dirty fingernails & department stores

Kicked out of my bedbug infested B&B for a declined credit card, hyperventilating into a phone in a red booth to my mom.

A few hours later, reaching out a grubby hand to touch a Prada jacket.

The few times I’ve passed through London, a stop at Harrods has been an absolute must. My dad flew to England in 1982, the year after I was born, to play violin with his post-hippie band at a music festival. Snippets of his experience pricked throughout my childhood in small souvenirs. The canvas Piccadilly Circus bag, a tiny, wood-framed picture of a mouse plucked from the ground of the mythical Underground, a commemorative mug from Charles and Di’s wedding from the regal department store…

A year out of college and burned out from uninspired day jobs, I impulsively hopped a European flight. A backpack, a crumpled travelers checks, and a credit card with a $500 limit was all I carried.

First up: Ireland. Easy—free! Friends with couches, brown bread with butter.

Next, a budget airline flight to Glasgow; Edinburgh; Rome. Stays in hostels and square slices of pizza on the street are the visceral experiences of backpacking adventurers, but lack of planning would soon catch up.

My trip would be bookended by solo weekends in London, a charming city. English-speaking, subway-loving, familiar.

Unfortunately, the US dollar plummeted somewhere over the Atlantic and I bottomed out my meager funds quickly.

Unless you’re out of cash. Then, you’re nothing but a clumsy girl without her crumpled travelers checks who could really use a shower, deciding if sleeping at Pattington Station in 40-degree weather would be prudent.

So, how did I find my way to Harrods, fondling designer outerwear?

Nostalgic and generous parents couldn’t turn down their only daughter, naively broke in London. They made some calls, got me a bit of cash, and I got a new (and happily bug-free) room for the night. A shower, scoop of ice cream, and cup of coffee later, Harrods was my playground.

The food halls, perfume rooms, china floor, wine cellar; sensory overload, no purchase necessary.

Next, I hesitantly ventured into the Women’s department. Plush carpets, pristine garment racks, and well-suited salespeople fronted the goods-- Dolce and Gabanna, Chanel, Armani.

“Go ahead, you can touch it. It is meant to be enjoyed.”

My fingers brushed across the sleeve, buttons, hemline. A moment of undeserved glamour made me think, just for a moment, that this place of excess could hold treasures for anyone, even me; maxed out credit card in my pocket and tiny red bug bites under my chin.