The Scent of Can Yaman from Monte Carlo to Rome

The Scent of Can Yaman from Monte Carlo to Rome

The discreet charm of Can Yaman

Chasing the Turkish Can Yaman (be sure to get the pronunciation wrong, I'm deliberately mispronouncing it, and you'll understand why!) ended my personal 19th Monte Carlo film festival de la Comèdie. Having landed at Fiumicino airport on May 1st, around 4pm local time, I thought I had closed the "gossip" chapter, but no. By chance, I found him at the baggage claim: this time, however, in a mask! No fans lurking, just him, his manager, a bodyguard, and... the reporter's instinct prevails. I take pictures, make videos, post things with the motto "war is war".  King Rino Barillari docet.

Yes, because it's really frustrating for a journalist with a thirty-year career not to be able to do her job. Never, not even in front of Top Gun-Tom Cruise or His Majesty Quentin Tarantino, just to name a few, have I been told "Only the three questions already agreed upon. No unapproved questions." Yeah, okay...but at least a few variations on the theme? I try. Niet! "No photos (but with fans, yes, ed.). No video! (ditto)" and it fits. We're still in a sort of press conference on a terrace overlooking the sea (as Yaman claims), with a film set, the Can Yaman perfume line in evidence, and her book on display. But outside the Festival the rules are my own. Professione reporter, it reminds me, more or less the Journalists Association card. And, then, the stakeout at the entrance of the Grimaldi Forum in Monte-Carlo had already paid off: a flood of fans happy and content with the catwalk, out of the program of their idol who signs autographs and lets himself be immortalized as he pleases before, during and after the official red carpet.

Instagram on tilt for a video "stolen" from Can Yaman

My Instagram profile (which I barely know how it works) taken by storm, between hearts and photo requests, more photos, and messages calling me "the most envied woman of the moment". Are you kidding me? Maybe I'm not a fan of anyone, so I don't understand so much excitement.

But it amuses me. And why not satisfy, for once, the requests of those who, from Latin America to Spain, crossing Italy and the whole of Europe, ask me what I literally have at my fingertips? So I don't hesitate between professional ethics and fan voyeurism, and I pick up the legendary Can Yaman (who's a nice guy, besides being objectively handsome) who waits with me and my fellow festival-goers for the arrival of his suitcases full of his style. "Because I want to express all of myself in what I do: on TV, as in fashion" is her mantra. But the star retracts annoyed. Public and a wrath of God is unleashed on social media. So much Can Can for nothing!

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