COSTUMES AND MORE COSTUMES – PART 22

 

COSTUMES AND MORE COSTUMES – PART 22

When the siren blasted, we all froze—until the Italian workers shoved past us like a herd of panicked cattle, nearly knocking a few of us over. They raced down the gangplank, heading for what we soon learned was lunch. Not a fire drill. Not an emergency. Just lunchtime. And apparently, lunchtime in Italy is sacred. That siren was gospel.

The rest of us stood awkwardly, still in our hard hats, watching sparks fizzle from loose wires. The tour continued. It was like walking through the skeleton of a dream.

"Here’s the pool," the guide said, gesturing toward a giant gaping hole.

We were shown bars, lounges, cabins, theaters, private decks, and VIP rooms—none of which had walls. Or ceilings. Or floors. Just wires, pipes, scaffolding, and sheets of dangling plastic flapping in the wind like a horror film set.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Power Suit, with eyes full of delusion. “They’ve come so far since the last time I saw it!”

I wanted to ask, Was that when it was still a blueprint? Because if this was progress, then what had it looked like before?

This ship—our so-called “product”—was supposed to set sail months ago, and yet it looked like it hadn’t even learned how to float. It couldn’t sail. Hell, it couldn’t host a tour group without a tetanus shot.

We wrapped up the tour and went back to the hotel, where another dry erase message greeted us: Costume Fittings Today.

I had a few hours to kill, so I took to the streets of Italy.

I ran into two of the Assistants heading to rehearsal, and it’s time I said this outright:
These three assistants? Incredible.
While others took credit, while the Choreographer tore their work apart and the Director rewrote scenes with a flick of his wrist, they held the show together. No eye-rolls. No tantrums. Just quiet strength and heavy shoulders—shoulders that carried the entire damn production.

We knew how much they did, and we made it a point to praise them openly. Executives ignored them; we saw them.

After our brief chat, I continued exploring. I've traveled everywhere—across the U.S., around the world—but nothing compares to Italy. The food. The people. The architecture. The clothes! I pressed my face to every boutique window like a wide-eyed tourist, already half in love with everything and everyone.

Eventually, my watch reminded me it was time to return to the Lugano for costume fittings.

The costume department had completely taken over a wing of the hotel. It looked like Broadway exploded—gowns, glitter, wigs, tights, shoes, racks on racks. Some of us only learned our roles by the costumes we were handed. That’s how communication worked in this company: you figured it out by accident.

Eerily, costumes for “the dead” still hung silently, never having been pulled. Nobody had told wardrobe about the terminations, so they’d made full sets for people who were long gone.

The quality of these costumes? Exquisite. They spared no expense—luxury fabrics, hand-sewn details, fittings flown to Florida back in the Bahamas days. I personally had four complete wardrobes due to all my understudy work, plus my main roles. I felt like Cher doing a Vegas residency.

But the Director, half-blind and full of opinions, stood by and offered his “insights” while we modeled. The costume team gritted their teeth and adjusted hems they’d already sewn four times. Half our wardrobe had been lost in transit, so we couldn’t even try everything on.

By the end of this circus, I was exhausted. I stumbled back to my room and collapsed into sleep until the phone rang.

Dinner time.

One of the cast members was making the rounds, organizing a group meal. I dragged myself out of bed, hit the shower, and met them in the lobby. Someone asked, “Want to go out tonight?”

They didn’t have to ask twice.

Dinner ended, we raced back to the hotel for power naps, and then we hit the road. Again and again, we’d make this journey—two hours by car with half the cast crammed in—but the destination was always worth it:

Club Black and White.

We pulled up under the soft neon glow, heartbeats quickening with the night’s promise. At the door, we signed up for membership—our names scrawled in ink beside a hundred others, joining a club far from our corporate hell, a small escape into the version of Italy we’d imagined when we first said yes to this job.

For now, we danced. The mess would still be there in the morning.