Think I’ll Go to Boston…
I recently returned from a fun trip to one of my favorite cities – my sister came with me, and despite the rain and muck, we made the most of it…and of course found our way to Newbury Street to do some serious shopping. Now, the story that I’m about to recount is not embellished, fabricated, or in any way altered, lest you start to think that I exaggerate my klutziness. These are just raw facts, people.
Anyway, like I was saying, we found our way to Newbury St. – umbrellas in hand and credit cards in tow. After scoping out some of the usual stops (H&M, Benneton, Zara), I spotted a new favorite of mine, Reiss. Now, let me start by saying that Reiss is definitely a more high-end store. It’s based in the U.K. and has won lots of awards for their high-quality stuff, so the place itself is obviously a nicer shop. We’re talking hardwood floors, soft music, and a grand staircase inside. So, Abby and I made our way in out of the rain to browse the spring collection.
With no one in there but ourselves and the saleswoman, she began to make polite conversation about who we were and where we were from. Finally, after finding several dresses that I loved, we started to make our way towards the front of the store, still just us three in the deathly quiet little shop. That’s when things got ugly.
Not remembering that there was a mini-staircase in the middle of the shop, I continued walking towards the door, my head held high focusing on the shimmering high-end merchandise around me, not to mention the weighty plastic shopping bags in my arm. Abby followed steadily behind me, still engaged in polite conversation with the boutique’s clerk. I strode confidently towards the door and only stopped to look down once where my feet where going. As luck would have it, I looked down at the exact moment I became aware of the staircase beneath me.
I saw my feet miss the steps completely, and instead, land loudly at the very bottom of the glossy wooden stairs. The rain from the streets on my sandals only compounded the situation, creating a squeaky slip-n-slide effect on the slick, short steps. Unsure of what to do next, I attempted to pick myself up and act as though I meant to do that. The saleswoman was clearly unimpressed at my embarrassing retail faux pax, giving me a look that said please don’t come back. As I exited the store and struggled to regain my composure, my sister showed little remorse and instead busted out laughing at my unfortunate blunder.
Despite my idiot tendencies, the Northeastern chapter of KD welcomed me with open arms later in the day and we had a lovely event at the quaint urban college that evening. All that to say, Boston, I understand if you don’t want me back. Like Augustana says, it’s a good thing no one there knows my name.