When the invitation arrived, I panicked.
I had nothing to wear.
“Literally nothing,” I lamented to my mother on the phone. It was 2010, and I was still using a calling card to reach her in Miami from my new home in London. The request to meet Prince Charles (now King Charles III) at St. James’s Palace was printed on thick creamy cardstock and sealed with a red royal emblem — it was fancier than my wedding invitations.
At the time, my wardrobe consisted mostly of neon backless shirts and tank tops, and an eclectic assortment of flip-flops, both formal and informal. It clearly was not going to cut it.
“It says I need something that covers my knees but also my shoulders. What about my cleavage? Do I need to wear pantyhose? Where do I even buy pantyhose?”
My mom who grew up in hot, humid Miami like me, was at a loss. “Maybe I can send you a pair of L’eggs? I’ll stop by Walgreens later today.”
“Forget it,” I sighed. “They’ll never arrive in time.”
When I moved to London in 2008, I’d seen Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually and What a Girl Wants. I knew that plucky Americans were beloved for their sass and disregard for stodgy rules. American girls were considered a breath of fresh air. I assumed I’d be welcomed with open arms exactly as I was. If Amanda Bynes could rock a tank top and flared jeans in front of Buckingham Palace, surely I would be just fine.
But life isn’t a movie. I landed at Heathrow and stepped into an entirely different world — one full of unfamiliar rules, unspoken etiquette and more types of forks than I even knew existed. My clothes were too bright, too revealing, too downright American and my upbringing had not prepared me for life inside the orbit of British aristocracy. I grew up in the suburbs of Miami and went to public school. I had never curtsied in my life.
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Figuring out what to wear on a daily basis quickly became one of many unexpected cultural challenges, and that was before my invitations to the palace began appearing. Thanks to my job advising nonprofits and wealthy individuals on their philanthropy and fundraising, my inbox was filled with glittering opportunities. Each one felt like a pinch-me-moment. Somehow, I’d found myself plugged into a network of high-profile patrons and formal galas.
The Royal Family are notoriously generous in their commitment to supporting charities around the UK, often hosting events in their honor. As I helped facilitate relationships between donors and nonprofits, my presence was requested for tea at Buckingham Palace, dinner by candelight in the nave of St. Paul’s Cathedral and other equally glamorous locales. These were places I had never imagined seeing outside of a group tour, not even in my wildest dreams.
It may come as a surprise that I was more comfortable discussing charitable giving with a member of the Royal Family than I was choosing a dress, but philanthropy was my comfort zone and fashion was not. It took me almost two decades to figure out the right formula — one that actually worked for me.
Eventually, I did find an outfit for that first royal reception at St. James’s Palace. I opted for black, the most formal color: black tights, a black dress and black shoes. My husband, handsome and appropriately dressed (a tux is a tux in any country), and I arrived at the Palace entrance, where guards escorted us down a long, carpeted hallway lined with portraits. As we climbed the Grand Staircase — the ceremonial entrance dating back to the palace’s construction by Henry VIII in the 16th century — I spared a thought for Anne Boleyn, who was rumored to have stayed there after her coronation.
I hoped my fashion choices would allow me to keep my head.
But that evening, in my attempt to fit in, I stuck out like a sore thumb. The event was a fundraiser supporting non-profit organizations in India, and every other woman in the room was dressed in vibrant colors and glistening saris. I, on the other hand, looked like I was going to a funeral.
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A few years later, I was invited to Royal Ascot, the famous British horse racing event, where the dress code mandates a hat. Searching through my closet, I got the feeling that my Miami Dolphins baseball cap did not fit the bill. This time I knew better than to ask my mother. I emailed my good friend Sue, who was British, slightly older than me and infinitely more poised.
“Of course I have hats you can borrow,” she told me. “They tend to be statement numbers. I’m not keen on fascinators.” I considered the options carefully and thinking it would be appropriate to try to blend in with the cashmere-and-cufflinks crowd, I opted for the smallest one, a swirly black headpiece that made me look like a soft-serve ice cream cone. But when I arrived at Ascot, I was one of the most demure attendees. Ascot is a time for feathers and flowers and wide brims, not for playing it safe. I had missed the mark—again!
Now, after living in the UK for almost 20 years and with a slew of Royal events under my belt (every one still a pinch-me moment), I’ve learned that dressing for the Royals means striking a balance between my Miami roots and the very British protocols of proper comportment. Last month, during a double-header day — a morning meet-and-greet with Queen Camilla for the opening of a new library, followed by the King’s Garden Party at Holyrood House — I wore hot pink dresses to both events, but with high necklines — all the color of my Miami heritage, but with the modesty of a Jane Austen novel. I topped off the look with my own huge white and pink feathery hat and, yes, my very own pantyhose. I own three pairs now.
Both of their majesties greeted me warmly as I curtseyed and called them by their proper titles. King Charles appreciated my effort, at least. “I love your accent,” he told me, as he shook my hand before making his way through the crowd.
Someone’s Gotta Give by Alisha Fernandez Miranda is on sale now, wherever books are sold.
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