Holding on to things (especially clothes, notes in some of my old, everchanging handwritings) until their very last breath and sometimes long after that, only to watch them become nothing more than relics of the good ol’ days – is something I’ve been doing for some time now. The skirt my mother bought me for a high school party still hangs in perfect condition in my closet. A worn out, vaporous, powder pink dress I obsessed over in 12th grade is the reason I almost gave up trousers. My first pair of high heeled sandals, with two pearlescent white butterflies and delicate straps meant for a summer wedding that I later wore at a concert (a concert!!) but ended up walking home barefoot on the streets of Bucharest are waiting for me in a box somewhere in my room. A pair of cherry wood and bamboo elongated, peruan earrings that mother and I bought on the hottest, most beautiful day in Venice are the perfect reminder of that sabbatical.
This top had been waiting for at least ten, maybe twelve years to be resuscitated, but the perfect occasion never presented itself. And maybe it was for the better, since I don’t think I would have been able to pull it off back then anyway, due to an epic lack of swagger.
Plus, it barely carried any meaningful purpose, other than temporarily feeding my obsession with everything sequined, butterfly shaped and/or american. Like most of my clothes, it came from a cheap, kitsch shop in Bucharest, for the equivalent of not more than $15 (it was so cheap that I bought not one, but two of them, in different colors). It heroically held through all the styles, wardrobe changes, phases I’ve been through and friends who “just needed to borrow something to dress for a party” but would conveniently forget to bring back afterwards.
Today, it represents so much more than just another sequined american flag butterfly top you can sometimes spot in movies and glossy videos. To me, as the product of a former communist country mentality, it’s the epitome of wishful thinking, the ephemeral, unattainable american dream – strong, yet fragile. The place where all the best things come from. Something so immense, it’s limits are yet to be reached. Something you can’t put your finger on, but it’s always been there, shaping you. Something majestic, like freedom and skyscrapers. And art.
I know it may not seem much to many others – get a visa, jump on a plane, go places – and many of the ones living there have been taking it for granted (and I can understand that, most of us are taking things for granted and only realize it when it’s too late) but to me, it’s been one of the oldest, most powerful wishes I’ve made and it’s now coming to life. I almost can’t believe I’ll get to walk the streets all the way from Brooklyn to Manhattan, take the A train to Rockaway Beach, go to the Meatpacking District, eat at a local diner and then take a plane down to New Orleans, dip my feet in the Mississippi river’s waters and listen to street corner jazz until my ears can’t take it no more, but I will. One month from today, we’ll finally be flying to the U.S.A. together.
I close my eyes and can almost feel the April breeze and the whole New York unfolded at my feet from the 86th level of the Empire State building – miniatures, distant movement, lights, ravished hair. I imagine myself walking the urine soaked Manhattan streets late at night, his arms wrapped around me, warm steam coming out of he sewers, red fire hydrants.
It’s America, an ethnically diverse group of women having had one too many glasses of wine at a family restaurant in Little Italy, carrying their food in aluminum foil swans on their way back home, laughing.
It’s on the other side of the world
It’s the memory of 9/11
It’s Woodstock and Coachella.
It’s bourdain and compulsion, they’ve seen them all
It’s children beauty pageants and spelling bees
It’s a tale of all the immigrants
It’s “Columbo”, “Murder she wrote”, “Twilight zone” and “Twin peaks”, it’s All Jarreau’s “Moonlighting” and any song you can think of either sampled or remixed
It’s New York, home of the Yankees; Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen
It’s gallons, ounces, acres, inches, notches and yards
It’s trailer parks in the middle of nowhere, Apache indians and vaste, unelectrified Amish lands
It’s food trucks and boozy brunches, New York bagel and ice-cream tacos, Broadway matinées and grilled cheese at Mother’s Ruin restaurant
It’s definitely gonna be Lombardi’s or Grenaldi’s Pizza, some slurp-noodles in Chinatown
It’s Andy Borowitz and Spiro Agnew
It’s decadence; the Big Apple vs. the Big Easy
It’s a perpetual comedy act and humor at it’s finest with Stephen Colbert and Seth McFarlane, Roasts, Saturday Night Live, Key and Peele and The marvelous Mrs. Maisel
It’s surfing, botox, plastic surgery and Silicon Valley
It’s red, white and blue
It’s country music and tuxedo blues
It’s bodegas, speakeasies and Labor Day
It’s Alan Watts and Leonard Bernstein
It’s “a few blocks away”
It’s Sex and the city and of course, that song about a “big, yellow taxi”
It’s obesity and consumerism
It’s megalomania and racism
It’s semi-hemi-demi-semi quavers
It’s all the poor people living in Skid Row
It’s Chelsea Market, Apollo Theater, Plaza Hotel and Carnegie Hall
It’s a faraway land caught somewhere between “American Horror Story” and a glamorous 80’s Halston Frowick fashion show.
No name american flag butterfly top
Topshop Jeans
Vintage silver rings
Thrifted choker
Green Eyed Kisses,
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