I am in New York City hanging out with my mom for a few days. She has been vaccinated twice, while I have to wait as I belong to the last group. The vaccine has become the topic of conversation that we all share whether we are urban or rural. That seems normal given that we are now starting year two of the pandemic. On the subway, I don't even notice the masks anymore. I do notice the cool clothes and the heavy soled combat boots.
At the New Museum where the exhibit is on mourning and the African American experience, which seems very apt at the moment, I sense that people are taking advantage of their "big" outing to dress up. I notice the windowpane coat. I would love to have one, but I'll just check out the ones I see and enjoy. The light colored windowpane pattern seems perfect for this in-between season.
Inside the apartment, I find a magazine that features artists who have moved to Upstate New York. What does success look like, I think to myself, as my gaze falls on this photograph of an artist turned sheep farmer. This is what success looks like. Apparently he also has a donkey. I love donkeys. The article states that both his artwork and his animals "receive the same tender care." Oh dear. All I know is that I have a similar denim jacket to the one worn by the artist, that I found in a Brussels by the pound vintage clothing shop. So I have successfully acquired a cool jean jacket in which, if I ever became a sheep farmer, I could pose for a posh magazine.
Meanwhile, my mother parts with these brand new black suede Birkenstock clogs because she can't walk in them. I will happily walk in them. Thank you mother! That was an unexpected gift, a comfortable, brand new pair of Birkenstocks.
Walking back to the apartment after a visit to the Strand bookstore, still open, thank goodness, still filled with a bounty of books, still offering a free space in which to browse, I am striding behind a couple. At the corner, waiting to cross the street, I surreptitiously snap a photo of the ever so cool denim pants the woman is wearing. They were swaying so nicely while she was making her way to the corner. The pocket is surrounded by a darker strip of denim, very nice detail.
And, lastly, I wanted to replace the ugly brown laces on my otherwise comfortable patent leather shoes that still have years or miles in them. In the Village, a tiny cobbler shop (redundant, aren't most cobbler shops "tiny"?) offered choices of many colors. A cobbler. A real cobbler. Someone who mends shoes. What a relief that they still exist.
Because the shops are suffering more than ever in year 2 of this pandemic. They were already suffering, but now many more have closed their doors, including, much to my surprise, the Fly London shoe store on Bleeker. Those are great shoes, stylish, comfortable, made for walking, which right now is really all we do. So I don't understand why that store did not survive the pandemic. Nor a host of other shoes stores that have also disappeared from Lower Manhattan. I guess people are buying shoes online, I do it from time to time, it's not surprising. What is surprising is that, of all the retail in New York City, shoe stores might hang tight because of the new increase in walking ("in the city everyone's a walker" sing the Brother Brothers, on Folk Radio, streaming).
At least the cobbler is still there. What a gift!
