Dear J. Peterman,
It was carnival season, and I was sitting at a café on the Piazza San Marco. The city seemed to be overflowing with tourists, stragglers, and mysterious, old-world types of beautiful dress who might as well have been inducted into a secret cult the night before. I was having an espresso when a man, dressed in a white shirt and a tweed vest, a white silk scarf tied under his collar, approached me. He did not say a word, but rather dropped a red envelope on my table, and then vanished. Suddenly a wild old woman was in front of me. "My Dear, what an honor, the Duke's masquerade ball! But do you think you can go just as you are now?" She pulled something from her cloaks. "Here, you will need this."
One black lace fan, purchased in Venice in July of 2009, now sitting on my wall next to a mirror and a picture of a man with a cat. Perfect for the Cairo heat?? Oui, mais malheureusement I feel more Victorian than I do elegant when I carry it around... Sorry Mr. Peterman.
But it's nice and striking when it sits there on my wall, no?
... Will I bring it to life next summer?
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