The Airport Wine Bar

While traveling, I often find myself having a glass of wine at an airport wine bar in a city I've just become familiar with. On one of my trips I had to wait several hours for my friend's flight to arrive, so I decided to write about my experience as it was happening. In order to protect the people employed at this particular bar, I have not mentioned which airport or the name of the bar. 

This is the unedited edition, and a little glimpse into my mind...

The menu describes the Alots Las Hormigas, Malbec from Mendoza Valley Argentina as “Blackberry-Medium-What a deal!” and charges a reasonable price, as the description announces, at $8.50 a glass.

I’m not sure what I was expecting besides blackberry, medium, what a deal. Surely I was just appreciative that there was a wine bar open on a Thursday at 2pm. Then again I was at the airport and such bars are usually open even in the wee hours on a Monday morning.

My fellow bar companions spread themselves out almost evenly at every other seat. Couples or friends sitting next to each other and strangers with at least one empty seat between. Most of them are middle-aged single women drinking flutes of something bubbly. All with noses buried in their iPhones or books and none interact with each other as if they have no peripheral vision. There are two men next to me –four empty seats between us - discussing the labors of their daily jobs. I keep hoping they will gossip but they strategize instead. Sometimes they talk about the weather or sports. They are in their 40s. They ask to “settle up” when they want their bill. Two women on my other side are also sitting together and equidistant from me as the men. They ordered red wine and no food. They sit facing towards each other, talk slowly and don’t make that much eye contact. I can’t tell if they are tired, not that close or forced to be together. Maybe they’re sisters, maybe they’re gossiping.

The airport wine bar I’m bellied up to is located in the main terminal of the airport. It is dead center in the middle and open to passers-by, which is how I estimate they get most of their business. It is an alternative to waiting at Starbucks. People are caught one by one, as if by a fisherman’s hook, as they meander by.

There are three men manning the bar. One, flamboyantly gay, blond and in his 20s, is in charge of the food. After the rush leaves he wipes his forehead like a damsel from the civil war and says, “all that food!” He comments to his co-worker who is a middle-aged man, slightly out of shape. He wears a button up and khakis, versus the other two who are in all black with fake pilot epaulettes on their shoulders. I assumed he was the manager when I approached the bar. He seemed nervous to talk to me and had to ask me what my order was several times while clumsily fumbling with the computer, which was in clear view. He seemed to lack the memory and confidence of a bartender. Or at least the ones I’m used to dealing with. Lucky for him, I didn’t mind, I wasn’t in a hurry.

He tried to flirt with the female customers, not in an inappropriate way, just friendly and slightly nervous. The third bartender seemed to know his way around the most of the three. He was also in his late 20s, maybe early 30s and blond. He efficiently cleaned the back of bar while taking orders and drying wine glasses with a towel. I was curious to know what he thought about this out in the open set up and his colleagues. These three men seemed to get along, but also seemed unlikely to interact as friends in any other point in their life and it made me miss having co-workers.

During the lull between rushes – when I ran the front of shop for a pizza place – we would flirt and gossip as we cleaned the place and started preparing for the next rush. We had the convenience of privacy so that if customers were assholes or we ran into someone we didn’t mean to see (read: ex-lovers) we could rant about it afterwards without their knowledge. Most kitchen staff has this privilege. As I sat and ate my salad rushes came and went. The three men quietly gossiped as they did their between-rush chores. I daydreamed about the wild variety of customers they might serve on a random Thursday afternoon. Did they have regulars? Did they care? Did they have server jobs somewhere else?

The Calma Tempranillo/Graciano from Rioja Spain was described as “Red berries-roses-earthy spices-vanilla and cocoa-smooooth” also at $8.50 a glass. No wonder people think winos are assholes. It sounds like we just throw random words at bottles. “I love lamp” would have made just as much sense. These descriptions read as if you’ve already had the bottle then go about formulating a judgment.

The two wines listed after the Calma are JC Vizcarra Tempranillo, Ribero de Duero, Spain and Monte Bernardi “Retromarcia” Sangeovese, Tuscany Italy. They are described as, respectively, “Dried Cherry, Leather, Perfect for Food” and “Dried Rasberry-Tobacco-Dry” and after that Pertimali Sangiovese/Cabernet, Tuscany Italy “Dried Blackberry-Dusty-Dry” I assume these all taste like what I’m already drinking and wonder if “dusty” and “dry” would be a good combination or if I would need a glass of water and a margarita after drinking it.

A new couple sits down where the two men sat previously. They are boisterous and “knowledgeable”. They are in their 60s and three hours early for their flight. They decide to park it and make friends with the nervous one, as I now call him in my mind. They introduce themselves to him, and he warms up, even cracking a joke. His name is Tony. He also works at Carrabba’s (which is across the corridor) and I wonder if the others do too. He reveals to them that he has been working at the bar since 8am (I told you airport bars open early!) and was so tired. He said this in an apology for forgetting their order. He eventually got it WAY right when they wanted to order pasta from the restaurant and he took their order and had it served to them at the wine bar. A service I’m sure he went above and beyond to do.

The couple gave Tony very personal information. They assumed he was their friend and they monopolized his time. They will be here for at least two more hours and I suddenly want to tip Tony more than 20%.

After listening to them talk for a few minutes. The man confirms he is 65. Tony is 42. The man assumes Tony is a sociable person and now they are BEST friends.

A new man sits down and also befriends Tony. I wonder if I am unapproachable and sip my second glass. The older man says, “this reminds me of a bar in New York” to the new man. The new man feigns recognition.

My friend texts me a link to @pornforwomen’s instagram feed and a joke about John Hamm. I end up laughing out loud.

Tony’s shift is over and he is relieved of his new friends. My friends arrive and I close my tab.

Paradise Living

Just a few reasons I love being in Florida - Sanibel Island, Indian Rocks Beach, Clearwater Beach, and Caladesi Island all in two weeks! It's always so hard to leave. Thank you to all my loved ones who took the time out of their busy schedules to hang with Gman and me! I love you dearly. 

I can't wait to share my Florida experiences with you soon. But first, I'm off to explore the American South. Have a great week!

Exploring Wine (through beer): Dogfish Head Brewery

Fermenting barley greeted our nostrils before we rounded the corner and saw the facilities of the Dogfish Head brewery. We happened to arrive just as new wart was being extracted after fermentation and dumped into a dump truck just outside the entrance to the tasting room. Later we would learn that the mash was going to local farmers as feed for their cows and that cows become greedy, excitable animals upon tasting the delicious mash and their mouths have been rumored to water as soon as they see the truck pull up. Their flesh, in turn, feeds hungry travelers at the Dogfish Head Brewpub on Rehoboth Beach. Making for one of many lovely sustainable little life and business cycles in greater area of Milton, Delaware provided by the brewery.

Dogfish Head is a craft beer brewery, founded in 1995 by Sam Calagione an English major who jumped the train headed to teacher land for a love of brewing. His knack for play on words and puns abound. For example, the machine used to continually add hops to their IPAs (a signature technique) is called Sir Hops A Lot. Being categorized as a craft brewery means Dogfish Head has a small production, less than six million barrels per year, it is owned by people, usually the beer maker, vs large companies like Anheuser-Busch. Because the people who live in the community make the beers locally, craft breweries tend to use sustainable growing methods and include lots of community outreach and programing. They also look at the past to revive flavorful historical brews and enjoy the challenge of improving on them.

The motto at Dogfish Head is “off-centered brews for off-centered people”. They are brewing beers for the sake of brewing beers, which don’t always appeal to mainstream tastes. Being a smaller production company, when we went on a tour of the beer making process, it was actually in the same facilities they make the beer in, along with actual brew masters deep in thought. I mention this because I’ve been on several brewery, winery, and distillery tours where the tour takes you through a simulated brewing process set up like a museum. All have been incredibly informative but it was neat to be so intimately exposed to the beer makers, facilities, and ingredients at Dogfish Head. It made me feel connected to what I tasted later.

The architecture of the interior reflected the cedar and metal of the exterior giving one the impression you were standing inside of a beer tank. It had a home-y, industrial feel if that makes any sense. The smell of cedar, kegs, old beer, new beer, raw barley, yeast, and fresh water filled every space inside. Bright sunshine poured through the floor to ceiling glass walls of the tasting room and on to the faces of beer nerds of all ages and origins - over 10 different license plates spotted in the parking lot.

After the tour we tasted four beers. The descriptions of each beer were similar to the language I’m used to seeing on wine descriptions like, “notes of lemongrass, orange peel, or coffee”. Just like a sommelier, the notes listed food-pairing recommendations and even a wine they felt the beer compared to in terms of mouth feel, weight, and sometimes flavor. Very useful indeed.

When I’m not in the mood for a glass of wine (gasp) or I need a little carbonation, my favorite thing to do is to go to a beer place and order a sampler. I tend to be indecisive when ordering beer because there are so many great, small production regional varieties. Its hard for me to commit to a whole pint when I want to try everything. Usually with a sampler I can try 4 or 5 beers at once (hooray!). During our visit to Dogfish Head and later at their brewpub in Rehoboth Beach, I had the opportunity to sample over 10 of their beers (and was somehow still standing). Here are some of my favorites from the day with wine comparisons.

Namaste was the first brew we tried upon arriving for our tour. It is a Belgian-style white beer that was compared to a Gerwurztraminer from Alsace - meaning bright, crisp, with floral notes, and refreshing on a hot summer’s day. Namaste was made with dried orange slices (not just the rind), lemongrass and coriander so it had less floral notes than its listed wine comparison and made me think of a Sauvignon Blanc. It was perfectly light and a great place to start our beer tasting journey.

Chateau Jiahu shows off what Dogfish Head is all about. The story behind this one is that they worked with molecular archaeologist Dr. Patrick McGovern to recreate an ancient Chinese recipe for beer. This recipe dates back to 9,000 years ago from the village of Jiahu in China. The flavor was highly distinctive and definitely not for everyone. Muscat grape juice (a type of wine grape) is added to the barley malt along with orange blossom honey and fruit then fermented for a month with sake yeast. (Dogfish Head uses many different strands of yeast for their selection of beers.) It basically tastes like a Muscat wine (very sweet) mixed with a citrus-y beer. Another interesting historical beer we tried was Midas Touch.

As noted above in the Chateau Jiahu, Dogfish Head experiments with adding wine grapes to their beers. The most successful, in my opinion, is Sixty-One. It is basically their famous 60-minute IPA with a touch of Syrah grapes thrown in. It was my sixth tasting of the day and I remember feeling pleasantly surprised by its balanced flavor and rounded mouth feel. The touch of Syrah took the bitterness out of the IPA.

My over all favorite was the Raison D’Etre, which unlike some of the others were tried is available year-round and at most of their retailers – good news for me! It boils down to Belgian brown ale plus raisons added to the fermentation process. This is comparable to Bordeaux red wine and pairs perfectly with a steak dinner, which was the point of its creation. It tastes kind of fancy but not overly messed with.

Perhaps with all this new knowledge, next time Gman takes me to a pub I’ll be able to make a more decisive choice when selecting a pint. In the meantime, I leave you with this.

Washington, D.C. Monuments at Night

My favorite organized tour of Washington, D.C. is the Old Town Trolley tour of the monuments at night. Advertised as a three hour tour, it sounds frightening (Gilligan's Island anyone?) and terribly long, but I assure you the time flies by. When you are visiting DC in the middle of the hot and humid summer (with temperatures reaching 100 degrees on some afternoons), which most tourists prefer, then you will want to save lugging yourself from monument to monument across the National Mall for the cooler evenings. Trust me.

The tour starts and ends at Union Station. I recommend showing up at least an hour early so you can get a good look around the station. The powerful classical architecture, grand colonnades and interior spaces shouldn't be missed. You might even recognize a few spots from issue one of The Magazine. While inside grab a sandwich and a drink for the trip (you can't eat, drink, or smoke on the trolley but if you want something along the way, options are very limited as are restrooms). Also bring a sweater as it can get cold driving around with the windows down.

Once on board you will be whisked away past the Capitol Building and National Mall on your way to see the Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam War Memorial, Korean War Memorial, Iwo Jima Memorial, FDR Memorial, MLK Memorial, and last but not least, the White House. The monuments seem even more grand with dramatic lighting in the evening. They look like they are glowing. While driving from place to place the drive acts as your guide, giving you useful historical facts and stories. I've been on the tour twice and each time the order we stopped was different, which is especially nice for the local going multiple times with out of town guests.

After the tour it's fun to talk about which monument you like best, mine is the Korean War Memorial. What's yours?

Thoughts on Eating Octopus

It was a chilly spring evening in March. The kind we anticipate wearing lighter sweaters and no tights but instead throw on wool coats and closed toed heels. Tammy and I arrived at Brasserie Beck five minutes late. Unusual for us as we always arrive right on time, the first ones to every party. The hostess directed us to our group, most of whom where already waiting at the table. The lovely ladies of Gilt City were hosting us and six other bloggers for a night of fine dinning and a little getting-to-know-you conversation. We all warmly greeted each other, I was so happy to see such familiar faces and looking forward to what the evening held. As we chatted one server took my coat and helped me with my chair, and another offered me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to start our dinner. I like to start a multi-course meal with this varietal as it usually appeals to many taste buds and goes nicely just about anything usually served to first. It pairs particularly well with cured meat and cheese (including bleu cheeses) and oysters, which is what we were generously served to begin our communal meal.

I realized mid first course that we were in a Belgian restaurant specializing in seafood. I hoped my fear wasn’t detectable on my face. Since I was in the womb I have not had a taste for any creature from the ocean. And by that I mean - if I smell fish I get nauseated and I certainly don’t eat it.

The story starts when my mother was pregnant with me. She is a seafood lover. She loves sushi, grilled grouper sandwiches, scallops in pasta, steamed mussels in butter sauce, raw oysters, and most of all, crab cakes. An ideal meal for her would be a 4 oz. piece of grilled fish with a huge pile of grilled veggies to accompany it. She would eat this meal outdoors in the fresh air with perhaps a glass of chardonnay in hand. It would be near sunset and the landscape would have a golden hue. As if being ripped out of fantasyland and much to her surprise, when she was pregnant with me, she was sick at the mere suggestion of eating seafood. Lucky for her, she was back to normal after I was born. Now, it is common knowledge in my family that I will throw up in a fish market and I cried once when I saw a live lobster thrown into a boiling pot of water.

When I was a little girl, my parents tried to get my sister and I to eat fish sticks. My sister gladly ate them while I could barely gag them down – even though they were fried with delicious breadcrumbs and slathered in ketchup. I went through a phase when I was between 6 and 8 when I would eat Blue Crab legs if we were in a restaurant where they only served seafood. The taste of the ocean lingers in the air in those types of places and overpowers all other flavors. Even the burgers taste like fish. My eating the crab legs was a relief for my parents because my sensitive palate could be accommodated. Then suddenly one day, I hated Blue Crab legs and I haven’t had them in twenty years.

At the age of 16 my family took a trip to the Grand Canyon. We flew out to dude ranch then spent three days rafting down the Colorado River and camping on the banks of the canyon, an incredible experience. There were four college-aged kids in charge of 40 people on our expedition. They cooked everyone three meals a day and set up camp every night. We all slept on cots in the open air and went to the bathroom in a metal bucket that was somehow private while always having the most magnificent views of the canyon. For lunch every day we got tuna salad sandwiches. It was the only choice and if you didn’t eat it you would be mighty hungry when dinner rolled around five hours later. So I ate it. And it was fine. I didn’t gag or whine or embarrass myself. And I thought, maybe my palate changed with adolescence and I like seafood now? Unfortunately, it must have been a time and place type of situation because when I tried to recreate the sandwich at home, I was so disgusted that I ended up giving it to my sister.

As I consider myself a lover of food, I don’t like being limited by my taste buds. I want to be able to participate in life and all of its abundance. At least once a year I try to have something I’ve never eaten before. This usually happens easily when I’m put in similar situations like I was in the Grand Canyon. I’ll be on vacation in an unfamiliar place and sometimes have to order food in an unfamiliar language. There have been times when I’m not even sure what I ate but I was glad to have a warm meal.

At Brasserie Beck I got away with not eating the oysters. It seemed like everyone around me really enjoyed them but I was afraid to. I ate my weight in cured meats and cheese to compensate. My glass was refilled with Sauvignon Blanc at least twice by the end of the first course and the conversations were flowing like a glacial stream on a hot spring day. I wanted everyone at the table to be my best friend and for the night to never end. Several waiters cleared the table and presented the second course. The head chef, Robert Wiedmaier, paid us a visit at this time. He asked how everything was and encouraged us to enjoy this next course. I looked down at the table to find long charred octopus tentacles staring back at me.

I noticed Tammy watching me from across the table. We locked eyes as my new friends gobbled up the sea creature. I could no longer get away with quietly not eating. She outed me by shouting, “Jamie, are you ok with this?” All attention was turned to me. I felt my cheeks blush as someone said, “do you not like seafood?” I didn’t know what to say.

It is universally considered rude to not eat food that is served to you by your host. If you are visiting friends and they spend the day cooking for you, it is insulting to say, “oh sorry, I don’t eat that.” You don’t turn your nose up at someone’s generosity and hospitality. The same rules apply if someone hosts you at a restaurant instead of their home. The last thing I wanted to do was offend the kindness these women were showing us. So finally I said, “I don’t usually have a taste of seafood. But I’ll give this a try.” Then as the words left my mouth, I received an influx of encouragement from everyone at the table, “the texture is like a tender grilled meat” “try it with the salsa on top, it’s a nice combo” “just take a little bite” “let us know what you think.” I was terrified and shaking as I took a piece off of the platter. I smiled and did my best to divert the conversation back to someone else.

The words around me faded to white noise. All I could see was my plate in front of me. I cut into the tentacle. It was tender, a white meat, slightly flakey and softer than a scallop. The salsa was fresh and bright, a combination of cucumbers, roasted peppers, and shaved red onions dressed in oregano and caper vinaigrette. I balanced a quarter-sized amount of meat onto my fork and with as much salsa that would stay on. Then put it in my mouth. It was good. Great actually. It didn’t have an “of the sea” flavor at all. In fact, it was fresh and new and interesting. The combo of the wine, salsa, and octopus made me want to sit on a sun drenched porch somewhere on a beach with white sand and crystal clear water. It made me feel like suddenly winter wasn’t clinging to the air outside. I ate the rest of the portion on my plate and went for more. I surprised my companions and myself. They applauded my efforts discretely as we all commented on how lovely the meal had been thus far.

I couldn’t help but smile. I was so proud of myself. The table was cleared again and the salad course served, arugula with one large prawn. As I looked at the prawn, a wave of excitement came over me. I thought about an episode of Anthony Bourdain, No Reservations where he and his travel companion were eating prawns. They stared by sucking the brains out, and then devoured the bodies. I shivered, then cut the body from the head with my knife and ate it in small pieces with the salad. I left the head alone, baby steps. I felt like a champion. I felt like I climbed a mountain, and a steep one at that. Adrenalin pumped through my veins.

It was now time for the main course and our wine was switched to red. A Pinot Noir to accompany the Thursday night special: roasted Moulard duck breast with brandied sweet potato puree, fricassee of winter vegetables, kumquat marmalade and Madeira jus. By the time dessert and dessert wine came, I was in a state of pure bliss. My taste buds and stomach were sufficiently challenged, then rewarded. Conversations lingered past the table being cleared and check paid. We were making plans to see each other again, to reunite over happy hour or the next blogger event, and vowed to run a 5K together. We put our coats on and dispersed in cabs back to our homes, still squeezing in one last bit of gossip as we parted ways.

That night I realized something. For those of us who have a curious soul and traveling mind, we don’t always have to go far from home to experience the rush of encountering the unknown. Sometimes, all we have to do is choose something different on the menu.

Destination: Mercedes Benz Fashion Week NYC

Tadashi Shoji

Photog pit

Tadashi Shoji finale 

“Are there any notable VIPs you’d like us to shoot?” Two male photographers were standing near me talking to the stage manager. She was in charge of making sure things ran smoothly and on time backstage. She wore her dark hair sleeked back in a low bun, bright red lipstick, and head to toe black. Many of the photographers backstage were men. Most looked to be in their mid-thirties to mid-fifties and they had the grungy-fashionable-artist thing down to a science.

Their photography equipment ranged widely and was as personalized as each of their tattoos, piercings and beards. Some had zoom lenses, others specially rigged homemade flashes, and some were following around TV hosts.

Two and a half hours before the show the models were starting hair and makeup. There are generally around 40 models per show (one had 200 (!) and others only 10) and each one was assigned to a hairdresser, makeup artist, and dresser. The teams worked quickly and efficiently to get the models ready. Everyone woke up by 4am for the 9am runway show. The models ate bits of breakfast, drank coffee, and played on their phones while being transformed.

Two hours before the show press was admitted behind the scenes for interviews with the designer(s) and a glimpse of hair and makeup. The tent began to resemble controlled chaos as editors, assistants, and managers rushed back and forth and photographers swarmed the already crowded beauty zone. Constant chatter and camera flashes distracted my eyes and ears around the room. It was hard to focus on one person for too long.

Thirty minutes before the show the models were whisked away to get changed with their assigned dresser, who ensured their ensemble met all the designers’ specifications. The entire morning was energized with music pumping through the speakers. The models were lined up behind the runway in order and bounced from foot to foot waiting to make their debut. I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to stand or what I was admitted to do, but somehow quietly made my way to the perfect spot where I could see the models just as they were going out onto the runway. I wondered what went through their heads as they prepared themselves to walk. Then the lights turned off, the music started, and the spotlights flashed. The first girl stepped out, turned, and kicked off Fashion Week. As each model returned backstage, they quickly changed to another outfit or lined up for the finale. 10 minutes after it started, the show was over. Celebration was saved for the very last moment. Everyone backstage clapped with self-congratulation for a flawless job well done. And just like that, it was on to the next.

The chaos consumed me as I tried my best to be a fly on the wall and just take it all in. I never attended a fashion show, let alone had the courage to walk past Mercedes Benz Fashion Week, and now I was backstage at the first show on opening day.

Hiding from blizzard Nemo

Two months earlier I was flipping through Vogue and decided enough was enough. It was now or never, I needed to do everything I could to get to New York City and attend a fashion show. It was a lifelong dream. One of those bucket list items you make when you are 12 years old while flipping through your first Vogue, you are captivated with a powerful woman dressed in a white YSL pantsuit. The urge was so strong that I could think of little else.

A few of my friends go to Fashion Week regularly and tried to give me some tips on how to go. But it was generally a blind effort on my part, emailing many, many people and applying for press credentials. It was no from every angle. It was too late. Most people made their fashion week arrangements before Christmas and by mid-January the press boxes were full, credentials denied, and no after no after no. I booked a bus ticket anyways, hoping to be a part of the scene and maybe get some street style pictures for the blog. I planned on going up Friday morning and staying through Monday.

Then, on Wednesday afternoon at 4:02 pm I received an email with the subject “BACKSTAGE CONFIRMATION: Nickolas K, Noon by Noor.” I couldn’t believe my eyes! My heart started racing and adrenalin rushed through my veins. Nickolas K was at 9am the next morning, with backstage access starting at 7am. I started panicking, I had hours to book a train, find a place to stay, and pack my bags. Thanks to Gman’s help, three hours later I was sitting on a train, camera in tow, filled with anticipation.

Backstage at Nickolas K

Before a fashion show, the stylish people poured into the tents, after making their way through frenzy of photographers. For the early shows, they too had been up in the wee hours of the morning to get ready. People joke about “#fashionweekproblems” but its really true! Each show is an emotionally and mentally stimulating rush of inspiration lasting about 10 minutes. If you don’t have a ticket, the waiting in line for each one is exhausting. Your mind races while you wait - Will we get into the show? What will it be like? Who will be there? Will my camera’s battery last? How does my hair look? Once you do get tickets and step inside, the important fashion industry people are already there, settling themselves into place and probably getting their picture taken. Then the lights go down, the music starts, and the first model steps out to the middle of the runway and makes her way towards the clamoring pit of photographers. Before you can fully take her in, the next one comes out, then another, and if you look to long or not long enough you miss it. Throughout the day you go from show to show without much regard for food or sitting until you suddenly realize eight hours in how incredible starving you are. And how much your feet hurt from heels (I imagine. I planned ahead and wore comfortable boots).

A runway presentation is something we have all seen before through the magic of TV and Internet. I used to watch Video Fashion into the wee hours of the night. Back when the production budget was a camera on a tripod at the end of the catwalk. Afterwards they would go backstage and interview the designers and celebrities. How could you not want to be a part of something that exciting?

But being there in person is different. Its something you haven’t seen before and not just because the presentation is new. Each one has a different vibe, different air, ambiance, sounds, and crowd (I’m terrible at spotting famous people, so I really couldn’t tell you who was there). The fabrics and textures blew my mind, laser cut leather that looked like lace on evening dresses at Tadashi Shoji, carefully draped jersey at Nickolas K, and wool beanies with silk dresses at Candela. Woven textiles, cotton, nylon, lace, wool, and cashmere all saturated with such vibrant colors that under the weight of being soaked in dye, the fabric looked like it would slip off the model and into a puddle on the ground. It reignited my passion for clothes in a very real way.

Fashion is bigger to me than the next big thing. It’s bigger than pointed toe shoes versus round toe or blazers versus denim jackets. Those are trends. Those can be fun. But fashion is style. Fashion is a passionate creative process that pushes the bounds of what we can do with technology and how we dress our bodies. It says something about our culture and it is very tangible. I felt like I belonged in those tents. I felt peaceful. I felt the weight of a life long dream lifted from my soul, making room for more dreams to be realized.

Carlis givin' me some sass

my beautiful friends: Sara, Carlis, Natalie, Erika, Cheralee, Katya

Serious Shoe Love