I’m on an adventure. I begin this post at SFO, en route to Morocco where I’m to shoot the pilot of a new international TV series. And guess what? I’m the presenter. The show follows Lonely Planet writers as we discover off-the-beaten-path locales for adventurous travelers. I can’t quite wrap my head around the implications of this (nor do I want to), but I do know that the next three weeks will change my life.

I can’t speak publicly of the broadcaster or distributor, but I will say this: they are household names. The show will be a 13-episode series. I’ll host at least two, potentially more. It will premier next autumn in Asia, Europe, the Middle East and Latin America; then will be distributed worldwide by ___. I’ll keep you posted as things develop. I must say, I’m psyched to be one of our city’s first international ambassadors following Obama’s election. It’s a good time to be an American abroad!

On the subject of our fair city, did you know that until recently, SFO was the only airport in America that had zero advertising? Instead our lovely terminals were adorned exclusively with well-curated art installations. Then, around the year 2000, nasty Clear Channel quietly began blighting our public commons—with no public comment period that I ever heard about. Since then, billboards and kiosks have multiplied like cancer cells in the domestic terminal, ruining the aesthetic. The international terminal remains mostly untouched—for now. SFO is owned by the city, and belongs to us. Speak up. Reclaim public art.
But I can’t think about SF at present. I’m writing from seat 12-J, aboard UA930, somewhere over Hudson Bay, just wrapping up the cheese course of my supper—and I’m having such a fabulous time in business class (a rare indulgence) that I don’t even want to pop an Ambien. (For the record, and from the point of view of an expert, United’s premium-cabin service needs upgrading, but it sure beats economy.) Expect silence from me till at least mid-December, when I return from North Africa. Meanwhile, remember to remove the wishbones from your holiday turkeys before roasting to ensure long, even slices of breast meat. And a very happy Thanksgiving to all! —John

Editor’s note: I’m in Morocco till mid-December shooting a television travel show. If you post a comment on the site, be patient. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. —John

I escaped to the De Young Museum last week to check out the new Yves St Laurent exhibition, one in a trifecta of special exhibits. Maya Lin’s Systemic Landscapes inspired me to reconsider spatial constructions, and the Asian-American Modern Art installation forced a revisiting of the definition of American Modernism, but the YSL show struck me most.

At a time when Gucci looks uncannily like upgraded Banana Republic, and everyone dresses like high-schoolers, it’s hard to imagine that a single designer could change social mores. YSL did. He took ladies from wasp-waisted dresses (think June Cleaver) and put them into pants suits and tuxedos, effectively hijacking the authority of men’s power clothing and bestowing it upon women. He introduced new color palettes, playful shapes, see-through fabrics. Not since Dior, and Balenciaga before him, had a designer so changed women’s silhouettes.

So what makes these 120 works worthy of a fine-arts-museum show? In a word, timelessness. Wigless mannequins emphasize the freshness and innovation of the designs: add contemporary hairstyles and each outfit would look as inspired today as when it first appeared on the catwalk. The only exceptions are several designs inspired by other artists, such as Mondrian. These look dated, tired. YSL’s genius seemed to diminish only when he abandoned his own muse in favor of another’s.

Tom Ford may be remembered for little more than the muffin top—that lip of fat caused by too-tight low-rise jeans. We may have to wait another generation before a designer changes the way women dress as radically as YSL. Until then, we can always look back in time for inspiration.