Brush with Fashion Week

The boyfriend and I were walking up Mercer Street on Saturday afternoon when we happened upon Karl Lagerfeld.

He was going to his car, amid a small crowd parted like a mini-Red Sea, outside the Mercer Hotel.

He trailed Chanel 5 drydown in his wake.

Mini Break

The Boyfriend had a four-day weekend to switch from the normal work week to a Wednesday-Sunday work week. So Sunday, we went off on a mini break to Connecticut. We stayed by a gorgeous lake:





We ate some delicious food: Sauteed Wild Mushrooms and Fresh Corn Salad (I only managed images of the starters; the meal just took over and I forgot to photograph the amazing Lamb Tagine and Seared Scallop main courses):





The next day, we went for a drive to take in more views before heading home:

Summer Rain

Last summer we barely had a summer. It rain much of June and the days were cool. Mother Nature is making up for that this year. We have already had two heat waves. On the days that are not scorching hot, it has been humid. So a walk down the street becomes something of a wade through the thick air and one is covered in perspiration quickly no matter how short the distance. It's been this way for weeks now.

Everything seems to be heightened in the heat. Sounds seem a little louder, nerves more easily rattled. Walking up University Place a few nights ago, the boyfriend and I became hyper-aware. This used to be normal when New York was a more dangerous place, but we haven't had to feel this way in quite a while, especially not on University Place! It was just something in the air that made out antennae prick up.

Now we're having a proper summer rainy afternoon. It's not buckets of rain being tipped into the street. Nor is it typhoon-like sideways rain and wind extravaganza. It's just a soft, gray cast and gentle rasping of water coming down. The rattling construction noises from across the street have been muted and it feels like a much needed wash of what-I'm-not-sure. It just reminds me, in light and sound, of the magical Sunday afternoon when I was very young when I discovered René Clair's AND THEN THERE WERE NONE. Just a quiet, gentle, gray moment in time.

The Wonders of a Trip to Whole Foods

Having had a very sheltered childhood and adolescence, I am still deeply fascinated by the game of social interactions and flirtation. Thank goodness I went to a coed high school and had quite a number of male friends. There were no parties whatsoever for the entirety of my teenage years save one at the junior boarding house at age thirteen and the senior graduation party. Needless to say, I was quite oblivious to the flirtatious and sexual tensions at play at both.

Hence a trip to Whole Foods can become something of a wildlife exploration for me. What people want by the way they dress and behave can be so clear without ever having to examine their verbal ques. In fact, sometimes what they say tends to confuse the matter. I feel like I am witnessing something like the human animal version of David Attenborough’s LIFE ON EARTH, an imaginary Attenborough voice pointing out the important signals each member of the species provides the other in the courtship and mating ritual taking place.

The boyfriend and I were in the hideously crowded line in the Express checkout line several weeks ago, “Express checkout” being a relative term in the Union Square branch. The assembled crowd trudged along slowly when I noticed a girl with very short shorts ostentatiously displaying the back of her right leg as she shoved her basket along as her line moved. Then she stopped and talked to the fellow in the adjacent line. There was much smiling and eye contact. I looked to see if there was touching of her blonde hair at the appropriate pause. No, but when the line moved again, there was another very extravagant show of the back of her leg. I wondered if she realized that she had the slightest beginning of cellulite. Being a girl, I would notice these things. More overelaborate leg swinging. I would say not. Her cashier number came up. She finally picked up her basket and left. It was hard from where I stood to see the reactions of the fellow she was performing her display for, but given the smile on her face, I would say the mating dance was a success.

Then on our way home, I spied a couple in front of us. The woman was in a road accident of an outfit – tight grey jersey dress and 6-inch stilettos. Her heels were so high that she had to hold on tight to her date to avoid falling over. Her figure was too wobbly to carry the dress off. Her sides quivered as she staggered along. I looked at her thinking that the point of wearing a thong was to avoid visible panty lines. There was an entire visual thong line on display in front of me – the small of the back and the sides of the waist! They were going to The Strip House at 10pm.

I thought of Dean Wareham discussing visible panty lines and his now wife, Britta Phillips, in his memoir, “Black Postcards.” He said women tend to view visible panty lines as unsexy. That is not always the case, as is evidenced by someone describing Phillips as having the sexiest visible panty line in Indie Music. The woman walking into The Strip House is a million miles away from Phillips. However, given that she was out on a date to a very nice steakhouse, I would say that her choice of plumage did the trick in the courtship and mating game.

Just because...

Last week, inspired by Rita Konig's T magazine blog post, I bought some flowers for my bedside table.

Di Palo's

The boyfriend has just returned from a trip to Di Palo's. He brought back many goodies: roasted peppers, chestnut honey, olive oils for cooking and finishing, burrata... When he was unpacking, he put two warm, unlabeled packages in my hand. They turned out to be slow-cooked, Umbrian-style porchetta they make in-house. With no self-control, I reached for knife and fork and attacked one of the packages on the kitchen counter. I felt liked I had died and gone to heaven. I often feel this way when I go to Di Palo's.

Di Palo's Fine Foods
200 Grand Street
New York, NY 10013
(212) 226 1033

Hermès Fever

I have been following reports of the goings on at the Hermès Sample Sale, which opened to the public today, on Racked New York. Their reporter arrived at 7:55am and did not enter the sale until 9:18am. A post at 3:24pm reported that the wait was around two-and-a-half hours. Needless to say, this sample sale is not for the faint-of-heart. And thank goodness for all the people in the queues that it's a beautiful day - lovely light; a bit nippy, but tolerable.

I no longer have the wherewithal for sample sales. When I first started going to these sales, they were usually crowded, but there was often no line. It was as if the people who went to these sales were part of a secret club. I bought lovely things at sample sale prices: a grey silk/cotton Philosphy shift or a thick cashmere Michael Kors tee shirt for $50. Then one Sunday night, I heard Carrie Bradshaw mention "sample saling" on SEX AND THE CITY. I knew it was over. Lines appeared outside the sales, the wait got much longer and the prices much higher.

The very first sample sale I ever attended did not even take place in New York. I was in Paris and spotted a little notice for an Hermès sale in Libération. Being the fashion-obssessed student that I was, I went, probably skipping one lecture or another. It was a half-hour wait outside on a very cold March morning. Once inside, I was stunned to see people grabbing things as they appeared on the sales floor. The M.O. was grab first, evaluate later. I felt a weird disconnect between the ultra refined image of Hermès and the savage behaviour I saw around me, but I got into the spirit of things. At the time, scarves were the equivalent of $50! I bought presents for my mother and sisters, not to mention myself. I emerged breathless and triumphant.

My most remarkable Hermès find, however, was not at that first sample sale. The most unexpected find would be in a non-descript space on Broadway between Broome and Grand streets. This was, again, many years ago when Soho was in the midst of its change from arty neighbour to the mall that it is today. The art galleries were all but gone, but the established mall stores had not quite made their ubiquitous presence felt. Sales would take up residence in store spaces for a few weeks at a time and then disappear, never to be seen again. The shopping area I loved was Nolita. It was in its heyday. Ordinarily, I would never have walked into any of these random sales, but my friend had found a Miu Miu dress in one of them. She wanted to go have a look. I thought, why not. The most temporary, ugly store fittings housed some real designer odds and ends. I wandered over to the scarf display. There was a large contingent of Ferragamo scarves and the salespeople knew what they were. I browsed casually, not expecting to find a bargain when I spotted a blue scarf covered in calligraphy. I tried not to gasp visibly. I asked to have a look. It was the real thing. It had no price tag. I took it over to the cashier. The manager looked at the scarf; I looked nonchalant. He said he would give it to me for $30. I bought it immediately. No one could quite believe my story. I imagine I have the same reaction when I read of people finding Kelly bags in faraway thrift shops for $100.