I woke up in the very tiniest hours of Tuesday morning—right around when we were supposed to be experiencing the eye of Blizzard 2015 here—to see that it wasn’t snowing even a speck. But there was a pretty dusting over the streets, and the travel ban had turned the city into a ghost town. So I didn’t sleep for a few hours, and instead just sat up in the living room—two walls of which are windows—and enjoyed the kind of deathly calm my little corner of downtown never knows. Then snow plows came, and after that a rogue car or two, and as the sun rose, I spied a few early risers in the park across the street, and felt a sudden urge to walk the pretty virgin snow before it became ugly New York City snow. So I suited up the dog and put on my snow boots and the hulking, ugly industrial-strength parka I pull out on days when it’s really messy out and I especially don’t give a shit, and off we went. And then I came back home and passed out for a few hours.
Later, I went out searching for signs of life, and found more than I had perhaps bargained for in Nolita: stylish people in well-cut winter gear were out on the streets, in the stores, having coffee with one another and looking altogether smart. Did I mention that the industrial-strength parka is one size too big—adding a good ten pounds to my frame—and comes to my shins? And that my hairstyle was basically my hat? I had a sudden attack of giving a shit, and headed south on Mott Street to less perilously stylish environs. Which put me right in the path of No. 6, on whose website I had spied some surpassingly cute clogs just hours earlier. I was in no mood to encounter the stylish shopgirls and customers of No. 6, but I pressed on. And learned a little something about myself: the vain part of my brain doesn’t stand a change when pitted against the acquisitive part.
I won’t be able to wear them for months, but are they not adorable?