While most people come to New York and think BARNEYSBERGDORFSSOHONOLITAFIFTHAVESWEETBABYJESUS, HCB was of course thinking, HOLYSHIT a whole city's worth of OTHERPEOPLE'SAWESOMEOLDSTUFF. Being that there don't seem to be any European-style outdoor flea markets in New York, I did my best to locate some fecund thrift stores for him.
Boy did I find one. The Memorial Sloan-Kettering Thrift Shop on the Upper East Side is the equivalent of the world's best thrift store crossed with a mind-boggling designer consignment venue. The main floor features tons of non-designer duds (incl. two whole racks of cashmere), antique furniture, books, jewelry, china, and tchotchkes, whilst in the Designer Room, beady-eyed old ladies dispense silent condemnation and strident style tips while guarding racks full of Chanel and Oscar and Ralph. I came home with two cashmere sweaters and this Temperley London sweater dress, with which the 88-year-old attendant more or less insisted I wear black leggings and stilettos. (She's not wrong.)
Remember how last month I boldly declared that I was over shopping? Erm, amendment: I am totally OVER shopping standard retail. But one cannot put asunder my love of rich ladies' fashion detritus. I'm just proud of myself (or kicking myself) for not buying that Chanel tweed trench coat...
There was only one not-so-small problem: no men's department. HCB came home empty-handed, unless you count the aforementioned condemnation.
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