Garments and Memories #1 - The Big Pink Coat

After I saw Nora Ephron's play, "Love, Loss, and What I Wore", I forever thought of my clothes as memories. I've always wanted to write about the garments that mean the most to me, the things I refuse to donate. I've moved four times in New York City, and there's always four or five dresses, or coats or shirts that I wrap in tissue paper, sometimes hugging them to myself, smelling the perfume I wore back then that is still fresh on the neckline. 

Below is the first essay in a set of essays about Garments and Memories. 

In my early days in New York, I dated a fickle man who needed to be impressed. I walked into a clothing store desperate for a dress for our opera date ("Elektra" at the MET), and left instead with a pale pink, double breasted, cashmere coat with quarter sleeves. It was completely unnecessary, but it was on sale. I wore it on my date. When I arrived to pre-dinner at Ouest, (I age myself just by saying that) he widened his eyes. "Nice coat!" A success. 

Being that it was collarless, with short, pleated sleeves, it was a hard coat to wear in New York winters, and far too attention-grabbing for everyday. A woman on the six train once smiled at me, "How do you keep that clean?" she asked, but it sounded like a being reprimanded, and she was right. The coat was not a "subway" coat at all. I decided it was a "dress" coat, special occasions and job interviews only.

Four years later in 2012 after a job switch, and two apartment moves, I booked a solo trip to Paris. Packing was very important. My generous sister bought me a gorgeous white cotton Comptoir des Cotonniers blouse with a double peter-pan collar and a one of their cashmere polka dotted scarves, specifically for my trip. I was excited to wear them. I brought my favorite boxy black sweater, several pairs of jeans, black ballet flats and black boots. I decided to bring my pink coat, in case there was a reason to dress up, but I was also realistic, so I packed a trench coat and a boring winter coat. I would be there in April, and the weather report said rain. More importantly, I needed a boring black coat to blend in. I knew that the goal of every American during a trip to Paris was to be mistaken for a local.

I arrived in Paris and settled in at the studio apartment that I rented on Ile Saint Louis. Within seconds of opening my suitcase I realized my big mistake. I had only packed my thin trench coat and the pink coat. Most days would be around 40 degrees Fahrenheit, I'd have to wear my fancy coat everywhere, putting cashmere at risk of rain and mud.

I have two opinions on clothes. Some days I believe nice clothes are only good if you wear them. Other days I disagree. In Paris, I decided the only way I'd have fun is if I firmly believed that nice things weren't meant for closets and coddling. I forced myself to remember this when I splashed in puddles and kicked up dust in the parks. Its funny how quickly we get used to something when all other options disappear. We're able to convince ourselves, twisting our opinions, settling. My mantra had changed. Live in the damn coat. But it wasn't easy.

In summary: sometimes I looked ridiculous. For example, in a queue of people at the Louvre in the Universal Tourist Uniform: waist-length Patagonia puffers, jeans, tennis shoes and fanny packs. It was my first time in Paris, and this happened at all the tourist spots. When I unbuttoned the coat, it hung well past my knees, and my reflection while walking reminded me of the floating cassocks of the priests I knew growing up. I was embarrassed by it. I was painfully self-conscious then. The coat, and the fear of the reactions I'd receive for wearing it, reminded me of the part of myself I hated most. I can recall every high school snicker and laugh, or a mean passing comment someone makes about me on the train. I can remember my heart sinking on a middle school field trip when a little girl who'd sat next to me on the three hour ride to a planetarium decided not to sit next to me on the ride back.

"Sorry, but you're kind of boring."

And so forth.

Those memories were supposed to be insignificant, but for me they were dangerous mountain passes, difficult to look at and even harder to conquer and forget. Paris was not the place to be fearful of the opinions of others because it was already full of obstacles: I had beginner knowledge of the language, but I was traveling alone, eating in cafes alone for three meals a day. I could barely stand that, and now I'd have to also worry about something else. This fear was so strong that on my first day in Paris I was willing to shiver in a trench coat on a cold Easter Sunday. I went back to my apartment to warm up and concede. It was just too cold. I very reluctantly slipped on my coat. It usually felt so good to wear—the silk lining working its way up my arms and settling on my shoulders—a perfect fit. I used to love keeping the top button undone but holding it and my scarf in a leather gloved hand; a gesture meant to make me look charming. But my reflection made me disgusted. 

It was still very early on that first day when I jogged down the steps of my apartment building. There were two uniformed city workers in the corridor as I came down the last set of spiral steps, one of them looked up at me.

"Ce manteau est tres joli," she gasped. I smiled and thanked her. We had a conversation about learning French and it made me laugh but I held my breath. Surely, I couldn't make it a whole eight days without something awful happening? But nothing awful happened, in fact, no one made a mean comment about me my whole trip. There were those silly tourist moments, naturally, but it wasn't as bad as I imagined.

Mid-trip I went to Versailles. It was raining when I arrived, but despite this and despite the coat I decided to rent a bike. I hadn't rode a bike since I was a teenager, so I wobbled for a bit, and eventually crashed into a concrete stake near a pasture of goats. I fell in the mud and brushed it off, resigned to getting dirty.

It was the most beautiful ride and one of my favorite memories. I returned to New York to find small stains on the bottom of my coat. I wasn't angry about them. I didn't try to get them removed. They still exist there today.

Eventually I reviewed all the photos I took in Paris, noticing that in most of the rooms in Versailles, I'd managed to accidentally photograph myself in a mirror. It wasn't planned, of course, but there I was, a pink spectre. In a strange way, I was proud of myself.