A Trip to The Village

First off, before I talk about my trip to a fancy-dancy mall, let me say that, growing up, my house, was right behind a motel called "The Village." It was a classy place, mostly catering to the men who worked for the power company, and pastors sleeping with the more dedicated members of their congregations. The thing I remember most about it is the sign in the front that never failed to have at least one light burned out, so it was always "T e V ll g ote" or somethng else as vague. When I learned to read, I would always very cleverly point out the missing letters, and what I thought the sign now said, punctuating things with a loud guffaw at my own humor. My mom would always purse her lips, and probably curse The Village under her breath. At the time, I thought she thought I was witty. Now that I'm older and a mother myself, I'm surprised she didn't call more babysitters.

Anyway, that is what I think of when I think "The Village," not a fancy mall. But today, because I had a student cancel on me, and because I can think of nothing I would rather do than sashay around a fancy mall whilst charging a hefty missed lesson fee, I visited the second Village, the one "at Corte Madera." Now, let me explain something: I work in Marin County, and I do all of my tutoring there, but I don't live there. There's one reason for that: I'm much, much too poor. Marin County is the place good yuppies go when Daddy dies. And, were I to have a rich relative who decided to kick it in the next two years or so, it is where I would most certainly buy a place. So, because of my poorness, I like to gaze at Marin Co. from afar, and once in awhile, pretend that I am cool enough to live there. That was my plan today. I walked into The Village, wearing my totally awesome leopard print flats (no one can tell they are from Target), and stalked around like it was for sale and the rent was due tonight. I either looked totally awesome, or like a raving idiot. But my hair looked damn good, so let's say "awesome."

There are a few things to think about when visiting a fancy mall. First off, there's no Auntie Anne's, and that blows. Second, you can't buy a freaking Philly cheesesteak anywhere. Third, (and I promise this is not about food), there are no Spencer's Gifts or any of those stores that sell nothing but athletic shoes and purple suits. It's something to get used to. But the good news is, you get Nordstrom instead. And, friends, there are no amounts of black light posters, incense, or fatty sandwiches that can equal the majesty that is a Nordstrom. More about that in a bit.

Here are the things that I don't like about fancy malls: 1) the sale section in Anthropologie, 2) the lack of food, 3) the fact that these people seem have eschewed air conditioners and fountains in favor of an outdoor "village feel," 4) the fact that no matter what I have on, I feel under dressed. Since most of those are self-explanatory, allow me to rant briefly on #1.

I have been to two Anthropologie's now--the one in Berkeley and the one in Corte Madera. I have bought quite a few things at the one in Berkeley, and most of them have been on sale. The sale section there is in a closet sized room, but the workers there are mostly students at UC, and are pretty nice and helpful. You can go in, find something, tell them what size you need, and they get it, show you something that will match, and then escort you out and to a dressing room. It's a nice experience. Not so at the Corte Madera store. First off, the sale section is again in a closet sized room, but I felt better of it because a few sale items had spilled out into the store at large, so things looked nice. That's before I stepped into The Room. The Room was roughly two degrees less than the surface of the sun. I don't know how it got so hot--maybe it was the lack of windows and the yards and yards of unwanted fabric lining the walls and floors in haphazard heaps. Maybe it was the sweaty, unwashed bodies of the poor being forced in like cattle. Inside The Room, girls worked elbow to elbow pulling out skirts and holding them up like silks at a bazaar. And because this is a great melting pot of a country, and an even greater melting pot of a region, no one in The Room spoke the same language. I definitely heard Spanish, German, and something that sounded Scandinavian while looking for a kimono dress. I know you're thinking that that's a misapproximation, but I'm being totally serious. This, with the heat and the many tongues, was like the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory of shopping. I finally found a dress in my size, and for the lovely, lovely price of $49.95, and fought my way out to take it to the dressing room. Once I got out, I looked for any available salesperson to perhaps show me to the dressing room. There were none. I finally saw one girl, but when I walked over to her, she turned around and started talking to someone else. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, my body heavy with the scent of The Room and poorness. Finally, I gave up, went back into The Room, where I shoved the dress onto a rack, and got the hell out. That kind of pisses me off. There's a shirt that I want from the Anthropologie website (and it's full price, natch), but something about the whole experience left me a little....hmmm...I don't know.

I didn't feel so poor and unwashed, however, when I stepped into Nordstrom. Nordstrom is the store I go to to wash off every bad shopping experience I've ever had. I luff me some Nordstrom. And I found my mod little jacket with the big buttons! I am so excited. Of course, it is still in the car, because I'm going to need to show my husband how cute I am in it before I tell him how much I paid for it....anyway, I may take a picture of it, as I am so happy with it.

My trip to The Village ended up a caesar salad and an iced tea at Boudin. It was a nice day, as most days are that end up with iced tea.