Queen of Coney Island

Today, ladies and gents, I figured that I would start out my post by sharing a special Allie fact of the day: I’m terrified of roller coasters. True story. 

I won’t bore you with explicitly mundane details of said fear. Let’s just say that it all began during a trip to Disney World when my dad snuck me on to the Rock ‘n Rollercoaster, which accelerates to high speeds faster than an astronaut does on a space shuttle launch (according to Wikipedia). That was over ten years ago, and needless to say I haven’t been on a roller coaster since. Until Wednesday, that is. 

As I mentioned in my last post, my new friend Celine and I went to Coney Island two days ago. Located in southern Brooklyn, it was just a fifty minute train ride from the hustle and bustle of the city. The sky was locked in a battle between sun and clouds, but for the first few hours there was a warmth that managed to find our skin, and so we unfurled our bodies on the hot sand. It was the strangest experience to hear the waves methodically crashing against the shore line; we had to keep reminding ourselves that we were less than an hour away from one of the busiest cities in the world. I could feel my body melting into the ground beneath me, and as Celine and I talked we fell into a dreamy haze that only the beach can provide.

Celine and I lounging on the beach

Such heavenly bliss continued for about an hour. Then, a particularly nasty group of seagulls began terrorizing the family next to us, so we decided that it was high time to get our bums in gear and explore our carnival surroundings. The boardwalk was blasting pop music from all different decades, fusing instantly with the screaming masses being hurled through the air on various thrill-seeking rides. After noodling about for a while, we came to the Cyclone; Coney Island’s infamous wooden roller coaster, originally built in 1927. Although I was petrified, there was some part of me that wanted to brave this rickety ride, if only to say that I’d done it. This summer I’ve had to face many doubts and fears about myself head on, so why not try to eliminate another? 

Celine and I got our tickets and were snapped into the snug seats. My hands unconsciously clutched on to each other as though my body was trying to pray without the consent of my mind, and I could feel my heartbeat reverberating through my chest. Like a startled lamb, I looked about, desperately trying to find a way out. I’d made a mistake. I didn’t think I could do this, and an overwhelming fear told me to get out while I still could. But it was too late. The ancient roller coaster groaned to life and my body began trembling, certain of its imminent demise. 

As we ascended to the ride’s peak, I remembered the importance of breathing, and tried to exhale my fears along with the oxygen. The build up was an eternity and the sky was heavy with what felt like a doomed unknown, ominous and intimidating. 

Then, quicker than I could register, we plummeted down, down, down, being tossed like rag dolls along the bumpy terrain. My eyes were watering with the speed of it all, and I was screaming so loud I thought my lungs were surely on fire. There was nothing that my brain could think of. My high strong, analytical head was on a two minute sabbatical, unable to register anything but the sensations flooding my present state. 

As Celine began screaming about how she wanted nothing more than to get off the ride, an unprecedented laughter bubbled up from my core. I felt like a buoy in a storm; there was nothing that I could do but ride out the waves of motion, and rather than feeling helpless I was immensely liberated by the beauty exploding in the present. My fingers became magnets attached to the sky, and I let everything go.

In retrospect, I feel like the Cyclone was a perfect metaphor for my time in New York. And for life in general, I guess. No matter my numerous anxieties or doubts, sometimes the best remedy for fear is to face it head on, fully aware of the potential for unexpected twists and turns. The unknown is utterly daunting, but sometimes these are the experiences that provide the most rewarding outcomes. I feel as though I’ve pushed myself on many different levels within the past two months, and in turn have learned a lot about myself from the good and the bad results that such adventures have provided. Although a part of me would be much happier to plan out all of the curveballs of life, I’ve learned that it’s so much more fun to just strap myself in, open my eyes wide, and greet the ups and downs with a stupid grin on my face.

So here's my revised Allie fact of the day: I absolutely love roller coasters.

Celine and I, pre ride

Celine and I, post ride


The Cyclone! (It's a lot scarier when you're on it) 

Fate and Friendship: A Hipster Love Story

Fate has a funny way of working. I feel like throughout my time in New York, there have been situations in the past few months that have been kismet; circumstances that I truly believe were not random acts of the universe, but rather meant to happen for reasons that I still can’t quite fathom. Sometimes I’ll gain little moments of awareness, and the force of being in the right place at the right time hits me; I’m left alone with my smile and the happiness that an open perspective can provide.

Take the event of the Chelsea Flea Market, for example. The first time I went there, I was browsing through one vendor’s booth and briefly met a lovely young Australian woman, but after I left I didn't think much more of it. The next weekend, I went back to the market on a different day and time, and managed to bump into her again. A beautiful young woman with bright blue eyes and the figure of Marilyn Monroe, she introduced herself as Celine. We began chatting and wandering around the flea market together, already bonded by our love of vintage and the pursuit of the unknown.

The more we talked, the more we realized that we were practically the same person. We both were temporarily living in New York by ourselves, trying to see and experience as much as possible in our short time here. Not only that, but our values and even some of our life experiences overlapped in ways that shocked us both. After spending a majority of or daily lives in solitude among this lively city, I think we both appreciated how special it was to stumble upon each other and connect, like a two-person village within this vast metropolis.

After spending the day shopping together, we agreed to meet up the following week so that we could explore Williamsburg—the thrifting hipster capital of the world. I was excited to investigate any natural hipster habitat as it always reminds me of my native Portland, Oregon home. And what better place to do so than the original land rife with hipsters?

Last Friday, we took a short subway ride into Williamsburg at nine in the morning. In typical hipster fashion, nothing was open. We wandered about, painting verbal pictures of our lives back home and the little stars that make up the constellations of our lives. Before we knew it, we’d walked a bit over a mile and ended up in a thrift store called The Thing, which basically looked straight out of the show Hoarders.

Once I got over my initial fear of being swallowed by the gargantuan amount of stuff, I began sorting through tossed out photographs. There were sacred snippets of time depicting everything from a child’s birth to silly candid shots to family gatherings. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I felt an overwhelming protectiveness for a few of these images. They were taken to document something—bits to a story that I didn't know the ending of, but that I so desperately hoped had turned out well. I figured that even if the people they were meant for didn't want them, I could still take them in and appreciate them. Wherever these people are now, it gives me satisfaction to know that they are being thought of and cared for, even if abstractly and by a total stranger.

For the rest of the day, Celine and I shop-hopped. We ogled the intricate graffiti, young characters, amazing foods, and the general blasé attitude about the place. Williamsburg was a little oasis, for although it was clearly a city, it felt quiet and separate from Manhattan. I was instantly in love with it. And to be honest, I felt very much at home around the hipster folk. Nothing like artsy tattoos, red lipstick, and chunky glasses to put me at ease. It made me excited for home, but also sad that my time here has almost come to an end.

The sun was setting as Celine and I headed back to Manhattan. We were both tired but incredibly fulfilled after fun day of enjoying each other’s company and visiting a place that was at once so foreign and familiar to me. By the time that we got to Madison Square, we still hadn't run out of topics of conversation, and so we parted ways with future plans to go to Coney Island together on Wednesday. On the walk home I caught myself smiling in the way that the aforementioned brief awareness of fate provides me, and marveled at the wondrous potential for bonding with people from all over the globe. It was then that I reviewed my day and realized that life is just bursting with potential for new friendships and experiences to blossom in your life—you just have to decide whether or not you want to be open to it.

Muggin' for the camera in Williamsburg

Quakers And Communes And Cousins, Oh My!

This past week, I stayed at a Quaker commune. No, really. I did.

Well, “commune” isn’t exactly the preferred term. Most of the twenty-six people who live in this nature filled hide-away use the term “intentional community.” From my limited knowledge of the subject, there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference between the two terms, other than the former has a generally negative stigma attached to it. And to be honest, I was kind of buying into that stigma prior to my visit.

My cousin Eric visited this very same Quaker intentional community only a few months ago, and quickly fell in love with the land, the people, and everything that they stand for. Since then, he’s continued to bond with the community’s members, living and working with everyone together. I decided that it was high time for a visit to see him and what he does, also because I was ridiculously curious to experience what the community was like. I half expected to be welcomed onto a land rich with the smell of weed, complete with joyous nudists and people with names like “Harmony” or “Chakra.” However, this couldn’t have been further from the reality.

After a beautifully picturesque train ride along the Hudson River, I arrived in the small town of Hudson, New York. Before I’d even seen Eric’s face I knew it was him, simply because of his refusal to wear shoes in almost any setting. He looked healthy, energetic, and above all, completely happy. We drove for forty minutes, filling the car with laughter, news, and stories of our lives from the year that we’d experienced since we saw each other last summer. When we finally pulled up to the community, I was stunned by its beauty.

I’m not quite sure what type of housing I was expecting, but the incredible farmhouses looked straight out of Sunset Magazine--completely eclipsing my expectation of sleeping outside at the mercy of millions of mosquitoes. Eric was kind enough to take me around and introduce me to the other residents, all of whom were incredibly intelligent, kind, and down-to-earth people. In fact, many members had their master’s or their doctorates, which I frankly found to be fascinating. They all appeared to be normal people (I mean, as normal as any of us are...I’ll leave that broad definition in your hands) who were consciously choosing to live a life separate from the often negative stimuli of the modern world. 

Rather than totally isolating themselves from reality, there was a definite thread of connection between elements of nature and modern technology. Houses had heaters, refrigerators, TVs, etc., and I overheard some of the younger boys planning out a game of Minecraft for the following morning while they played in the potato garden. The fusion between two different realms that so often battle each other in modern times further emphasized their intention of creating a mindful community. Their love for the land and people around them was apparent, and it made me wistful for the alluring call of the Pacific Northwest that I call home.

For the rest of the day, I relished the land and did things that previously had been foreign to me. I herded sheep, fed horses, picked onions straight from the ground and bit into them like apples. That night, I took joy in the sound of cicadas in the rolling hills of the surrounding forest, and had an electric moment of awareness when I realized that there’s no right way to completely live one’s life. “Success” is not a term with a universal definition, and I realized that I would much rather be happy than conform to what people think is best for me. If the two happen to line up, then that’s great! And if not, I have enough faith in myself to know that I’ll eventually find my way to where I need to be.

Just like my experience in Woodstock a few weeks ago, it was nice to be able to get out of the city again. For as much as I love it here in Manhattan, this trip made me realize that there are ways to live your life outside of the box, while not totally dropping off of the face of the planet, either. As Eric and I ate our wondrous dinner of fresh lamb from the farm, I marveled at the overpowering importance of nature and family in my life, and silently thanked the world for the goodness that it has bestowed upon me. 

Oh lord, rereading that last bit sounds incredibly hippy-ish. Maybe the intentional community got to me more than I thought it would...Eh, whatever. Namaste, dear readers. Namaste.

This is the view from the house I was staying in.

If you’re curious, here’s the link to the Quaker Intentional Community: http://qivp.org/qivc

Time Travel

This past weekend, I went back in time. Well, not really. I mean, it's not like I'm Marty McFly or Dr. Who or anything. But I had two very interesting experiences this weekend that dug up the past in wondrous ways. I fear that I'm not making much sense as of now, so let me go back and explain.

First, I went to the Merchant's House Museum, located in the East Village. This residence turned gallery is the only family domicile from the mid-nineteenth century to have remained almost fully intact in New York City. It was built in 1832 and occupied by the wealthy Tredwell family for one hundred years before the last family member died within its walls, and it was in 1936 that their family home was converted into a museum. In fact, it's said by some that the Tredwell's never left even after they all had passed; the Merchant's House is believed to be one of the most haunted homes in New York. While I didn't have any paranormal encounters during my visit, there was a definite air surrounding each room that cloaked my body in a past world that I didn't experience firsthand, but felt a little closer to after my day's journey.

The museum spanned the entire home's five floors, and as soon as I'd paid for my ticket I was given a thick binder, heavy with history to keep me company on my self-guided tour. I'd arrived at the museum thirty five minutes before closing, so for the majority of my time I was left alone with my dreams and the lives formerly lived that danced about in the air around me. Music from the pianoforte was playing in the drawing room, and if I closed my eyes I could pretend that I was at a dinner party among the up and comers of the 1850's. In the back bedroom upstairs, the wind was knocked from my lungs as I soaked in the gravity of such a private element of daily life. So much must have occurred in this room, I thought. Babies were born, sisters bonded, stories were told, and last breaths were drawn, all in the confines of this one room. It made me wonder about the Tredwell's--their experiences, their hopes, their fears, and what they would think of a random nineteen year old girl taking an intimate look into their lives almost one hundred years after they were all dead and gone.

The past still clung to my thoughts the next day, so I went to the Chelsea Flea Market-- a place chocked full of history and a culture of its own, complete with the ghosts of people's former lives. I hadn't heard of this unusual area until talking with the manager of the Plaza Hotel's Douglas Hannant Shop (see my previous blog post, entitled "First Eloise, Now Audrey"). He'd recommended going on a lazy weekend morning to hunt for treasure and to people watch. When I first attempted to find this market last weekend, I somehow had gotten the wrong address off of Google and ended up in a deserted corporate building. Undeterred, I picked up the building phone to try and see if I needed to call someone for access, but before I could ask where the market was, a woman named "Destiny" purred into the receiver, asking how she could "service" me. Stunned into an awkward silence at my ability to summon a phone sex operator instead of a real one, I slammed the phone down and hightailed it out of the building.

I eventually made my way to the real flea market, which occupied a two floor parking garage, packed to the brim with ancient knick knacks and people from all different walks of life. At first, I couldn't help but stare at the more unusual people surrounding me. There was a balding older man who was wearing cat eye sunglasses, a polka-dot unitard with a padded chest, and neon orange sneakers who was haggling over the price of a pair of clip-on earrings. A man bedecked in leather and spikes stood about a foot taller than his normal height if you counted his horn made of hair that had been gelled to stand straight up. And then there were the rest of us; seemingly normal people who were here for the vintage gems, the thrill of the hunt, a serendipitous connection, and some sort of unknown fulfillment that everyone craves but no one can ever quite place.

I took my time looking through each stall, because every single item had its own story to share. When I was little, I used to be so disgusted by the prospect of buying or wearing something used. And from people I'd never met, no less! The whole idea of flea markets was utterly appalling for the Allie that I was ten years ago. But somewhere in the space between then and now, I've come to cherish second hand items, for they are no longer cast-offs in my mind. Rather, they are items that had once been loved by someone else that by some force of fate are meant to float on in the hopes of finding another person to devote themselves to.

If I happened to find something in the pandora's box of goods that struck my fancy, I might pick it up. And if I held it long enough, it would begin whispering details of its history to me. The wedding dress from the forties was worn by a young bride who was madly in love with her husband for fifty-five years, the delicate handkerchief with the rosebuds was used to stop a drunkard's bleeding form a bar fight, the cherub adorned postcards were sent between two sisters to keep each other company during war time.

When the pieces themselves stopped talking, their sellers would fill the silence. I became fast friends with two vendors in particular. One of which was a ballsy former burlesque star whose personal closet had been rented out for Confessions of a Shopaholic and both of the Sex and the City movies, while the other was a lovely Israeli woman named Lulu with wild white locks that had been part of a rock band back in the eighties. Lulu noticed me eyeing a gorgeous vintage mint Valentino jacket, which she graciously gave to me at a generously reduced price. I practically died from happiness, and she smiled at my childish glee.

After sharing the histories of their lives and their merchandise, I embraced both women before continuing to sift through time and space in this historic hub. As excited as I was about my couture steal, I knew that I had stumbled upon other (arguably greater) gems that could not be purchased. Like the Merchant's House Museum, I felt a similar sensation of gratitude at the opportunity to go through another person's life through the objects they left behind. Places of the past are not simply linear markers in time, but rather eccentric havens for those of us who take solace in being lost and rejoice when a unique shard of history is found. I left the flea market feeling exhausted. My hands were covered in a mixture of dust and stranger's memories, but I found that I didn't mind.

This weekend was special, because it reminded me of the sacredness of the past and how we continue to look for answers in people, places, and things that have weathered the best and the worst of it before us. When I die, I know that the world will keep going as though nothing happened. But I also know--or at least I can hope--that there will be other people out there like me that will continue to take joy from the past, marveling at the way people used to live. And who knows? Maybe something of mine will be loved one day by a girl who daydreams about its former owner, and the crazy, interesting, beautiful life that she led.

The Chelsea Flea Market

Unexpected Bliss

Hi. My name is Allie, and I’m an anal-retentive control freak. At least, I can be. In fact, if I had to join any sort of “Anonymous” type of group, it would most likely be for my inability  to lose structure and let go of events or ideas already preconceived in my mind. Sometimes, these eccentric features of my personality aid me in wondrous ways. For example, my constant need to plan has helped me prepare for my future and to organize my life in directions that I sometimes find necessary to navigate the chaotic world we live in. However, some days I find that--try as I might--the universe has ways of messing with my plans in order to get me to loosen up a bit.

Yesterday was definitely one of those days.

I had Wednesday off, so I decided that I would go on an adventure to the Museum of Natural History, and then mosey through the middle of Central Park. As I made my way through the Union Square subway station, I became caught up in a rhythmic drum and saxophone performance unfolding on the platform. Due to my immense distraction, I stupidly got onto the first train that I saw without double-checking whether or not it was the right one. It turned out to be the correct line, but it was going in the opposite direction. After I got off of the subway and on to a line that could take me to 14th and 8th, I hopped on an express train. 

However, this second train seemed to be zooming onwards without any intention of stopping, and it was with an immense feeling of horror that I realized I had passed my stop and was instead headed to the Bronx--the New York City borough that can best be described as Manhattan’s ghetto cousin. Like, the cousin that grandma says is in rehab but is actually in prison. That cousin. Anyways, I managed to get off at 125th street (44 blocks from my desired destination), and by that time I was ready to swear off subways forever. I figured this was the universe’s way of telling me to simply go with the flow, so I decided to go above ground and explore whatever area I was in. I emerged to find myself in the heart of Harlem.

Harlem is hailed to be one of the most culturally diverse neighborhoods in New York City, and I would say from personal experience that that’s fairly accurate. In the two-odd hours that I spent there, I am not over-exaggerating when I say that I was the only young white girl that I saw. My heart started thundering with the unexpected adrenaline that comes from surfacing in an unknown area--especially as a lone young woman. I knew I was probably being totally crazy for getting so worked up, and just as I was calming myself down, I heard two gunshots go off and a bunch of crazy yelling. After I realized that I indeed had not shit my pants, I continued on my merry way; this time with a quickened pace and my focus straight in front of me.

I tried googling some cultural stops to visit in the surrounding area, but much like my subway luck, they were either closed for the day or completely shut down. Again, this left me without a plan and thus forced to wander around, truly taking in my surroundings.

What I witnessed was an area rich with culture, exotic smells, and art expressing the oppression of America’s minorities. Harlem was filled with streets bustling with vendors selling oils from across the world, gaudy signs for African hair braiding salons, and Jazz street performers with silver streaks in their beards and a shimmer in their eyes who were trying to turn a quick buck. Overall, there seemed to be a sense of camaraderie--a joy that comes with greeting the day and a triumph of obstacles overcome. At the same time, I there was a palpable yet unspoken tension embedded within the topic of race. It was something that everyone understood but no one deemed necessary to bring up. Being one of the only white people nearby, I felt especially sensitive to the gaping wound before me.

In fact, I found it to be a fascinating inversion of the minority role within the melting pot that is the American race. I never really thought about my ethnicity during the day to day in relation to others-- mostly because I’m a white person, which means that I’m part of the racial majority. But here, I felt different and almost excluded from a richness in culture and pride that I knew was not my place to feel jealous of, yet I still desperately wanted to cling to. I felt defiant and insecure, all at once, as if I was fighting a battle all on my own.

I had a pang of empathy for people of all different races who have felt this way, for all I had to do to escape such confusing and isolating feelings was simply to go thirty blocks south. I realize that many people are not as lucky, and such brief experiences of mine are burdens that people carry for lifetimes, which I have no right to complain about. 

However, this was also a powerfully positive realization because it enforced how no matter one’s external appearance may seem, underneath the layers that we’ve built up we’re all the same. That is, we’re complex creatures-- complete with emotions, beliefs, ideas, and feelings that have a limitless capacity. For some incredible reason, though, they continue to come back to similar, basic, and humanistic priorities like love, understanding, and acceptance. No matter one’s race. No matter what.

Such epiphanies left me famished, and on my travels I happened upon Levain Bakery. Feeling spontaneous, I bought a walnut chocolate chip cookie the size of my head. I continued the day’s theme of ending up in the unexpected by allowing my feet to continue their journey without much interruption from my mind. In a matter of minutes, I found myself climbing the steps to Columbia University. Soon I was sitting on the hallowed steps of Low Library with the sun warming my body and the breeze tickling my skin. 

As I broke the still warm pastry and delightedly watched the chocolate chips ooze from their cookie confines, I mused at the deliciousness of my day. For someone who is normally so rule-bound, it was almost exhilarating to end up in a place that was totally unexpected. I was proud of myself for exploring the unknown, and working through some interesting questions of race and preconceived stigmas that I hadn’t known that I’d been harboring. I tilted my head to the sky, only then realizing that I was grinning from ear to ear. As I bit into my gooey chunk of heaven, I felt blissfully happy to have let go of my original plans and to have embraced the unexpected.

Waking With The City

My phone’s despicable three note alarm went off with a start this morning; audial stimuli piercing my apartment’s darkened cocoon. Disoriented, I looked at the time—6:15 am. I was still half asleep as I forced myself through my morning routine, and stumbled out the door in a hurried rush at fifteen to seven. I had to be at work at 7:30 this morning in order to conduct a test for Sesame Street in New Jersey, and I was anxious that I was going to be late. My concentration centered on my hurried breath as opposed to my external surroundings, and I let my feet converse with the pavement while my mind continued to sleep.

It wasn’t until I was a good two blocks away from home that I snapped out of my quiet reverie as if I was smacked in the face by the force of the world. For in my sleepy haze, I realized that something about my environment was not right. I looked around, trying to place my hunch. It wasn't a feeling of unease, necessarily, but rather the indescribable knowledge that my Manhattan had changed slightly. But how?

Although it was morning, daylight hadn’t quite broken through the ominous grey that enshrouded the sky, and the atmosphere felt like it was holding its breath for fear that it might spit out a gust of angry rain. Darkened windows added to the austere mood set by the heavens, and the few café’s with lights on looked like the mother’s hug that was so necessary in grade school in order to start one’s day correctly. The difference this morning was most noticeable in the people on the street, or the lack thereof. Everyone in my path understood the unspoken sacredness of an early morning’s peace, which included a personal bubble of twice the normal proportion.

The juxtaposition of humanity this morning was also something that quite shocked me. Rather than the usual smorgasbord of socioeconomic status that one typically sees on the streets of New York, the people that were out and about were either well off business men and women bustling to work, or homeless people with rough bodies and tired souls. Prada suits crossed newspaper blankets. Executives trudged on with a resolute purpose while our generation’s lost boys and girls moved in a way that made the uncertainty of their next step apparent. It wasn’t a mean sort of contrast, really. Everyone seemed to crawl inside of themselves as if masking their souls in a way that only a bone-tiredness can provide.

This was further emphasized on the subway, which was so quiet that I’m certain that I could have heard a pin drop. If people weren’t dozing, they were staring blankly at a microscopic piece of dust or trying to focus their eyes on a nearby advertisement. By this point I was acutely aware of the strangeness surrounding me, and it hit me how not a single person in my car was talking or making eye contact with another soul.

  When I resurfaced from the bowels of the subway, I walked my regular route through Central Park. Although this area of town was a tad bit busier, it was still preserved in the peace that had first greeted me this morning. And that’s when it hit me. The reason why New York felt different was because it was still asleep. Not a deep sleep where the world is completely silenced by the power of the unconscious, but a slumber that allows one to be vaguely self-aware of the present, while at the same time letting go of the past. It was then that I realized that perhaps even cities that never sleep must stop and rest every once and awhile.

For some reason, this realization gave me an odd sense of solace. I felt humbled by the unspeakable grace of the microcosm of my life reflected in the grander Manhattan macrocosm. Since I arrived here, I’ve done nothing but hit the ground running, trying to make my pace match that of this city that seems to be on warped speed. But caught unaware, I realized that even Goliath must pause for a moment. I, a mere David, followed the lead of my city counterpart by stopping in Central Park simply to breathe. My body hummed with awareness; I could feel the skyscrapers stretching and the trees yawning in the breeze, so I let myself do the same. Moments blossomed into lifetimes as I stood there. And then after my beautifully selfish moment, I continued on my way, feeling like I was finally waking up with this wondrous city of mine.

First Eloise, Now Audrey

There are times when you go about your day weary, exhausted, and very much grounded in reality. They’re days when you scoff at Cinderella and the notion of luxury, because they seem millions of miles away from where you are in your current state of being. Everyone has those days, no matter how much we may wish that life could be nothing but tea and crumpets. Although times like this can be a drag, they also help me truly appreciate those days that are so special that they seem to be covered in fairy dust. Yesterday, for example, was a fairy dust day for me.

As I previously mentioned in my last post, my best friend Mackenzie came out to visit this past week. It was one of the most amazing experiences to get to explore the city that never sleeps with one of my favorite people, and I was so incredibly touched that she was able to come see me and this bustling metropolis before she had to get back to the grindstone that is college. We had a grand old time together, and pretty much walked everywhere our legs could carry us. Unfortunately, yesterday was her last day here, so I wanted it to be extra special. After a tour of the Met and a walk through Central Park, I took her to The Plaza Hotel, hoping to happen upon some luxurious mischief reminiscent of my experience a few weeks ago. As much fun as I had last time, I think it would be safe to say that yesterday was even cooler.

We first began our journey in the main part of the hotel before moving to the famed Palm Court and then continuing to the chic shops at the Plaza. During my last adventure, I happened upon the original Douglas Hannant store. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I found out through later research that Hannant is a well respected New York designer who has been featured in New York Fashion week and is known for working closely with Manhattan socialites. Celebrities such as Terri Hatcher, Shania Twain, Nicole Richie, and Beyoncé have been seen wearing his work. Crazy, right?!

Anyways, the last time I was there, I ended up having a delightful twenty minute conversation with the store manager, a well-dressed man named Thomas with two Tiffany’s bracelets and a Midwestern charm that put me right at ease in the face of so much grandeur. I decided to show Mackenzie the store and to say hello to Thomas, thinking that if anything it would be a nice little greeting regardless of whether or not he actually remembered me.

Not only did Thomas remember me, but he was also incredibly bored--which, as Mackenzie and I quickly found out, was the perfect combination for two young girls in a dress shop. For the next two hours he proceeded to doll us up as if we were his personal toy Barbie’s. It was mah-velous! From day ware to bridal, we must have tried on a total of twenty garments between the two of us, ranging in price from $900 to an upwards of $30,000 a piece. At one point, I was on the verge of tears, although I honestly couldn’t tell you if it was because of the exquisite beauty of the pearl hand-beaded couture wedding gown or the fact that a poor college student was trying on a single garment that cost more than a year’s worth of school.

Thomas just stood outside of our dressing room and snorted as he heard us squealing and moaning at the sight of such gorgeous clothing. One after the other, they came out tantalizing our eyes and whipping our minds into a romanticized frenzy about the occasions that merited wearing such finery. 

There was one point where Thomas (aka my new best friend) thrust a velvet black gown, complete with impeccable beading and dramatic ruching, into my hands and said, “Here. You MUST try this on.” Upon feeling the velvet fabric, my head was instantly swathed in the dreamy potential that fame whispers to its friends--galas, A-list parties, red carpet events. None of such circumstances I could ever truly see myself attending (and none of the gowns were anything that I could EVER afford), but in that moment it was nice to imagine that I could. I stood a little straighter, tilted my chin up, and channeled my inner Audrey Hepburn.

Throughout the entire time we were there, Mackenzie and I began chatting more with Thomas about his life, career, and how he became involved with Douglas Hannant. About ten years ago, he’d decided to move from Michigan to New York just to try something different, and packed up his bags within two weeks of making the decision. He completely started over, with relatively no connections and experience in the city. While doing so was frightening, he said that it was one of the best things that he possibly could have done. This theme for change carried over when he encouraged us to do, learn, see, and explore the unknown, and that such a drive to live is something that is possible within any decade of your existence, so long as you are willing to be open to the tickling of life’s fancy. 

Overall, it was a lovely two hours spent in the company of a practical stranger who, out of the kindness (and sheer boredom) of his heart allowed my friend and I entrance into a pocket of the extraordinary. Besides that, such an encounter reinforced how fascinating it can be to connect with strangers. Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget that everyone has their own amazing stories to share, and if you are patient enough, you may find a treasure of a tale. After all, we’re just people that simply want our stories to be heard, even if our fairy dust days are the exception and not the rule.