I review fashion week. I won’t be long.
When you walk through New York, you get space. People don’t give much, but they give space.
Boston is harried. Shoulders thrust at you. People stand, unrepentant, in your path.
In Boston, you carve space. You wend.
I found myself wending in New York tonight.
Not Boston wending. Not American wending. It was Venetian wending. The kind you do in Venice.
Fashion Week is when everyone on the train is good looking.
We’re dazzled, those of us not in from out of town, by their bold colors.
I am wearing a favorite shirt, so I feel up.
And very quickly I am in Venice. My hostel overlooks a small piazza. At two in the morning in the moon I awake and they are there.
They stand, white bags with blue and red piping, and converse, the goods-sellers.
One says, “Je ne sais pas.”
One says “Je obtenir la glace,” and he goes to get an ice cream.
Now in New York, they are the same. They sell the bags, the watches, the clothing that everyone buys but no one admits to buying.
And I must wend, for they wriggle me with forgeries and counterfeits. Rolex rolex, they say. T-shirt. We can change it. Which one you want?
I pass through the worms and am into the Canal JMZ stop, and back to home.
There is no fashion week in Bushwick.
Part one of two.