It was August 2008, and I had only been living in Milan for a month when Fashion Week took over the city. I’d managed to get freelance journalist credentials and headed out to catch some shows with my brother and his friend Cristian, who were both photographers.

On Sunday, we tried to get into Roberto Cavalli’s show, but without an invitation, security turned us away.

“How about the Giorgio Armani fashion show?” Cristian asked.

It was one of the season’s most anticipated events, taking place in the brand’s own building. I wasn’t in the mood to beg the security staff to let me in, but Cristian insisted.

“I’ll come with you—let’s see what happens.”

We arrived an hour and a half early. The street where the Armani building stood had been cordoned off by the police.

“I could tell the security guard I just arrived from Brazil and lost my invitation,” I suggested.

“No chance,” Cristian replied. “Let’s just stroll around and see what we find.”

As we approached the backstage entrance, we spotted a group of about 30 chatty girls lined up. Three security guards stood at the door while Armani staff organised the queue. Cristian nudged me and said:

“Go! Get in line.”

Without thinking, I slipped behind the guards and blended in with the girls, pretending to chat with them. The door opened, and I followed the group inside—each step bringing me closer to the Giorgio Armani universe. The girls were all holding sheets with the name and photo of a model. I had nothing but a poker face.

Inside, three staff members were handing out badges. Unsure what to do, I tried to keep a low profile and wandered around. I noticed the badges were pretty standard, and no one was asking too many questions. I chose the staff member who looked friendliest. As I approached, she accidentally dropped all the badges on the floor.

I froze. F**,* I thought. I tried not to make eye contact. Once she gathered the badges, she handed me one and apologised for the delay. It read “Vestiarista” (Stylist, in Italian). Apparently, I was now responsible for helping the models get dressed.

The backstage was buzzing—racks of clothes, photos of models on the walls, stylists everywhere. Every few minutes, security walked through to make sure everything was running smoothly. I thought of hiding in the bathroom, terrified I’d be discovered. Then I noticed a stylist looking confused, trying to figure out a vest-bikini piece. She clearly didn’t understand how it was supposed to be worn.

In a flash, I had a plan. I set my bag down to mark my spot, approached her, and spoke in a mix of Italian, Spanish and Portuguese:

“The top is inside out. This part goes on the shoulder; this is the front. Got it?”

She thanked me and asked where the toilet was. I pointed vaguely, and she walked off.

Just then, another staff member came over to explain how to put the shoes on a model. I nodded silently, pretending to understand. The stylist returned, looking slightly suspicious now.

“What exactly are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m here to assist the security team,” I lied. “I need to make sure no one walks off with the clothes, shoes or accessories after the show. But shhh—it’s a secret.”

She was stunned by my answer and asked no further questions.

That’s when Giorgio Armani appeared.

He walked calmly through the backstage area, dressed in black trousers, a black shirt and white shoes. His white hair and blue eyes glowed. I stared at him, thinking, I need to interview him.

Soon, the models arrived. I pretended to be busy, but in reality, I had nothing to do. Everyone else was so focused on their tasks that I became invisible to them. The first show, for Armani store owners from around the world, went smoothly. The staff relaxed, and preparations began for the main show in half an hour.

I spotted a Brazilian model I knew and went over to her.

“Hi, Flavia.”

“What are you doing here?!” she asked, shocked.

I told her everything—how I got in, how long I’d been ‘hiding’, and my idea to take a photo of the Brazilian models with Giorgio Armani to sell to a Brazilian celebrity magazine. The only problem? I didn’t have a camera.

She called over three other Brazilian models—one of them had a Cybershot camera—and they all agreed to help.

It was a hilarious scene: I, at 1.60m tall, and four statuesque models hunting down Giorgio Armani backstage.

When we saw him, I walked up and asked in my improvised dialect:

“Giorgio, posso take a photo of you with the models?”

He smiled and replied, “Certo che sì” (Of course you can).

I couldn’t believe it—I had just spoken to the Emperor of Fashion and called him Giorgio, like I was chatting with my uncle. He sat at a table, and the models arranged themselves around him. One of them, still far away, came running toward us shouting:

“Wait for meeee!”

The photo was perfect. And since I had nothing to lose, I asked for one more favour:

“Giorgio, posso take a photo with you?”

He smiled and hugged me.

“Siete fantastici!” I said in Italian (You are fantastic!).

He smiled again and walked away.

When the show ended, I went home with a story to tell, a photo to sell, and an unforgettable moment etched into memory.