While wandering the many streets of Manhattan, my girlfriend made sure we cruised Madison and 5th Avenues. We laughingly poked into clothing and accessory stores to ooh and aah over the merchandise. None of the store sales staff took us seriously - probably because we wore jeans (Levi's, gasp!) and tennis shoes (not spiked heeled boots). I was amazed at those die-hard spiked boot wearers because navigating the many streets of NYC takes a toll on your toes.
That's not to say I don't appreciate haute couture. I've sewn enough to know good construction and lines when I see them. A well constructed garment drapes better and fits the curves better, there's no doubt.
I didn't take many pictures within the shops. Even I knew that would be seen as gauche tourist behavior. I did snap this quick picture, though.
This wall display inside a young men's store surprised me. The history on the walls was fascinating. Antique Singer machines worth more than the merchandise, I am sure.
Final thoughts on the couture of New York? Apparently, only those size 10 and under are meant to wear such clothing. I did a great dealing of browsing, dreaming, and wishing, but my slightly more than size 10 frame didn't get to do much trying on. I did talk my friend into a new black dress - the quintessential wardrobe piece. I even offered to watch the girls so she and her husband could go to dinner. She laughed, said that's what sitters are for, and headed into the next shop to make snarky comments about pricing.
After passing the 7 story Bloomingdale's numerous times during our travels, she dragged my into what I can honestly say was the embodiment of Dante's 7 levels of hell. It was crowded, bustling, expensive, and intimidating. An experience we should all have, she said. I found a gorgeous sweater on the 30% sales rack and got all excited because it was actually a size L, as in large and not for waifs. And it was on sale. Then I did the math and realized 30% off of $450 is still out of my price range. By just a little :)
So, instead, I traveled back to Little Italy and bought several pounds of fig cookies to take home to my waifs.