Again, I wore a dress and for the second time this show, I selectted pink. This was my last day to really dress up, my
feet wouldn't handle another day in heels, no matter how comfortable espadrilles actually are. Today I wore a favorite,
pink dupioni silk with silver, Indian style embroidery and a nice curvy cut. And I wore white shoes which I thought
were a bit loud for such a subtle dress, but I didn't even stop to consider actual heels. My feet are blistered upon blisters
and I feel like I've walked a million miles when, in fact, it was just my girlish ego hiking through the jungle of Manhattan.
I wore my hair down and yes, I am glad that I've grown it out as it is finally at that glamorous stage where it all curls
and fluffs within in 20 minutes of blow drying and makes for a really nice coif.
(vain)
I had forgotten to pack any make-up save for mascara and lipstick, so it's been a quick trip out the door every time. My
walk, the same route to and from the Javits Center and my smile is ever present. Meeting people from all over has been
the best part of the trip, the many business cards I've collected all hold something special for me and I hope to keep in
touch with many of the other vendors showing at the NSS.
Yesteray, when walking back to the hotel to meet up with everyone, I ran into an Indian street vendor at the corner of
6th Avenue and 31st, just as I was about to turn down 31st to my hotel. He came after me, leering and approaching with
a "Hiiiii, Baaabeeeee. Wotcha doing? Stay and talk with me."
Now, as much as I would like to flirt with most people, I do not usually flirt with Indian boys. In fact, my built-in
knowledge of the way Indian boys and men works comes from a very judgemental place learned as a small child; that
most men are, to me, uncles who are kind and most boys are going to beat me up (or did when I was a little girl). I've
never been one to pursue a romantic involvement with an Indian boy save for one guy I knew as a teenager in England -
he was the sole exception but when compared with a lot of punk English boys, he was also my only option at the time.
And my feet hurt. I cannot flirt well with aching feet.
So I said to this Indian boy/man, smiling as I did so despite the fact that he was now pawing at me to stop and talk with
him, "Susriakar, Namaji? My brother is waiting for me around the corner at my hotel. He is a six foot tall Sidarghi who
won't take kindly to me talking with you."
He asked in wonderment, "Are you Hindustani?"
"Punjabi." Was my reply.
As I turned the corner, I noticed no one following me. After I relayed this story to Paul, and as he handed me my gin
and tonic for the evening, he beamed at the idea of his being a foot and a half taller than he actually is. As for the turban,
I'm not sure what color he imagines it being, but somehow I'd like to see him in a madras plaid from Brooks Brothers.
And The Show, you ask? Sunday was still the best day, but I enjoyed meeting people and writing a few orders. Brian at
Old School Stationers next door assured me that many orders will come in after I've returned to Boise and people had
time to process all that they've seen at the show.
I am waiting.
t