New York, New York, it's a hell of a town

SHEI Correspondent, Alexandra Foster sums up her summer in the City-That-Never-Sleeps: New York, and gives us a taste of the fashion scene.

I can clearly recall my first day in New York City this summer. I was laying out in Central Park, reading a Chelsea Handler book (typical), when I saw two cross-dressers decked out in Little Bo Peep costumes (white yodeler dresses, shepherd’s staffs, and 5-inch yellow heels). New to the city and from a college environment where “you are what you wear,” my mouth dropped in awe. How could no one else be looking twice at these people? For the past three months while interning in New York, I saw the Little Bo Peeps on a regular basis. As I became a regular in Central Park, I ended up learning that their names were Sylvio and Marco. They moved to New York City a few months before so that they could be accepted, so that they could be themselves.

From that day on, I saw more of the same. I saw the infamous Naked Cowboy in the heart of Times Square (who is now running for mayor) with nothing but a piece of cloth covering his genitals. I saw men dressed as Princess Diana in the heart of Chelsea Village with blond-bobbed wigs and diamond-crusted tiaras. I saw Patrick from Sponge Bob Squarepants change out of his costume, revealing a middle-aged, predator-looking woman. Living in Greenwich Village, I was (unfortunately) quite familiar with the typical hipsters in their cigarette jeans, American Apparel v-necks, Bohemian scarves, knitted-beanies (in the middle of summer), and “vintage” leather boots. I saw the Euro-trash men in nightclubs, drenched in sweat and Axe, dry-humping their prey, as they twirled their chest hair in their Ed Hardy tees.

During my lunch break one day, I saw two men in matching pink shorts and no shirts, tossing a baseball back and forth. An hour later, I then saw them both put on their GQ-esque suits before jogging back to the Financial District. They turned out to be investment bankers. There were the model wannabe’s, (barely) dressed to impress, during Happy Hour on the Upper East Side or the bikini-clad high school girls, trying to get the attention of the bouncers at the hottest clubs. In the Great Lawn in Central Park I saw women in thongs basking in the sun. I saw the families with their I <3 NY t-shirts, all identical and matching, posing for pictures outside of the Empire State Building while a woman flashed the cameraman in Rockefeller Plaza at the Today Show, hoping to get on air. I saw I saw a homeless man with an honest poster: “I’m homeless and want a beer. Donate money for my alcoholism.”  I proceeded to give him a couple dollars.

When asked what my favorite part of living in New York City for the summer was, a million things came to mind. I loved the hustle and bustle, the public transportation, the endless amount of bars and restaurants, the outdoor dining tables, the energy, the buildings, never being bored. I loved the frozen yogurt, the rooftop parties, the shallowness and the depth, the fact that everybody was pursuing their dreams. I loved the outside markets, the entertainment in Washington Square Park, the hotdog stands, reading Page Six in the NY Post religiously. I loved the Yankees games, the jogs in Central Park, the endless shopping. I loved the mornings and evenings in New York City. I loved the fashion, the people, the entire vibe of the city. I even loved the fact that New York City was rainier than Seattle this summer.

The list of what makes New York such a great city is endless and anyone who has spent five minutes there can understand, but what sticks out in my mind is so vivid; what I love most about New York City is that anything goes. Nobody falls victim to fashion. Everybody comes to New York to be themselves, to be accepted for who they truly are. 

In the fashion capital of the world, I was shocked at how little people actually care about fashion. The verdict is in: No need to worry whether or not it’s appropriate to wear white after Labor Day, whether or not it’s okay to wear last season’s jeans or, hell, whether or not you’ll look good in a Little Bo Peep costume in the 80-degree heat. Because, you know what? In New York City, anything goes.

Alexandra Foster