New York: Nostalgia and now

For the remainder of this week, the Passage will briefly close; I'm on holiday in New York.

From the first draft of chewy, spicy air, the first bars of salsa blasting from a cab, I'm back, full of adrenalin, curiosity, wonder. I spent part of a summer in the broke-but-blissful '60s sharing a 5th-floor walkup with a waif in fashion school and in the '80s, regularly visited a girlfriend who had a huge apartment in a hotel, with free room service. (The digs were a perk of her job.)

When I plan a trip, my inner 25 year-old starts dictating what to do, as if I'm about to enter the Tardis and catch the Dolls' last set. But returning to the city that witnessed my glory days isn't going to bring them back; eventually, I rejig the itinerary to suit my 64-year-old stamina. 

My only disappointment is that the US Navy's annual Fleet Week, when the city sparkles with sailors in whites, has been cancelled this year due to the government's budget cuts. (I swear I didn't know about the timing when we booked, but it is an especially ah, scenic week to be there. I once delayed my return home three times just to enjoy the view!)
 

Photo: New York Daily News 2006

My favourite NYC memory actually happened en route, in July, 1986. On my birthday, I flew in to see Hotel Girlfriend for a long weekend, a gift from Le Duc, my husband of several months.

When the flight attendant asked if I'd like something to drink, I said, "It's my birthday, I'd like a glass of champagne!" 

She said, "I'll see what I can do" and returned with a bottle of Pol Roger, which she parked at my (economy class) seat. 

"I'll never drink all this!", I protested in an insincere, demure tone. The young man beside me, busy canoodling with his girlfriend, shot me a look, as if to say Whoa, 16A, you party animal! There may have been something else in his eyes, an air of puzzled inquiry, but I was heedless in the moment.


"I hope you'll have some, too", I said, and requested two more glasses. 

Just then, the captain's Voice of God came over the PA. "Good evening, nice night in New York, 81 degrees and clear; local time is 7:50. One thing before we begin our approach, folks. I have a request for Michelle in 16B from Joel in 16C", he intoned, "Will you marry me?"

Photo by Andrew C. Mace

She shouted "Yes!", my seatmate kissed her, the plane erupted in applause, I poured more bubbly. We flew low on the descent, banking over Central Park, the city glittering in the July dusk like an open jewel box.

An hour later, I sat on Hotel Girlfriend's terrace with another glass of champagne in my hand and said, "See this? This is the last birth control pill I'm ever taking." But that's another story.

And as I leave, with a light bag and lighter heart, I'm humming the best city-nostalgia song ever, from the days when he, too, was young:

Spring dresses by Montréal's marvelous Miljkovitch

A new dress: coincides with a romantic getaway, the return of clement days, and some slow, continual wardrobe retooling. Much more has been divested than replaced, as I discover what fits with my new size and city.

I've been admiring girls in little skirts all week, but need more fabric there. And elsewhere. 

Whenever I wear one of Véronique Miljkovitch's pieces I'm asked who made it. The line is offered in natural fibers (cotton, silk and cotton with some stretch) or high-end poly-jersey in interesting colours; there are occasional prints.  

The dresses are as easy to wear as the current generation of Diane von Furstenberg wraps (someone will always make that versatile style), but more unusual and modern. 

The draping skims what you want skimmed; there's volume but not bulk. It's hard to describe what she does: it's as if Madame Grès and Rick Owens had a baby. They are surprisingly effective on voluptuous women and make slender proportions look graceful rather than stalky. (Sizing is XS to XL.) The average price for a dress is around $250-$300.

The style below, "Anouk" is one of the best-sellers; my GF Christine has  a version with longer sleeves, and it's stunning.

I tried on a number of the season's designs and loved many; I finally chose "Juliette" below. (The neckline on mine is definitely lower; that big necklace covers up the detail. The dress ties in front, adapting easily to an eased or more cinched waist.)

Big crush on this dress, too, a navy that is strict and sirenish at the same time:

 

And a shift that's playful, not just a rectangle:

For more of the Spring/Summer 2013 line, and for stores, see Vèronique Miljkovitch.  One reader had a gracious response when she called the workshop to order. The online shopping site Shopgirls carry a few pieces, including the alluring "Anouk".

I've showed you the dress even before Le Duc, but it's for him that I chose it. Stepping out with your beloved in a new dress is one of life's great pleasures. Actually, going out with anybody in a new dress is fun, but you know what I mean.
 

Christine's pants: Teaching a style lesson

When visiting Christine, my teacher friend, last late winter, she said, "I decided I wanted velvet pants", and proceeded to show me two pair she had just bought.

The first were a lush, unusual peacock green by Cambio; the velvet glowed with alluring depth and luminosity. She bought them at a high-end boutique, where the myopic beauty misread the price tag, got to the cash, and found that, with tax, she was paying $320.

I, her prudent friend, flapped my hands in dismay: "You didn't!" But she knew they were special. She accessorizes them with everything from gold metallic jazz oxfords to these 4-inch fuchsia suede heels. 

Used to me, Christine stayed serene. She pulled out the second pair, a deep sapphire in a similar cut, from Talbot's. She got them at 70% off last marked price for less than $20 all in.

She bought them because her girlfriend Jocelyn (also a teacher) thought that the peacock pants were considerably more cocktail lounge than teachers' lounge. (Mme. Christine teaches French, what else?) 

Closing my eyes, I found both felt soft and supple. But the $300 Cambios had a zipper detail at the ankle, and there is that rich Italian colour. They deliver an emotional zing, a charisma, though the Talbot's were pleasing too. The price differential (a factor of 15) presents a value consideration: prudence or pizazz?

This is how she and I presently shop, mixing the splurge with the bargain. But we'd like to improve our habits so that we accumulate less.

Christine describes Jocelyn as one of those astute women who buy "three perfect pieces each season", to achieve a small but striking wardrobe. She doesn't pop into Winners (our TJ Maxx) like Christine and I might, hoping to find a treasure squished in somewhere; she finds such efforts dispiriting. Jocelyn, who recently returned from working for some years in Europe, exemplifies the "chic simple" principle of a small, nothing-extra wardrobe.

Would you have bought both? If only one, which?
Are you a "chic simple" advocate, more of a magpie–or some other mix?

Mother's Day memories

Sorting though a box of cards, I found a note written in the wobbly hands of two 11-year old boys:

(Boy #1):
For this WONDERFUL MOTHER'S Day we will give you hugs and kisses for ever!!!
(Boy #2):
Tu est comme une fleur, une abeille qui fait du miel, un chat qui est est si gentil.
(You are like a flower, a bee who makes honey, a cat who's so nice.)

The next note in the pile was from 8 years later and says:
I went to bed @ 3 am. Let me sleep in till noon or wake me up if you're going out for lunch.
PS. Happy Mother's Day!

Sic transit gloria matrem. (And please correct my Latin, the accusative case is lost in the mists of fifty years.)

Over the years, I've received gifts ranging from the earnest Gummy Lump to pearl earrings, and not one is favoured over the other. In fact, the whole commercial aspect of Mothers' Day is irrelevant to me; I simply reflect every year on this experience, which was almost lost, as I did not have children till I was all but 39. 

The occasion puts a pin in the map of memory and invites me to pause in gratitude for the gift of being a mother.

A few years ago, my friend Susan sewed satin pjs with animal-print trim for her 90+ year old mother, Kay. She's lucky to have her. And so, I think of my mother, too, with whom I (and nearly everyone else) had an intense and complex relationship.  

Here she is, holding one of my sons; she is 80; Jules is nearly 1. Mom lived on for nearly 20 more years, obdurate, sharp, even charming when she felt like it for every one of them. She was a force of nature, and I miss her.

Spring comes to the market: Montréal people

Sunny and warm! Let's go to the market for bedding plants and a bit of people watching, à la Montréal. They've flung off their wrapping, there was not a foulard to be found amid Sunday's swirl of shoppers.

A casual couple with pansies; red dress and red purse, wide-brimmed straw hat:

She works at one of the plant vendors; I admired her hat and she let me shoot it, but didn't want her face in the shot ("no makeup today"). But then, we do get to see her cinnabar bracelet! She wore its mate on the other wrist.

Ah, les jeunes filles in their uniform, shorts and tanks. I like how they're showing their long legs, without insisting that they must be tan first.

 This one's for Déjà Pseu. Girl with oyster and leopard:

A simple skirt, white with a brushstroke graphic at one side, made charming by that sole detail and the unexpected complement of a purple tee:

A sweet spring bag carried at the top of her pack, filled once they decided how many lobsters to buy:

A trompe l'oeil décolléte composed of three layers, black body ilghtened lightened by the skirt's delicate tracery. Don't save the dress for dancing!

Le Duc said, "How does she walk in those?" Not the shoe I'd wear to tote tomato plants!

But even a woman in sensible shoes gets footsore! She found a bench to take a break.

Thrift shop: "I look incredible"

La (Found)erie's foxy mannequins

I live in a thrift-rich neighbourhood in a vintage-packed city. All levels are offered, from rock-bottom by-the pounds to consignment Chanel.

In the windows of La (Found)erie, well-dressed as any hip boutique, I see the ruffled blouses, bomber jackets and power suits of former eras, displayed with verve. 

I admire the thrifted ensemble more than the strenuously-styled designer outfit: twentysomething women in adjustée housedresses, heels and anklets; my French class colleague in a sweeping purple velvet coat with deep cuffs, and young bucks in flying scarves and Sansabelt trousers. 

Both sons wear thrift assiduously picked by Etienne's sweetie, Tash.

A Taylor Swift look from La (Found)erie

But in Montréal, it seems very few women get rid of good, current-looking clothes. 

Thinking that finding these was a price-point matter, I checked the upscale consignment in a posh neighbourhood and was surprised how dated the jackets and dresses looked. You could not have given me anything.

Nowadays I don't so much shop vintage as drop by for the memories.

When you have more wrinkles than a '60s crinoline, the retro look holds less charm than it once did. In the '50s dresses I once trolled for, I'd now look as if I'd never bought anything, just kept my old clothes for a half-century, a hipper Miss Havisham.

Accessories can still deliver great value; belts are often single-digit bargains.

When a cat lolls in the window's sunspot, and Passion Pit are playing, I stop in, letting the nostalgia flow, carried back by spectator pumps. A girl who can twirl an '80s dirndl with aplomb (cat's-eye liner helps) gets admiring looks.

Spring specators

I especially enjoy "enhanced secondhand": the used-plus-indie format, found in boutiques like Arterie, who offer curated vintage clothes and objects mixed with fresh merch by young local designers, and new European shoes. While certainly not as cheap as the Sally Ann, the quality is uniformly higher.

Lamp and necklace, Arterie

Macklemore and Ryan Lewis's "Thrift Shop" is my current Favourite Nutty Song. 

In a St. Laurent friperie, when someone started humming "I'm gonna pop some tags", three other browsers picked up the chorus.

I wear your granddad's clothes
I look incredible
I'm in this big ass coat
From that thrift shop down the road...

Leather: Vienna meets Montréal

When I was moving, I gave my totally cool leather jacket to my son Etienne's sweetie, who thought her mother, Natasha, might like it. It was black, tight-fitting, with silver industrial zippers up both sleeves, the front seams, back seams and front closure. (A lot of zips, but it worked.) 

Made by someone I never heard of, bought in a tiny French boutique, it fit me for about 15 minutes. Several weeks of patés, patisseries, and profiteroles–all the pleasurable "ps" of Paris–and, voilà, too tight by touchdown at home.

Natty seized the jacket like a fox terrier grabs a show award. She looks like Naomi Watts, slender, stylish and comfortable in both her skin and a cow's. She wrote me a sweet, slightly delirious thank-you note. When we moved to Montréal, I saw her in the jacket, and dadgummit, it was made for her.

Moving forward two years, I became smaller than when I bought the jacket and began to yearn not for my ex, specifically, but a leather jacket that kicks ass. Not a biker, like Lisa's new one, as I prefer aforesaid kicked area covered in our climate, but something with some 'tude.


Someone special (who really likes leather) gave an anniversary gift! J. Peterman's story-based copy referenced Emma Peel and '60's London; Le Duc was smitten. Thank god it wasn't a leather catsuit! 

This is my first-ever Peterman piece, the Vienna Leather Jacket. The leather is meltingly soft yet substantial, the details pleased me. I mean, who puts working cuff buttons on a leather jacket anymore? (Hermès, of course.) 

I can wear the collar spread or fastened high against our chill winds. The rich espresso colour provides a whisper of softening. Also, though double-breasted, the seamed, shaped body and fitted sleeve keep the line sleek. 

One thing, though. See that jauntily-knotted belt? Here's the back of the buckle in real life:

Gah! The glare of metal took the belt from Vienna to Podunk. Why didn't Peterman fully-cover that or use, say, a resin one? I wrote to ask (and mentioned the needed alteration). Kristin from Customer Service replied: "I can certainly see the concern with the buckle, and I'll be sure to pass that along to our production department." 

Channeling Frugal Scholar, I requested a $6.50 refund for the alteration; Kristin said she'd "have to take it up with her supervisor". I heard nothing after two inquiries; flick of my cat o' nine tails at J. Peterman for its indifferent service. 

The solution? I'm wearing it buckled, not tied, which meant a trip to our local cordonnier, where the cobbler trimmed seven inches.  

With the jacket: Thai silk scarf, Chada Import Gallery, Toronto; cords, Lands' End; boots, Hermès; sunglasses: Forever 21.

Le Duc says I indeed look like Emma Peel, even if I don't have the boots...yet.


"I got a lot of very odd fan mail while I was in that show, but my mum used to enjoy replying to it. Some of the men who wrote to me must have been a bit startled because she would offer really motherly advice. 

I would get a letter from a teenage boy, say, who was overexcited and my mother would write back saying: "My daughter is far too old for you and what you really need is a good run around the block".

-Diana Rigg about her days in "The Avengers"