My last two days in Pasadena whirled by in a carousel of food and clothes, thanks to the goodly ministrations of Kathie, who has a genius for ferreting out charming little boutiques. I've fallen into the habit over the past four years of shopping almost exclusively on holiday. What little disposable time I have during my normal workaday life goes to sports, theatre outings, and entertaining, with nary a minute left over for anything else. I also lack the patience to try on clothes and sort through racks: I'm in work mode, powering through my day and trying desperately to conserve enough energy to ride my horse in the afternoon or mark papers later that night. Stumbling through a mall is the furthest thing from my mind, even on weekends, which, alas, have become extensions of the work week.
When I travel, however, the relaxed pace mellows me sufficiently to browse and sample various garments. I like too that I find more daring fashions outside of Washington, a notoriously staid city. Last summer in Paris, for instance, I came upon a couple of charming skirts, the one a riot of Provencal colors, the other a ribbony swirl of flounces in more subdued grays and taupe. Neither was the sort of thing I would normally pull off the rack, but the very good French saleslady insisted I try them on to happy results.
International attitudes among saleswomen vary greatly, another source of pleasure (and occasional bemusement). French saleswomen are universally helpful and refreshingly blunt. At one shop in Paris, the saleslady blocked my progress to a fitting room and pulled a couple of items out of my hands, clucking at me disapprovingly.
Russian saleswomen trump every other nationality when it comes to mercantile brusqueness. They also have an uncanny ability to sniff out black market knockoffs, a topic deserving of a separate post. Several years ago I wandered into a shop in St. Petersburg with my friend Elena, hoping to get ideas for a coat my darling husband was having made for me. The two salesgirls, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, watched contemptuously as I tried on a succession of fur jackets. I liked a sheared grey number, but one of the girls suddenly waved her hand dismissively, scolding me in Russian and gesturing toward my face. Bewildered, I turn to Elena for translation. It appeared the grey made me look sallow (which was probably right). The salesgirl then ordered me to another shop down the street: "Nothing here looks good on you." So much for post-Glastnov capitalism.
My two-day shopping orgy in Pasadena with Kathie resulted in nothing that inadvertently hilarious, but I did end up buying a smart pair of linen trousers and several tops, mostly casual. I indulged in one designer piece, the sort of thing one can pair with jeans or nicely tailored pants. Kathie has an impeccable eye for clothing, as she does for interior design. She's one of those people blessed with damn good taste and superb organizational skills. I've decided she should run my life.
We punctuated our shopping expeditions with very good lunches and dinners. On Monday we had a long leisurely lunch at Saladang Song, a tasty Thai restaurant in Pasadena. Later that afternoon we made our way to an outdoor mall that just opened in Glendale called Americana, developed by the same guy who did the Grove in Culver City. Again, we wandered through shops before collapsing at a Mexican restaurant with outdoor seating. Fortified with drinks and appetizers, we watched the throngs promenade lazily in the perfect Southern California weather: families with young children; well-heeled 50- and 60-somethings; and teenagers armed with credit cards and hopping hormones. I liked the ambiance, the leisurely pace of it all.
On Tuesday, we indulged in yet more shopping, breaking up our descent into abject materialism with a stopover at the Huntington Library, where I saw a chum and met the delightful old lady who is the subject of a biography Kathie is writing. This woman, a famous dancer between the wars, still at the age of 95 goes to the Huntington daily to work on her own project. She's quite extraordinary. We lunched at nearby Nicole's Cafe, a brilliant little eatery featuring light fare and superb pastries (or so I am told). Alarmed by my expanding waistline, I have momentarily put desserts and snacks on hold. Dinner at Celastino's later that night was also excellent. Bob and I had delicious homemade pastas; Kathie had veal Milanese (a tad overdone).
On Wednesday I boarded my flight to San Francisco with mixed emotions. Sorry to leave L.A. and my friends behind, I was nonetheless eager to see my son Alex.
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