I'm
not a clotheshorse. Shopping in large stores induces overwhelm and even if it
looks good, if I don't feel comfortable in it, the item will soon gets
relegated to the Goodwill or clothing-swap bag. Still, when I find items of
clothing I like, I wear it until I can't be worn anymore: the favorite jeans
that finally wear out in the butt, the green coat with threadbare buttons, the
worn-down heels that can't be repaired. And then there's the limiter of living
in a small house. I don't like clutter. Sometimes, I'm sad to realize I've
donated something prematurely (When did I toss out the vintage clack cape with the
green lining or my dad's old buckskin jacket?). But some things have
persisted. Saturday I was happy to reach deep in the depths of the closet and
find an old favorite jacket, that I can't justifiably wear everywhere anymore,
but I that I can't part with either.
I'd
wandered into the eco clothing boutique not far from the Wellington ferry
terminal, with no clear shopping objective. Past the initial reporting work,
which had brought me to Auckland a few days, earlier, spontaneity and intuition
were the themes of my third trip to New Zealand. It was the first time I'd
traveled here as a freelance writer, and it was the first long trip I'd taken
after a long relationship crashed and burned. After months of feeling blue, the
trip to New Zealand offered some needed perspective on starting over. So
as soon as I finished filing my report, I rented a car and decided I wouldn't
follow a set itinerary for the next 10 days of vacation. I'd wake up each day
and then
decide where to go and what to do.
Reading
the paper at breakfast that day, I learned Wellington was hosting The New Zealand
International Festival of Arts and off I went, catching
the ferry across Cook Straight, between the North and South Island. With
some time before the evening's performance, I window-shopped. And while I
didn't know what I was looking for when I walked in the store, I gravitated
toward the rack of jackets made from upholstery against the wall as if the
garment were calling me. It was a bold jacket. Complete with black
faux leather collar and zipper lining and slash zippered pockets that were
roomy but not bulky, the jacket hugged me just enough at the waist to confirm
curves without being tight. Durable, but stylish, ready for anything, rich
but not ostentatious, it had a character I aspired to.
I
wore the jacket to the show that night, Mark Morris's L'Allegro,
il Penseroso ed il Moderato, and I wore it for the plane
ride home to San Francisco, still sandy, and now blissed out from my few days
on the beaches of Golden Bay. After 12 unplugged days of traveling by
myself, soaking in hot springs on the Coramandel Peninsula, watching whales in Kaikoura,
kayaking on the bay and eating mussels and thick toast with my feet in the sand, I was starting to feel a part
of the living again.
I
may have looked too happy. The security guard held me back,
asking me to remove the jacket. I watched as he ran his fingers along and
around the black collar, checking for contraband. But he stopped short of
cutting into it when I protested, and, muttering, returned the jacket to me.
For
several years, I wore the NZ coat everywhere. It went well with jeans and it
worked over dresses. The pockets could hold a few Cds, keys, lipstick, a
cell phone and money. It made sense to wear in all but the hottest of
weather. Always, someone would remark upon its specialness. In Paris, a
woman stopped me on the Ile St Louis to finger the sleeves, circling me,
appraising its cut, approvingly. It was slightly weird, she opined, maybe a
little too heavy, but it worked.
And
like the well-loved sofa it would have become, it became faded and worn in
places over the years. When the elbows began to go threadbare, it became
something I only wore with jeans. Today, more than 15 years
after I bought it, it very seldom leaves its hanger, but I keep it as a
reminder of the possibility I remembered when I bought it, as much as of the places I've been.
2 comments:
I love that jacket too! Yes, it was perfect on you. Seeing this photo reminds me of the early days in SF.
Thanks Karen! I know funny how ago that was now. Miss you-sending virtual hugs, D
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