The Visa Diaries

For the most part, I have been trying to avoid talking about things I am buying for my wedding (4 weeks away!) on this blog, because it is such a specific niche of purchases. Furthermore, it is endless, and could fill up posts from here until death do us part. However, since wedding planning is pretty much the only thing that I am doing these days, I don’t have any other material… so, with apologies, here I go.

I don’t know when weddings became such a big industry. When my parents got married, it was in the backyard of the bride’s parents’ home, as it was for most people then. Her mother did the majority of the planning, they showed up, badda-bing badda-boom, and five hours later they were rattling back down the driveway trailing some tin cans behind their VW. Perhaps this is a simplified view with 40+ years of hindsight, but planning definitely does not seem like it was the year-long full-time job it is these days.

These days the bar feels substantially higher. Take a gander through a Martha Stewart Weddings, or peruse one of the highly specialized and highly precious wedding blogs out there, and you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. A humble backyard affair will not cut it – unless, of course, it is styled by a celebrity stylist, who could make it come off as charming and naive… instead of it actually being naive. After all, this is going to be “your big day!” as everybody keeps referring to it, with a big smile! And with 100 plus of your most favorite people traveling from all over to be there, you do not want to disappoint.

The main thing I have discovered about wedding planning is that (like coastlines) it is a fractal-like process. Every bit of it, as soon as you dive in opens a world of questions of equal complexity. You need a cake, for example, so you research and find a nice cake baker. But its not done – you need to figure out what kind of cake, what kind of filling, what kind of frosting, what kind of decoration, what combination of tiered and sheet cake, will you have a what kind of groom’s cake and what will that be, how does everybody feel about cake toppers, and if so what kind and how much do they cost and con they come in time. Then you have to figure out how the cake will be transported and when, who will provide the pedestal for it to sit on, the table to support it, and the knife with which to do the ceremonial cutting. Each one of these questions could be an equally complex operation. You agree to use the cake knife that your aunt used at her wedding, until she back-pedals because she’s afraid it’ll get taken away at security on the flight there. Back to square on with the cake knife. Every step of the way involves endless research, coordination with vendors, and vetting of the proposed solution between a committee of people, including your mother, your father, your fiance, the secretary at work, and anybody else who happens to overhear. When a vendor goes out of stock on something you wanted or messes up an order, well then, just start right over.

This process happens with every item on the wedding shopping list, from big to small. The venue, the dress (the shoes, to veil or not to veil, the hair (down or up, and if up, high or low and how to make sure the stylist doesn’t use too much hairspray??), the make-up, the jewelry, the lingerie, the alterations), the ring, the caterer, the photographer, the dj, the officiant, the invitations, the flowers, the drinks, the decorations, the cake, the bridal party gifts, the favors. I could go on with the parenthetical decisions required. Throw in a couple of unresolved family issues (which, so thankfully, we have not really encountered. My parents are being a-maaaazing.) and I can see where Bridezilla comes in.

I realize as I’m writing this that I’m making this process sound like not much fun. But the thing is, it *is* fun. Obsessive and sometimes stressful, but so fun. When else do you get to design one day so fully, to pack it so chock full of beauty and meaning and special details. When else do you get to have all the people you love in the same place at the same time, and enjoy beauty and celebrate love with them! It truly is a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The getting married part is – almost – the icing on the cake.

For people who don’t live in Brooklyn, old things may very well just be old things. An old typewriter, say, whose keys stick and whose ribbon is pretty much dried out would be worth less than a new typewriter, for example. And really, anywhere else, people probably wouldn’t want typewriter at all, because who has actually, seriously typed anything within the last 20 years? In Brooklyn, however, the value of things is a little skew-iff. Anything old gains a hipster halo of somehow bucking-the-man and not-buying-into-mainstream-American-values. So much so that these old things actually become more expensive than their new counterparts.

I went to the Brooklyn Flea last weekend, and nowhere is the Brooklyn aesthetic more more in effect. Besides old typewriters, they sell old frames, old paintings, old jewelry, old cloths, old furniture, old records, old junk. I understand that there are flea markets elsewhere that also sell old stuff, but there they sell it for cheap because its old. I also understand that some old stuff becomes more valuable either because it is especially well made, or exceedingly rare. In Brooklyn however, its more expensive because its old, no matter how mainstream or middling quality it originally was. Really its a goldmine for the vendors, who basically go pick up trash anywhere outside the City, bring it here, and watch it magically alchemize into cash.

So, I was wandering around the Flea, feeling somewhat nonplussed by the $100 old cowboy boots and $50 old (not good) paintings, when I saw a very strange sign. “2$” it said, and it was attached to a shelf of (yes) old little apothecary bottles. First of all, I was shocked that anything could be had at the Flea for $2, and that includes a bottle of water. Second, I was shocked because these were vintage, ie old, bottles. Right up the Brooklyn alley. Why wasn’t the vendor charging extortionary prices for them?? I looked around furtively to see if anybody else had seen the same sign I had. I quickly made my way over and examined the bottles more closely. Sweet little things, in a variety of sizes and shapes, the glass having taking on a variety of patinas over the years. One said “Listerine” in raised letters on the glass. They were beautiful by themselves, and several grouped together made a wonderful little collection. They reminded me of a set of vases I had put on my wedding registry, before the shop that sold them had gone out of business. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get them, and of course these were different, but they evoked the same feel. I felt that rush of discovering a true find. I selected a group of ten – altogether less than a single one of the vases on my registry. (Which is as it should be. Those were new.)

The vendor explained that these bottles were, indeed, trash. They had been thrown into a town dump in Pennsylvania sometime in the early 1900s, and were now being dug up and resold. What was literally one man’s trash, now, 80 years later, was my treasure. I had to laugh, half ironically and half gleefully, as I exited the Flea, cradling the bag with my find.

I was at a wedding a few months ago, and at the rehearsal dinner my friend Gillian complimented my dress. “Oh, its from GILT,” I replied, forgetting that Gillian lives in London, where GILT might not be a household name. She looked at me blankly, until I explained the concept: a recession business, good designer collections at big discounts, like who shops anywhere else these days? Her eyebrow shot up with interest.

The next evening, the scenario repeated itself. Different dress, but Gillian liked it also (she’s very kind), and lo-and-behold, that one came from GILT too. I felt a little sheepish for some reason – actually, the same guilt I feel at work each time the mail guys come in with a new personal package for me… from GILT. Thank goodness the boxes are not overtly marked (like exterminator vans and porno magazines) but really the trained eye knows a GILT box when they see one, and I think my colleagues and the mail guys are starting to catch on.

But anyway, back to our story: by Sunday of the wedding weekend, Gillian assumed that my entire wardrobe was from GILT. At the beach, she looked at my bathing suit and said, “GILT?”  (It was not, actually).

GILT is not news at this point, but it is interesting for me to realize that, over a year into my association with GILT, it has truly transformed the way I shop. I pass brick and mortar boutiques these days and think, “Oh god, who would ever buy something at full price??” and also, “Well, that looks cute, but I don’t have any money left b/c I already bought two things on GILT this month…” I do feel sorry for the demise of local fashion retailers… and yet GILT is just an unbeatable combination for me. It my guilty habit.

Here are the reasons its got me hooked:
1. Discounts. Here I have to say that I don’t actually spend less money by shopping on GILT, I just buy things that had a higher price to begin with. Are they better? Are the prices listed actually prices, or were they just inflated to be discounted? I can’t say for sure… but it does make me feel like I’m getting a bargain. (Which means that I’m actually being frugal… right??)

2. Timing. It pops into my inbox every day at approximately 11:50 a.m. I am almost invariably feeling slightly bored and disenchanted with work (the nature of the beast), and welcome the escape. It is a small diversion, a bit of effervescence. Shopping is the opportunity to imagine myself and my life transformed into the fantasy of the person who would wear that thing. Work turns out to be the place where that fantasy is direly needed.

3. Variety. J.Crew and Urban Outfitters regularly pop into my inbox announcing sales also, but I almost never even open those messages. Part of the appeal of GILT is that its got different designers everyday. No annoying self-promotion, no flogging of the same tired pony.

That’s it, the 1-2-3 killer combination. The product itself is almost secondary. It is exciting when a box arrives, but in most cases I’ve practically forgotten about it by that point. The joy is mainly in the envisioning.

What are the results of my association with GILT? For one, my wardrobe has gotten better. For two, I spend almost no time shopping anymore (umm, at least not outside of my lunch hour…) But for three, I have an increased level of shopping anxiety. Or should we say guilt. I live with a faint but perceptible worry that I will be tempted by something in the day’s email.

However, this anxiety has not proven enough to make me cancel my membership. For now at least, the thrill of the occasional jewel/ bargain is worth the demon of constant temptation.

Gillian emailed me a few days later to report that GILT does indeed ship to London. Her first purchase was on its way.

This article caught my eye in the NYTimes the other day. It is about how New York City’s Village is becoming a theme park to its former self. In the Old Days (whenever that was – any time from the 1800s to about 1980 it seems, depending on the revivalist), the Village was a really a bohemian village. Inhabited by all sorts of artistic and/ or gay people who did not fit into mainstream society, they found a community together in downtown New York, and later went on to become famous. Accounts claim it really was a village – things were smaller, cheaper, and less hectic, people knew their neighbors. Actors and writers without trust finds could afford to live there.

The world has obviously changed significantly since then, and one of the ways is that businesses and individuals have become more and more savvy about creating images that can be marketed. Simultaneously, consumers have become more skeptical of those images, and ravenous for something “authentic”. Like other neighborhoods that were the sites of iconic cultural happenings (Haight Ashbury, for example, or a much closer neighbor, Soho) the Village finds itself sought out by people looking for the magic for which it became famous – outsiders finding a home together and having a grand old time, unconscious of how cool they would later be seen to be.

The inevitable truth of course is that the genie is long gone from the bottle – magic exists only as long as it doesn’t quite realize it is magic. As soon as it has self-consciousness of its it-ness, well then, hello tourists and fashion boutiques, hello high rent. Good-bye to that faint, ineffable, je ne sais quoi. Good-bye to the innocence that, by definition, cannot be tried for.

Perhaps the magic of the Village really existed as storied, or perhaps it is only a post-fabricated nostalgic revision – most of us will never know. At the very least, it has been amplified post-facto, like all myths, and the restaurants described in the article are are reinforcing that myth so as to cash in on it. They are more sophisticated and upscale than the Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney Land, or even a place like New Orleans Latin Quarter, but the function is the same: create an exotic experience that people will pay to feel a part of.

The Wonder Wheel at Coney Island

All of this came back to me when I went to Coney Island last weekend for the first time. My brother and his family, including Mr. Ben (age 7) and Miss Rowan (age 5) were visiting, and I thought Coney Island would be fun. It did end up being fun, but only after I got over how run-down it is, how trashy are the clientele and the food, how I was afraid to walk barefoot on the beach for fear of what might be in the sand. After I got over all of that, we had a good old time, and I was struck that Coney Island, which is actually supposed to be a theme park, is not. It is authentically, non-self-consciously what it is, and what it always has been.

This may not always be the case – there are various development plans underway for Coney Island. I say run over there as fast as you can, and live the magic… before it is revived as Magic!(TM).

I am not usually on the bleeding edge of trends. An early adopter maybe, but there’s always a bunch of funky ‘kids’ in Williamsburg or Shoreditch or wherever doing anything before me. Which incidentally reminds me of a joke I heard recently about those Williamsburg hipsters:

Q: How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: You don’t know???

Ha!

Anyway, back to our story. In light of all this, I was completely thrilled when my friend Christy invited me to go see a hot up and coming band last thursday. Not only are hot and up and coming (and my resident hispter-at-work Noah had not even heard of them yet) but they are locals from my new home-sweet-some Brooklyn. For all those reasons I was disposed to like them, but then on top of all that, they have about the best band name I have heard in a long time: Yeasayer.

It may not sound like much, but I think the world is in need of a little saying yes these days. A little more ’sure, we can work that out’ and a little less ‘not my problem, mate.’ A little more of, “yes I care, yes I am engaged, yes I want to take action and make even a small difference.” “No, I am not too cool for school!” (see, that double negative there, is like a yes

Yes is more than a word, it is a very powerful attitude that influences how we are in the world. I recently spent 2 days at a corporate offsite for a client, which was perhaps a bit corporate for my taste, but was facilitated by some very cool improv actors who had all sorts of pearls of improv wisdom. One of the groud rules of improv, apparently, is to take everything done by other actors as ‘offerings’ and go, ‘yes, and…’ as opposed to ‘that’s stupid!’ or just ignoring it, which are called ‘blocks.’ We all know blockers, don’t we, and boy who wants to hang out with them? ‘Yes’ allows creative flow, ‘no’ cuts it right off. The more we say ‘yes’ to the offers already on the table in our lives, the more will come into our life in unpredicatable ways. Equally, the more we refuse offers, the safer and more predictable, along with stuck and boring, it becomes. They called accepting offers ‘allowing yourself to be changed by others’, which I also think the world could use a little more of these days.

There is also that famous story about how John Lennon and Yoko Ono met in a show of hers in a gallery in London. She had a piece that required visitors to climb a ladder to read something on the ceiling. It was a framed piece of paper that said, “Yes.” Lennon recalled later, “So it was positive. I felt relieved.”

In light of this positive spirit, I said “yes” to a lovely Yeasayer tee-shirt, which I am happily wearing as I write this. Oh, and the music was great too. Check it out at http://www.myspace.com/yeasayer

The summer music festival is a big deal in the UK. People spend weeks talking about Glastonbury, and if you’re going to Glastonbury, and how many people are going to Glastonbury, and what the locals think of Gastonbury, and how muddy it got at Glastonbury, and what Kate Moss wore at Glastonbury, etc etc. It is almost a bigger news event than Big Brother. Besides Glastonbury, there is a whole roster of other festivals, none nearly as iconic, but each tailored to a carefully targeted market demographic. In total they are a big part of the popular marking of the British summertime.

With all the hoop-la, I’ve always been interested in going to one. But I forgot to pack my tent and sleeping bag when I came over on the plane, amongst other obstacles, and so in four summers of living in London had never actually been to a festival. Until last weekend, that is. I am happy to report that I am no longer a festival virgin. When my friend Juliet not only invited me to go along with her group, but also offered a tent and a ride, it seemed that God had finally decided it was time for me to experience The Festival. The one He chose for me is the Big Chill, targeted, as Jules explained, for aging clubbers, who maybe used to rave in fields, but now are starting to have kids. It takes place in the lovely (formerly lovely, that is, before the invasion of 20,000 “chillers”) deer park of Eastnor Castle in the Malvern Hills.

For the Americans in the crowd, British festivals are a slightly different genre than ours. They are more intense than your Lollapaloozas, because they run over several days and involve camping out, but not quite as hardcore as something like Burning Man, because, well, its not the desert and you can buy things you forgot to bring. Its like a massive sleep-over at a country fair. No livestock or carnival games (not a Mole to Whack, sadly), and more music, but the same sort of feeling of a big field that might have recently hosted corn or grass or some other vegetable thing, now mainly a mud-flat for throngs of people milling between stalls, soundstages, generators, and port-a-potties. The field-cum-mud-flat quickly begins to sprout ends of sausages, cigarette butts, and other assorted litter to replace its former crop. The people eat and drink and mill and sit, then do it all again, and occasionally notice that they’re in what would be an idyllic field if it weren’t for all the other people. In my book “camping” involves fewer people and more nature, so this is something different. Maybe “festing”… if not “festering.”

At first I did not understand the point of the extra days. I mean, being at a fair for one afternoon is usually enough – you see all the sights, sample enough food to remind you that things prepared in trailers usually do not taste good, and rub shoulders with enough sweaty people wearing cowboy hats to sort of suffice until the next fair comes along. If you are lucky enough to need the port-a-loo during the afternoon, then you’ve really feel you’ve done country living, and enough is enough. We arrived Friday evening, had a great night of dancing to Kruder & Dorfmeister under the stars (only one of them was there – I don’t know if it was Kruder or Dorfmeister…), and by the middle of Saturday afternoon, this was how I was feeling – I’d had enough. Was no longer enchanted with the British middle classes and this ritualized hedonistic escape to the country. £125 (that’s over $250 earth dollars these days) to maybe imagine that you’re Janis Joplin at Woodstock or something, when really you’re Harriet who works as a PA in Slough. See, I was getting catty.

But you see, my problem on that first day was that I had gotten separated from my group. I had slept in, then wandered out and never found them. So I was looking at it all with the critical eye of a vaguely hung-over, dehydrated outsider. The beauty of the festival, I discovered, is the group dynamic, and that takes a couple of days to gel. Here I have to give a shout out to the best camp-mates ever, who totally welcomed me and feel like my-new-best-friends: Juliet, Dennis, Ceri, Sam, Giles, Manoj, Louise, Will, and our team leader, 18 month old Isabel (Dennis and Jules’ daughter, and the reason we camped in the Family area, where at least nobody pees on your tent). As soon as I rejoined them on Saturday evening, the festival just got better and better. By Saturday night, we and all the Big Chillers seemed to actually have chilled out, and were ready for a heaving outdoor party. I love a good dance under almost circumstance, so what can be better than brilliant music on a warm night in the open air with a delirious mood all around. The Idjut Boys started it off right at the SoCo Fat Tuesday stage then Hexstatic took over on the main stage. As the sky eased from indigo to black, people released those floating candle lanterns in the sky and all was magic. Instead of being nasty about PAs from Slough, I was starting to actually fancy myself more of a Janis Joplin. Ok, maybe not Janis, but like somebody all about being and feeling, rather than judging. That’s magic too.

By Sunday, the most beautiful day of the British summer so far, the festival had ripened and mellowed to a warm and fuzzy going and flowing. We ate, drank, chatted, joked, danced, sat around, wandered, split up, and rejoined. The arch of the weekend was like a good dj set: bringing a crowd up and getting it together may take some work, but then you get there, go a little crazy, and then come down long and luscious. At the tail end of the experience you feel open, emotional, spent and rejuvenated all at the same time.

In the hazy afterglow, I am festival convert. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, buy my ticket now for next year. But only if Isabel is team leader, and if I can chill with the same campers.

The purchase I’m about to tell you about was actually made by my mother, probably over 30 years ago now. It is this fabulous, floral-issimo, polyester-issimo, pantsuit that I found in the attic. My mother called it a “hostess suit.”

I was frantically looking for a Halloween costume on Saturday, and was overjoyed to open a box in the back of a closet and have its bold lime and orange pattern jump out of the darkness at me. I am terrible at Halloween costumes. I mean they have to be so high-concept these days, like going as “The Walk of Shame” or a “Bachelorette Party.” It is totally not acceptable anymore to go as a “cowgirl” – minimum it would have the be a “Cowgirl-Killer Zombie”or “Paris Hilton on the Simple Life.” We are all so post-modern.

The stakes are perhaps even higher at art school. We throw the best party on campus for Halloween, in this fantastic huge old industrial space where the sculptors work. Some people go all out on amazing costumes – my favorite last year was a perfect Edward Scissorhands, and this year there was some sort of zork-creature straight out of Lord of the Rings. Oh, and my friend Rebecca who went as Nicole Richie. A girl who regularly wears no make-up, she was so utterly transformed, she was disguised in plain site – nobody recognized her.

So back to me and my hostess suit, thanks to Mom, I went as a Desperate Housewife, circa 1970. I figure Eva Longoria and co. have no monopoly on that role. I accessorized with a martini glass, a bottle of prescription pills, ironed hair and a middle part, and was more Sigourney Weaver in Ice Storm. The best thing was that the hostess suit was made for dancing, so I was comfy comfy comfy as I boogied the night away.