Bella Pollen

The age of beige

From our UK edition

Bella Pollen on Jaeger’s ‘new’ look: old-fashioned tailoring made sexy With so many things in the world designed to make you angry, it seems pointless to get worked up about a colour, but I can’t help it — I have a thing about beige. It conjures up support tights for Scottish pensioners, ankle bandages and cheap hotel lobbies. Granted, French and Italians manage to look all exquisite and Louis Vuittonesque in it. However, your average Englishwoman dressed in beige more resembles something rolled in breadcrumbs, or worse — embalmed. But colour isn’t my only prejudice. I don’t just loathe beige. I fear it. I fear it in the same way that women, no longer in their first flush, worry about arthritis or the onset of Alzheimer’s.

Fragile earth

From our UK edition

I don’t like fish. I don’t like their scales and bones. I don’t like the way they eyeball you from a restaurant plate and I particularly resent the size they grow to if left unfilleted and grilled. Oh, I realise nobody was actually eaten during the making of that film, but I saw Jaws at an impressionable age and the sea and all things under it have profoundly scared me since. Thus, when a trip involving a boat, the Pacific and a scuba-diving course was suggested, I balked. The Pacific Ocean and I have met before and we did not fare well together — but the boat in question was of the swankiest kind and who in their right minds turns down an opportunity to see the Galapagos?

Sin city

Germinated on the greed and profligacy of mankind, it’s now the fastest-growing city in the US whose every new building rises like a brittle, neon flower out of the scorched earth. Sticking up its finger to the notion of living anywhere close to within its means, it leeches resources from its neighbouring states only to repay them by polluting their airspace. It currently boasts a reckless 360-gallon water usage per capita despite being built on a spot so arid that a sky-diving honeymooner squeezed into a white nylon Elvis suit is more likely to land on your head than a single drop of rain. I’m talking, of course, about Las Vegas, Nevada, the devil’s very own Garden of Eden. Vegas has always been a repulsive town.

Borderline

From our UK edition

For a soulless city, Phoenix certainly has an interesting airport. The last time I was here, supposedly on business, I had my boarding pass issued by a vampire and found myself being herded through security by an official dressed as a giant chicken. Then it was Halloween, but here we are on an ordinary June afternoon and circumstances seem no less strange. I am stuck in a lift between arrivals and car rental with a Mexican cradling a large, foul-smelling ice chest in his arms. What’s in the box? I ask. ‘A feesh,’ he whispers, ‘for my wife and children. I catch him in Veracruz.’ A sea bass, you understand, will not be the only thing smuggled out of Mexico today.