We set off. Early, but not too early.
If only you had a house, because houses are where you put stuff.
Renditions old and new.
First, think of a word.
Flashes of excerpts from Emile Zola's The Ladies' Paradise.
Once intimidating, now a home fixture.
New dressed as old, scattered to hide the guise.
Like pre-ripped jeans.
For the collector, or the hoarder.
For the decorator, or the buyer risking a hospital visit.
Mom: "Did you see how much they cost?!"
Teen Daughter, shy among the older, hip females: "Yes, I know."
Mom: "Fifty dollars. FIFTY! For old shoes!"
[Photos by MK]
With neither house nor means, our main role, it became clear, was to stroll. Some strolled magnificently - high fives and leather workmen's boots, breakfast sweaters and tousled hair. Others creaked with hips stiff from age or a child's bottom. We belonged to neither, leaving me to feel I didn't belong.
We left five hours later for a place where you need neither home nor a name: Whole Foods. Corporate as they may be, Whole Foods is a golden land where we can do two of our favorite things simultaneously: grocery shop and eat. [It is possible to spend less than your whole paycheck at WF and eat well, as I hope to share later.]
Peering eye level at tins of coffee with a steak and Malbec before you is not a bad way to watch the world.