Fishnet tights in powder pink. With the tack-o-meter flashing in the red, I extricated the package in wonder from its beige pantyhose cousins. While my mind's eye began to imagine my legs in pink netting, my real eyes popped open like champagne corks. Thirty pounds? Multiplied by 1.7 ... 50 dollars?! I dropped them as if I'd been bitten. Gucci smucci. There will be no '80s fashion revival this week.
But as the scarf on sale for $250 floated by with its matching pair of driving gloves, I ceased to be horrified and instead breathed in delight and wonder. This was the shopping event of the season -- the only thing that could have gotten me out of bed at 8 a.m. on my day off -- the Harrods sale!
For those out of the loop of luxury, Harrods is quite possibly the world's finest department store. In five labyrinthine floors, Harrods sells anything a penthouse princess could ever dream to buy. From any animal in the zoo, to Prada stiletto heels, to a four-bedroom cottage in the country -- if you've got loads of cash, Harrods would happily be your retail whipping boy.
For Harrods' bi-annual sale, people cram into every crevice of sale-tabled space, making shopping athletic enough to burn off two amazing chocolate truffles from its food halls. Well, okay. Three.
Sparring with tourists and society women for breathing room, I went to Harrods less to buy and more to gape at the finest the Western world could offer. In the china rooms, I tiptoed around tables of Royal Daulton and Wedgewood, gluing my arms to my body so as to keep the roses and gold inlay intact on their tables. Sapphire-blue beaded candle votifs and orange plastic tea warmers challenged my mental faculties to concoct a reason I could ever need either one.
From inflatable clocks to designer suits with red metallic embroidery to white T-shirts that cost more than my plane ticket to London, Harrods tried its best to charm the credit card out of my wallet. In the men's shoe department, the Visa-to-wallet gravity met it's match.
If shoes could speak, these snappy oxfords would declare their destiny to dwell below my ankles. Black with burgundy and gray leather stripes, I wriggled my toes inside shoe perfection. Even at half-price, I grappled with guilt. I won. Carrying my army-green Harrod's bag, I whacked away a swath through the crowd, but my head was floating up on cloud nine.
Buying beautiful shoes is always exciting, but this was different. After three months of watching my pennies and saying "Just a cheese sandwich and water please," I could finally afford to buy something nice. It means so much more to stroll through Harrods and see digital televisions and Cartier diamonds, not to mention a simple soft wool scarf, when you've been eating dried spaghetti to save money. Getting a perspective on your situation really makes you appreciate how privileged we all are.
Coming to London has also cast Hanover in a different light. I was stir-crazy to get out of Hanover after Sophomore Summer and five straight terms there. Now I get misty-eyed at the thought of Panda House.
As I trek to central London and pay ridiculous amounts to see a show, I could smack myself for not seeing more inexpensive shows at the Hop while it was a three-minute walk.
When Collis ran out of bagels, I would pout. Now I live in a country that hasn't yet undergone the Bagel Revolution. You can hardly find a bagel in London, much less one that wouldn't bounce if thrown against a given wall. When it comes to bagels, elasticity is not a virtue.
It's not difficult for us to appreciate that we're privileged to have Dartmouth's academics and physical beauty, but nuances like having all-day access to squash courts or 24-hour computer facilities are everyday luxuries that evaporate when you leave Hanover.
It took me a trip across the ocean to appreciate the view from the top of the Hop, but it shouldn't have. I may able to take a lap around Hyde Park, but you can walk your favorite shoes around Occum Pond, and that's not nothing.
