She had had her eyes out for some time now, looking for a certain type of blouse or shirt, something she could wear on cooler days under something else, I forget which. If you know Portland, Oregon, you will agree that the place is better known for covered wagons than for fashion. There is a Nordstrom’s, though, but they had no such blouse or shirt. Which is no surprise if you consider her specifications: cotton, long sleeves, a certain style of collar, form fit, not blousy or baggy. Oh, and it had to be white and show no small pictures of crocodiles or horses.
Let’s not worry, I suggested. We were scheduled to fly to London three weeks hence. London is full of world class stores. This will give us some fun shopping abroad. What excitement, I promised.
Well, we did get to London. The place is indeed full of Kleins, Armanis, Hermeses, La Costes, Bosses, Diores, Michael Korses, Pradas, Ralph Laurenses, Ferragamoses, Burberries, and Chanels. They all had everything but not what we needed. Sure, we found a blouse with sleeves. But it had the wrong collar. We did find one with the right collar but it was made of silk, not cotton. After three days of exhausting shopping, including Harrods, Selfridges, and Marks & Spencer, we still had no blouse (or shirt).
We had planned to fly home via Paris, anyway. It made sense, therefore, to postpone further shopping for clothes until we got to the capital of fashion. We thought. What a rude awakening it was when we found out that Paris was not full of high, or any, fashion. The market is dominated by the same hum-drum cookie cutter stores, the Kleins, Armanis, Hermeses, La Costes, Bosses, Diores, Michael Korses, Pradas, Ralph Laurenses, Ferragamoses, Burberries, and Chanels.
Some of the exciting mystery of traveling to foreign countries, the pleasure of shopping in a different market, died for us that day. The world, it appears, at least from the shopper’s point of view, has become a homogeneous blend of sameness. The cities of Europe, and presumably Asia as well, are but clones of each other. They are as predictable as outlet stores in the Mojave desert. Disappointed successors of Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad, we flew home. We stopped over in San Francisco where the rest of our dream died: from Union Square to Fisherman’s Wharf, guess what? Same old, same old: Calvin Klein, Armani, Hermes, La Coste, Hugo Boss, Dior, Michael Kors, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Ferragamo, Burberry, and Chanel. And still no blouse.
To add insult to injury she found her blouse the next day at home in Portland, at T.J. Maxx on Washington Street. And it was on sale, too.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman