Walking around SoHo and NoLita for hours with my trusty “reporters’ notebook” and Life Coach/Close Friend Nicole was an eye opening experience. For the last few months I’ve been attempting to decide whether I’d want to do political journalism over fashion journalism. These recent reporting
<!– /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";}@page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;}div.Section1 {page:Section1;}experiences showed me that I would never be able to live with myself if I gave up fashion for politics.
Getting off the R Train on Prince Street with a list of stores to visit was something I could do every day. It was spontaneous yet still a guided mission. Find as many thrift shops, consignment stores and far too expensive boutiques. When there: talk to as many people as I could find. The reporters’ notebook in my Urban Outfitters bag gave me permission to walk into an overpriced boutique (that I probably wouldnâÂÂt even be able to buy a single earring from) and interview a frustrated ex-model turned Shop Girl.
A few days later I went to Chelsea to interview store workers. After entering a seemingly âÂÂbuzz to enterâ building with a door that was already open I found a dark corridor with two elevators and no one around. I was not looking forward to going all the way up to the eighth floor to Delta Enterprise Corporation in another rickety looking deathtrap. As I was waiting to hear the âÂÂsnap-crackle-popâ of the elevator cable Nicole, who came along that day as well, counted every floor we passed alive.
When the doors creaked open we were in a brightly lit, well-decorated childrenâÂÂs toy making office. We wandered out of our plausible metal coffin akin to what Alice would probably look like after she came out of the rabbit hole. A smartly dressed twenty-something gave me a surprised look and all I could mutter was âÂÂWell this isnâÂÂt right.âÂÂAlthough we had only taken one step into the office we received many a perplexed stare.
We shrunk back into the elevator quickly and thankfully the door closed at the same pace.
Â
