Oh, and as for Raf Simons, I took the latter option. The velvet rope was opened for a split second and the PR agent had his back turned. I seized the opportunity, slipped through the crack then ran up the stairs. I heard a yell but didn't stop. Once inside, I hid behind the standing crowd. I saw the PR agent come in at one point, but my shoelace happened to need tying at that exact moment. Curious. No front row seat for me that time round, but who am I to complain?

Top 5 shows

5. Miharayasuhiro - the soundtrack to the show was a live performance by Fuyuki Yamakawa, who chanted to the beat of his miked up heart.

4. Wooyoungmi - Western tailoring meets obscure Mongolian tribe. Bonds are formed, clothing exchanged.

3. Dries Van Noten - all the classic pieces to a man's wardrobe, but redone in the the coolest patterns and palatable colours; avocado green, beetroot maroon and caramel brown.

2. Dior Homme - (Despite not being let in.) The best season since Hedi Slimane left the company, oversized in the extreme turtle necks, highly polished leather desert boots and the best skinny black suits on the market.

1. Lanvin - With only a standing ticket to my name, I managed to get into the show four hours before it was scheduled to start and snap (creative director) Alber Elbaz and the team in their final preparations. The most beautiful fabrics, the richest colours, the perfect collection.

Trends

* Short longs, or long shorts? Gentlemen invest in some attractive socks because cropped pants are coming your way.
* Please pleat me. Consider it a nod to the last financial downturn, but pleated pants are back in a huge way. Dust off your 80s best, roll up the cuffs a few times and you'll win both ways.
* Play with the volume. Mix things up a little. Pair some skinny pants with a voluminous jacket or a tightly tailored coat with some fuller pants.