We have moved in.
It’s alarming how many issues you inherit when buying an apartment that you don’t notice during open houses and private showings and even final walkthroughs. We will be busy and broke as we chisel our dream pad out of this raw material.
But let me dwell on the fun stuff, as is my wont…Fleamarkets!
Looking for a desk built to seat two writers whose elbows might grow pointy when in the thick of a bad day’s writing, I thought I would check out the Annex Markets which are housed in an old split-level parking garage in Chelsea. I furnished my previous apartment quite successfully with some choice pieces picked up there and squeezed into a cab complete with frowning driver cursing me in foreign tongue.
I arrive to find the “Antiques Garage” doors shut. I am told it closed two months ago to make way for the construction of another hotel.
I turn away slack-jawed. A neighboring business owner calls to me. They’ve joined forces with another market just a block away and are over there “selling the same old garbage”.
Some people just aren’t flea market people, I think, and head on, relieved.
We haggle over the price of this kitchen foldaway table that I would provide with a little facelift before placing in a readymade nook at home. It has the humble appearance of an apprentice’s work station which appeals to both of us.
“But $75, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t pay––” I am distracted by a figure wafting by and dig my husband in the ribs. “Look!” I hiss. “It’s her.”
He looks confused. He missed her flit by.
“I’m going to follow her.” I call to the seller, “We’ll give you 60!” and dash off.
“Who was it?” I hear my husband ask the seller.
Winding between the stalls, I am only slightly distracted by some of the wares…
“Slow down, lady.”
I catch my breath, smooth my hair and approach..
It makes me laugh that people think I am so stylish. It’s not something I think about.––Linda Rodin
It’s New York style maven, model, beauty guru and stylist, Linda Rodin. We talk and she is as gracious as she is graceful. She’s dying to go to Dublin, she tells me.
Oh, but the NYC portaloos have photo bombed this unique moment! She happily offers to pose for another photo. “How about between these two fabulous urns, the both of us?” she asks. A stall holder jumps up to take the shot. They all love her, it seems. They say she comes through the market often and chats with everyone.
I became a fashion stylist and I didn’t even know that was a job, you know?
I’ve never fought my age. I’ve had grey hair since I was 35…Chasing youth is never going to happen.
We squeeze the table into the trunk of a yellow cab. The Turkish driver curses me out in the most vile terms, I’m sure of it. I smile back at him and he rolls down the window and spits onto the New York sidewalk.
That night, we take a bottle of wine onto the roof deck and watch the sun go down.
I wonder how Linda has decorated her apartment, I’m filled with ideas of how I want ours to look–and how I want to look when I’m an “older lady”.
I confuse my husband for the second time today by humming The Beatles “When I’m sixty-four.” He has been trying since we met to convert me into a Fab Four fan, but to no avail.
“Cheers and home sweet home!”
My debut novel, set in the international fashion industry, is available. You can buy Silk for the Feed Dogs here.