One More, With Feeling – What Is Love If Not Shopping For Vintage Clothes?

I am a clotheshorse. I can’t help it. It’s a compulsion. I love clothes, and more specifically, vintage clothes. I’m the best friend of all the vintage clothes store proprietors in my zip code, and further, and I find it an interesting footnote in my life story that one of my best friends in the world runs a boutique specializing in Italian fashion.

I didn’t use to be so madly into clothes in my twenties. I have, though, always liked to dress well, and my loved ones know all about my crazy Madonna period as too young a kid to be wearing a grown woman’s sexy lace lingerie and gel in my hair, let alone rosaries and crucifixes and a genuine leather biker jacket, which, I must add, was small enough to fit a young girl. Getting the jacket was one of the few pleas that my parents heard and acknowledged and accepted, and the jacket was never worn outside the house. Not because it was too raunchy or anything like that, but because it was too precious. It was almost exactly like the one she wore in the Papa Don’t Preach music video, and I was sure not going to have it get all dirty outside when I could play dress up and feel like a million bucks wearing it at home, deep into playing whatever games we played during dress up.

I’m not quite sure how it happened, the downward spiral into the abyss where I no longer can close the doors of my bulging wardrobe; my first guess would have to be the locale change some ten years ago, give or take, to my new hometown, which is also my mother’s hometown, where she grew up. With the larger scale in size and more citizens comes the cornucopia of shops and boutiques and flea markets and many like-minded people to support, for example, the fine art of selling vintage clothes.

My mother did her life’s work in the clothing industry, and my childhood is dotted with memories of my sister and me laying on our parents’ bed, giggling and going over mother’s jewelry box, trying stuff on, while mother would browse her abundant walk-in closet for things to wear at some function, or a black skirt for my sister’s date, or things for a jumble sale. Mother loves all things feminine, and I think also my love for perfumes derives from continuously checking out her lustrous perfume collection in front of her vanity mirror, and on those Sunday afternoon girls times, we would spritz on from almost every bottle, comparing notes and laughing at all the loveliness, so that the entire room smelled like a department store’s perfume section. To this day, whenever I smell YSL’s Paris, I am immediately brought back into that sunny bedroom, with bright blazing sunlight coming in through the gossamer curtains, clothes everywhere, on the bed and hanging from the doors, the jewelry box open between me and my sister, and mother sitting at the edge of the bed, telling us stories about her various rings and bracelets.

Working with clothes, mother always took care of her things, still does, knowing all the little secrets like how to remove a small stain, or what colors went together and what clashed. Of course these days the clashing and going together have been completely reconstructed, a thing I love, but wearing red with purple still brings me back the echoes of mother’s advice against such a combination. Perhaps it is similar to those memories of our parents telling us that squinting deliberately causes our eyes to permanently stay that way, or that masturbation causes hairy backs of hands, or that swallowing a gum is the most dangerous thing one can do, how, though, was never fully explained, at least not to me.

In my teens and early adulthood, I, like everyone else who’s ever been a growing kid, rebelled against my mother’s ideology like clockwork, and wanted nothing to do with feminine frills, dressing in masculine clothes, borrowing father’s vests and pants, buying vintage man’s shoes – yes, even back then! – to wear with my combos, and even bought my perfume at the colognes for men -section. I wore my hair extremely short, and according to the fashion of the counterculture then, bleached it. I loved rummage sales and flea markets, an undying love of mine, and bought most of my stuff second hand. I liked going shopping, but it wasn’t that big a deal, and sometimes I could go a year without buying a new piece of clothing.

Not today, though.

My man, while vain to the point of ridiculousness about some things, is the opposite of a clotheshorse. He wears his stuff until they are in total shreds, and then has them repaired and wears them some more. I am all for repairing, I take shoes and belts and bags to have them mended all the time, and being a person with preference for vintage clothes, the repairing and mending sort of go with the territory. By some fluke, though, he doesn’t seem to feel like my love for beautiful things is crazy or a waste of money, at least not to my face, and he is the first one to tell me when I am looking, to his eyes, especially pretty.

It was a rare weekend off for the both of us, and we decided to get down with the best of them, and have ourselves a true Tampere Day, something we are almost never able to do, since our working hours are completely opposite from one another. This, I must admit, has worked out, very politically incorrectly, beautifully for me, since I like the solitude, and especially after my writing has gone off the charts since last December.

After one of our humongous, raging, and extremely loud fights that was past due in our relationship curriculum in the morning, we took turns in the shower while one of us made some coffee and the other the bed, and we fixed ourselves ready to go gallivanting. The temperature was a mild minus five Celsius, so I decided to for once honor my new year’s resolution discussed in further detail in one of my earlier stories, and get properly dressed up; after all, it was sort of a special occasion to have so extravagantly large amount of shared quality time with my special someone, so why the hell not put on my fancy black vintage man’s hat, the one with the even rim and sort of a top hat feel to it, only not as high as a proper top hat, the one that always makes me feel like I’m Jack White.

Thinking from the head down, I then shaped together my Out with My Honey –look of the day around the hat. On went my black-and-white speckled tricot dress, my cerulean blue skinny Levi’s, a black bolero top from my friend J.’s boutique, my fabulous black Mustang boots, and on top of it all a wool wrap-on jacket with mighty shoulder pads, from one of my favorite vintage stores here in Tampere, and a leather belt to hold it tight on me so I wouldn’t get cold, and to create the illusion of a waist. (I have to add that I learned the English name for that specific shade of blue from none other than The X-Files, where in the season three, episode seventeen, Pusher, the term Cerulean Blue is repeated a lot and is of great significance. Incidentally, I also learned from this same episode that Fox in Japanese is Kitsune.) For jewelry, I added some vintage burgundy red spinel pearls bought at a flea market, a watch from the Fifties with the original black leather wristband, a gift from my man, and some cheap triangle-shaped ear studs from H&M or some other multi-million dollar international chain.

At my workplace I have earned the nickname Bag Lady due to my constant need to carry at least two or three different handbags, tote bags and/or shopping bags around with me at all times. This is something that my man has pointed out to me as well, and it’s true. I’m not a light traveler. So for our Saturday outing I just had to take another black suede bag with fringes and a gorgeous blood red inner lining for my book, my writing instruments and my journal, since my fancy cappuccino-colored vintage handbag wasn’t roomy enough for all my necessary shit. I can tell you I have gone out into the world a few times without my journal and my pen case and a book to read, and all those four times I have had a situation where it would have been crucial for me to have a pen handy, or a sheet of paper to write down a thought, or a book to pass the dull fifteen minutes in the waiting lounge. Even with our smart phone age I still want my damn paper and pens with me, and if I don’t make anyone else carry them for me and never complain about having two bags, what’s the problem?

On our shared day off, we ended up not driving up the Pyynikki ridge to have some of the famous donuts in the Observation Tower Café, the thing to do on a typical Tampere Day, and something that is always recommended first to tourists; the donuts are baked at the café from scratch, and they do taste heavenly, especially, should one go about it the way it is supposed to be done, and walk the whole way from the center of town to develop the appetite for seconds, perhaps thirds.

We instead parked behind one of Tampere’s few remaining functional public saunas, Rajaportti, and took the long steps of Pispala, first all the way up the ridge, then back down on the other side, about two thirds, where the hidden gem of the neighborhood is located: Café Pispala, with their weekly changing menus and all-weekend-long brunches. The owners are the same who run Ohana Burger, at the Market Hall, which I have profusely thanked in at least two of my earlier stories; the burger place as well as  their small coffee spot on a different aisle that serves those life-saving homemade Oreo cookies. The same cozy feeling and deliciousness of the food is most definitely to be found by the gallon at this first, original restaurant of the Finnish-American couple.

Since it is the weekend, we have the American Brunch, while the restaurant fills again and again of leisurely townspeople, enjoying a cup of coffee and some carrot cake, or take their time eating the large plate of pancakes with maple syrup, sconce with jelly, scrambled eggs and hash browns, bacon, some fruit and a boysenberry parfait. It’s a good thing those steps are there, waiting for us, when we are done and leave the restaurant, stuffed.

We check out the art exhibition at the Sara Hildén Museum, and while my man really takes in the paintings, I sit at the round table with my book. He likes to contemplate, stand back, hold his chin, and frown, a lot, whereas I just look at the paintings and contemplate them afterwards, at home. One of the few exceptions has been Albert Edelfelt’s famous painting Virginie, situated at the Joensuu Art Museum, which for some reason moved me to tears when I finally saw it live a few years ago. I do love art, but like with music, I tend to prefer my art less as a communal experience and more a solitary catharsis.

After the food and art portions are done, it is my turn. I have no idea why my man doesn’t hate accompanying me to the various vintage stores I want to peruse, I do give him a Get Out of Jail, Free –card and an option to do something else, but perhaps it is the idea of everything being carefully chosen and unique in the shops, that speaks to him, and he does have a collector’s love for mechanical, wind up wristwatches, and is a camera buff, so there is a little overlapping, there, maybe. And the boutiques are usually lovely, especially the breathtakingly gorgeous Vintage Garden in Tammela, a shop like no other, with everything so exquisitely displayed the entire store is sort of like a jewel itself.

Perhaps because of the fact that I recently re-watched Pretty in Pink for one of my stories, I have once again allowed florals and different shades of the color seep into my brain, and when I spy a white denim jacket with large pink rose and lilac designs all over it in the window of a second-hand store, I am pulled inside as fast as you can say Duckie loves Andie. I ask for the proprietor to show it to me, and feel my heart sink when she tells me it is size small. My man tells me it looks sort of granny, but I reply to him that no, just add some high heels, black skinny jeans, and my black lace gloves, and it will look like I started the trend. The seller takes it out of the window, and as I take it from her, we both say that it really doesn’t look that small. There is no one to egg a woman on more effectively in matters of buying new clothes than another woman with similar disposition. So I try it on.

The jacket looks absolutely fabulous. Ok, I can’t button it up to save my life, but what can I say? How many times has a woman made a decision about a beautiful jacket based on if she can button it up or not? Not too many, I conclude, and when my man has to agree that it does look great, I buy it, feeling already like the hidden prom queen has escaped my middle-aged body and is running loose in a hell-raising manner, dangerously skinny and raucous and in total anarchy and complete disregard about things like practicality or winter conditions in Finland. The jacket is a summer jacket, after all.

I am giddy when we leave the store, and because the day is still young, I ask for one more vintage shop, before we call it a day and return home. So next stop, the lovely Vintage Garden.

There are some moments one remembers all her life. The day I found a pair of black-and-white Minna Parikka shoes, heels so high one can’t even consider drinking wine wearing them, at 70 euros at one of my usual vintage shops in town. When I found ChineMachine, an incredible vintage shop at the very end of Rue des Martyrs, on the last day of my first trip to Paris. Buying the emerald green leather belt from a lovely vintage shop near my work, because I had recently lost weight and needed something in a hurry, and it was way too beautiful to go with the rest of my work attire, but I wore it nevertheless, and felt like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie the rest of that summer. The first time I noticed Vintage Garden, then situated dangerously near my workplace. I almost died with enthusiasm, and after coming to, immediately ran inside and purchased an embroidered clutch bag and a shimmering brooch the shape of a golden rose. Another time I, without even looking too hard, found what will be my wedding dress, at the same insanely stunning boutique. (And should I never marry, I can just throw it on Friends –style, kick back and have some beers in it!)

We took in the new space for a while, the kind proprietor gave me a delighted hug, long time no see, and asked us how we were, while steaming a blouse for another customer, waiting in the fitting room. My man started winding the mechanical watches as I, still in my Pretty in Pink prom queen state of mind, tried on a pair of bashful pink lace fingerless gloves, so delicate and beautiful I felt I should start reciting somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond, by e.e.cummings. I of course ended up getting them, along with a black and grey umbrella. Like shoes and handbags and scarves, one can never have too many umbrellas, I’m afraid I start a new collection every time I buy a new thing, and umbrellas? Well you just gotta love a beautiful umbrella. And hey: practical!

We talked a little more, I told L. that her new space was just as gorgeous as I knew it would be, but my man was now done winding the watches, so I knew it was time to go, so we wished each other a lovely day, and my man and I left. In honor of my Jack White –hat, we listened to Blunderbuss all the way home. The sun was shining. There were skaters and dog walkers and families great and small on the ice of the lake Näsi. It looked nice, but I couldn’t go there. Because of, you know, Jaws. But it was alright. Our Tampere Day was perfect, just the way it was.