One thing that can certainly be said of Versace is that the iconic fashion house has stayed true to its roots through every venture, despite changes in trends, the economy, and creative direction. So it was no surprise that the home design team turned back the clock when tackling the direction of this year's fall collection. According to team member Laura Varani, the current collection is made up primarily of pieces "renewed from past collections, updated for today," which is certainly not to say they've run out of ideas. The aesthetic of the collection runs the gamut, from quintessentially Italian, classic pieces to pure modernity, with even a little macabre thrown in -- though much of it seemed like scaled-up dollhouse furniture. Pieces once considered too darling for actual living settings (think silver rococo couches with billowy pink cushions) beckoned to be sat upon, and in their "real life" size, made perfect sense.

They say only Italian men can wear red pants, or at least pull them off, and lemme tell you -- they, whoever "they" may be, are absolutely right. Never before have I seen so many guys sporting the crimson trouser. I feel like I have to part the red sea just to make it down Corso Como. More rouge pantaloons after the jump.

These new indie, boutiquey little shops that keep popping up are starting to bore me, but that was until I popped into Milan's Blindfaith (via Tortona, 5). The stack of Love mags near the entrance already assured me the rest of the joint was going to deliver, and boy was I impressed.

I couldn't help but greet Alan Journo of the eponymous shop on via Della Spiga (No. 36) with a hearty "buon giorno" (accent on the journo) as I walked in and got a close-up of what beckoned me in the first place -- little crowns! Past the age of tacky tiaras, these jewel-encrusted miniature crowns impart instant royalty to the wearer, and their priceless quality gleams instant cachet -- literally.

Like many (ok, most) New Yorkers, I've sacrificed the luxury of an amply sized abode for a mouse-eaten closet solely to preserve my Manhattan-dwelling status. No matter that my walls are bare and walking around barefoot yields a podiatric porcupine of splinters, retiring to my Manhattan apartment at the end of each day (or early each morning) is a craved reassurance that I belong in this great city. And then there are the Italians. The same people responsible for wet dreams and clogged arteries really do have it all, defying that old New York myth that you can't land the perfect job, apartment, and spouse. Because regardless of their marital and employment status, they'll always live in a palace of their own making. Like any major metropolis' mass housing, their toilet may be in their living room, but chances are it's made of malachite and surrounded in Bisazza mosaic tiling.