Back in Italy, the Milan collection hangs from racks on all three sides of the room. It's like Indiana Jones finally finding the Holy Grail, even though it was only three days ago that I bought the pony-hair jacket. But I am trying to be logical and systematic, resisting impulse, carefully going down each row to get a sense of what I might like. I see a black leather biker jacket I know I must have, even though I already own roughly fifteen jackets of similar style. But the leather is unlike any I have ever touched—and trust me, I have touched a lot—butter rich, with that irresistible gleam that can light up any night.