Much Ado About Shoes and Vanity

[nirinia]

I wrote this at the cottage, procrastinating as always, and thought I might as well post it. It is rather long, so I will cut it away and rant on about make-up and shoes underneath.

Going from JFK airport to Manhattan and the hotel was a very weird experience. After a rather vigorous passport check, with pictures and fingerprints involved, we were free to do as we wished and hopped on a tube (I never caught what they called it in New York, though I think it might have been simple ”the underground”) to take us to the hotel, at 57th st, 7th avenue. The first thing we saw was a suburb. Endless rows of tiny, dreary houses and roads was all there was to see, and the occasional child running along. The houses were terribly kept, with small, square back yards encircled in fences of varying kinds. There was no grass anywhere, only tiles, tarmac or what looked like yellow dust. I counted two trees and endless abandoned houses. I renamed it the land of ”fat chance you’re going to make it, chum”.

And the people were, for lack of a better word, weird. There were huge people, that would have had to occupy at least two airplane-seats, if not three; tiny, petite, fragile girls that reminded me of china dolls; black couples that screamed their heads of at each other about one or the other ”just trying to have fun”, and the other not caring; what looked like teachers reading and grading papers; homeless people, with shabby clothes full dirt and holes, and hair that should have been cut years ago; a couple in expensive clothes discussing Mozart. And in the midst of it all I sat, apprehensive, if not down-right frightened, feeling like the little girl, hidden behind a huge black suitcase and a tubemap that I was. It was only that first time I was so out of sorts. As I got out, and up into the daylight of 7th avenue, I felt very at home. Not like I do when I return to London – like I have been there before, and that the city somehow greets me as I look around and take it all in over a cup of Starbucks –, but serene.

The immensity of the buildings, and the monstrosity of the crows moving to and fro about me somehow did not seem nearly as imposing as the tube. And to think it only took a few days before I thought nothing of storming onto a tube and running about on my own. I did not even offer the weirdest of New York’s inhabitants a second glance as I passed them by.

I remember reading about the US and it being a ”giant melting-pot” of cultures, thinking ”mmmmkay”, filing it away for use on some essay and reading on, thinking no more of it. But as I walked through Chinatown, what was left of Little Italy, visited restaurants, took cabs and simply walkedf about, it struck me that the US really is a giant melting-pot. Cultures have met and more or less melted together. An average New Yorker would have been stared at in Oslo, for being weird. Whether it be the high fashion kind or a beggar (of which there were very few, I think I was approached by a mere handful over the course of a week), they would have received raised eyebrows and weird looks here. There no one thought anything of even the weirdest hair-styles or most indecent clothing.

And while the average american might lack style, I noted some gorgeously dressed men that passed me by, in the most gorgeous trenches, shoes and pants, with perfectly-groomed hair and delectable hands. I think I could spend quite a lot of time in, and grow to love, New York. My european sensibilities where however gravely offended when I was denied my wine at a restaurant because I had to be 21 to consume alcohol. You vote at 18, drive at 16, but cannot consume or buy alcohol till 21. Father claims New York is very different to the rest of the US, more european in some ways, weirder in all. Which means I will have to see the rest of it, too.

With the exception of a slight mishap, I managed to maneuver with great dexterity. I found both Irregular Choice, United Nude and Christian Louboutin (where we had to ring bell to be admitted to the shop; it is my mecca). And I found summer dresses. So my project of prancing around in dresses and heels and looking very sophisticated indeed will commense this summer.



I was fascinated by Dior's Flower Blossom Limited Edition Compact at the airport, and ended up buying it. It is a sheer pink, with a print of ladybirds, flowers and a gemstone in the middle. And, with this image to advertise their spring look, how could I not fall pray to its lure? And I think I have announced already that I needed Chanel's new quint in shades of blue? Well, I bought it, and it is wonderful. Their ad convinced me blue eyeshadow will not make me look ill, or beaten-up. So, I have their "Les 4 Ombres Quadra Eye Shadow in Bleu Cèlestes" (the names are a mouthful) and am considering investing in a new nail varnish. I have a light, very pretty pink that I use to death, but I wonder whether I should get a dark blue (as seen in Chanel's spring look), or a deep bronze of some sort? Or perhaps a light green? Maybe I should indulge myself and try a blue lip gloss as well?

And, as I look out from my summery reverie, what is going on outside? Snow, endless heaps of snow. Whatever happened to my spring? I want to prance around in my new United Nudes! I wore my eamz boots (the leather is perhaps the softest I have encountered yet, really more fit for gloves than shoes) when Father defended his thesis, and comliments literally rained. Even the mad professor of genetics loved them, and whispered so rather creepily to me from behind. (Oh, fine, I give in, I am an attention whore when it comes to shoes. My United Nudes are just so buggerdly sexy. And that they are not available in Norway helps.) I need to wear my new UN's soon (and am stealing an image from shoewawa).