Living in a material world

By ERIKA NORTEMANN

LuminoMagazine.com

I’ve never been a slave to fashion. In my high school years I sported the trendy American Eagle, GAP clothes, and even the occasional Abercrombie outfit, but never fervently followed the current season’s styles. I wore what looked good on me, even if it was –gasp– last year’s big item.

Don’t get me wrong – while I wasn’t fashion savvy, I wasn’t a fashion emergency, either. I knew better than to wear brown shoes with black pants, anything super baggy or the ultimate social suicide: tapered jeans. It’s just that if you asked me if I knew who Christian Dior or Marc Jacobs were, I would have asked you, "Did I have a class with them?"

As I grew up and into college, I became more set in my ways, and my wardrobe. Any shred of caring what other people thought of me flew out the window when I discovered I could fly across the country for the price of a cute skirt from Banana Republic. The plane tickets won out every time – and while the beautiful scenery changed from scrapbook to scrapbook, my wardrobe did not. So when I moved out of the cornfields and into Washington D.C. to start my first "real world" job as an intern (go figure) for National Geographic Traveler magazine, I decided to expand my fashion designer knowledge past my love for Ludacris’ lyrical masterpieces: "But Louis Vuitton bras all over your breasts make me want to put hickeys all over your chest-ahh."

I studied my co-workers’ wardrobes and the store windows on Connecticut Ave. NW and M St. NW in Georgetown, while still sporting my GAP, Payless, Old Navy and Target combinations. I slowly acclimated myself to mingling with the lifestyles of the rich and urban, and after two months of Big City Living 101, declared myself fit for the ultimate test: New York City. I had a friend interning at Seventeen magazine, and figured if I was ever going to brave the Big Apple, I should do so when I had an ally (and a free place to stay) in the city. And since I was already stepping outside my comfort zone, I decided to go all out and buy something designer.

Well, kind of.

Ever since my roommate last year came back from Spring Break with a black Kate Spade purse she’d bought on a NYC street for $30, I wanted to own my own fake designer purse. But it couldn’t come from any fake designer purse seller – no, it had to be from a pro. It had to be from New York.

After spending a beautiful Saturday touring the city, my friends, Kaelin and James, took me to Canal Street – the best place, Kaelin raved, to find my high-quality designer rip-off. I wasn’t fussy as to exactly which designer, though I had my favorites: Louis Vuitton, Kate Spade and Coach. She knew exactly which store to take me to – the one who’d sold her a Louis Vuitton earlier in the summer.

As we turned onto Canal Street and made the trek towards "The Store," I was instantly disappointed with the scene. I’d expected it to be like the leather market in Florence, Italy – street vendors calling out to us, begging us to check out their merchandise; the street jammed with so many tourists you could barely move; and the excitement of a great bargain hanging in the air. Instead, Canal Street was quieter than most of the streets I’d been walking on all day. Everyone pretty much ignored us, and many of the shops had garage door-like coverings over the entrances.

"The cops must have just passed through here," Kaelin wisely noted. "They [the store owners] all have walkie-talkies, and as soon as one of them sees the police, they radio down to everyone and the entire street shuts down. It’s really cool to see."

Interesting, I thought and we continued on.

We walked up the street, and then back down – not stopping at a single store.

"Dammit," Kaelin said. "‘The Store’ must be closed. I don’t recognize any of these." We made one more pass through, and it was then that she spotted her shop – with tightly padlocked doors and a menacing man standing in front.

"Yep, this is it," she hissed and turned around to walk away. Well, I’d come too far to just leave, so I walked up to the man before Kaelin could stop me. I was about to ask him if the store was closed for the night when he shot me a look that made me bite my tongue. Instead, I nodded towards the locked door. With his eyes focused on mine, he gave me an almost unperceivable nod, and said in a heavily accented voice, "Wait few minutes."

I turned around and walked over to my now horrified-looking friends. "He said to just wait," I told them. Something told me we weren’t supposed to line up in front of the door, so we casually loitered in the vicinity, looking completely obvious I’m sure. After a few minutes, the man spoke rapid Chinese into his walkie-talkie and threw a glance and another minute nod in my direction. Knowing my time had finally come, I hurried Kaelin over to him. His head whipped back and forth three or four times as he quickly surveyed the scene, then, in one fluid motion, he had the lock off and the door open just wide enough for us to squeeze through.

"Get in! Get in!" he demanded. We quickly shuffled in just as he slammed the door back into place. I heard the lock click shut.

Instantly forgetting the fact that I was trapped in a sketchy, illegal store, I slowly took in the scene – purses covered the walls, all shapes, sizes, colors and labels. There were a few other girls in the store who must have slipped through the door crack like we did, but I didn’t take time to ask them. I had spotted a Kate Spade shoulder purse with red, blue, pink, yellow, black and white stripes and brown leather handles, and knew it was the one I wanted. I glanced over some of the Prada, Gucci and Coach bags, but none reached out and grabbed me like this one. Once I confirmed with Kaelin that Kate Spade did in fact design purses like this one, I opened my wallet and fished out a $20 bill – just as we heard the police sirens.

Everyone in the store froze. I looked at the women who were helping the other girls with their purchases, their eyes wide and their hands still. The sirens grew continuously louder; they were right outside. And then, thankfully, they continued on – past us, on to bust someone else.

All of us remained frozen until one of the walkie-talkies burst into life, spewing frantic Chinese. The woman responded, then quickly took our money and ushered us to the door. She opened it a crack and were instantly back on the sidewalk.

"Leave now! Goodbye," the doorman hissed.

It was over. We were only in the shop for a few minutes, but the experience left my heart racing, and later, a huge smile on my face. I’d done it! I’d bought my first-ever real fake-designer purse! And I’d risked life and limb (or at least intense police interrogation) to get it.

Since then, I’ve tried to expand my wardrobe into a more chic, hip look, but I’ve stuck to the safer, more legal Filene’s Basement. Same great deals, same designers – but this store has a cute little old man security guard to open its doors nice and wide for me.