As some readers may know, I recently wrote an article about counterfeit fashion (please forgive my massive ego that is leading me to assume you read it). I shared why I am a fan of it while still having misgivings and ultimately decided that one can do what they want while being mindful. Yesterday, I decided to put this blase mentality to the test and headed down to Canal Street with Lila King (co-creator of &tost).
At precisely 6:04 pm, Lila and I filled up our water bottles and put on sunglasses and baseball hats so that none of our judgmental friends would recognize us, and headed for the B train. As we boarded the subway car and joined the weekend rush hour of sweaty New Yorkers enroute to dinner, a show, or a bar, we went over our list of what we were planning to find. Me a red Goyard and a Saddle bag with a little character, and Lila a Fendi or a Saddle bag that blends in as opposed to screaming “LOOK I’M WEARING A SADDLE BAG.” We passed 7th avenue, then 50th street, then 42nd, and before we knew it, the train began to slow as tiles on the subway walls spelled Canal Street. The doors opened and we nodded at each other with so much intensity that our fellow subway riders thought we were heading to battle.
As we walked east on Canal, we began to inhale the sweet smell of faux leather. Holding hands, we hit Church Street and we were off to the races. It was as if all rules of coexisting on New York sidewalks had flown out the window. People were blocking pathways that the innocent people who were just trying to get home were walking single file in. There were loud discussions about stitch patterns and prices. Vendors were shouting to you asking what you were looking for. It was madness and I loved it. Assuming the role of the leader, I told Lila we had to take a lap and then find the Asian ladies who had the laminated papers. They were the ones we could trust. We began to filter through the crowds, eyes glued to the pashminas and when we saw anything we would whisper to one another “Fendi Baguette,” “Mini Goyard,” “Kelly.” We got to a red light and Lila said to me, “Margo, we just walked by two Saddle bags, a pink one and a red one.”
“We will come back.”
The more and more east we walked, the less and less vendors we were seeing. I almost lost all hope of running into one of the women with the laminated paper until all of a sudden, like a beacon of hope, I saw one of them, quietly saying, “Handbags, Handbags,” under her breath. This was our moment. I began to approach her without totally knowing what I was going to say or do, and before I knew it, I was standing right in front of her, eye to eye. Without saying a word she gave me the laminated paper of everything she had. In my hands was a 13 by 36 inch piece of paper that folded into four little sections and there was everything from Birkens, to Louis, to Gucci Dionysus’. I couldn’t help but marvel. I even forgot they were fake for one single second. They had what we were looking for, two Saddles and a red Goyard. After a little bit of bargaining, a deal was made. I asked if they only took cash and the woman nodded her head and began to usher us over to the nearby bank, almost as if we were prisoners being led to our cells. The woman waited outside as we got our cash, and then brought us to an undisclosed location so we could wait for someone who was bringing our bags. After a couple of awkward minutes, the woman’s partner rounded a corner with a big black bag. In the end, we only took the Goyard, after a long battle of trying to get the prices of the Saddles down. And so, Lila and I headed back to the seller with the pink and red Saddle bags. I purchased the red one, and Lila decided to switch it up and buy a gorgeous felt Fendi crescent bag.
And thus concluded our adventures on Canal Street. Lila and I desperately escaped the feigning tourists and made it to a trash can to unbox our goodies. We peeled the plastic off the straps and could not help but smile seven miles wide. Without a second thought, I threw the longer chain that the Saddle came with into the garbage as if it was a candy bar wrapper.
We floated down Broadway with our bags glued to our shoulders, until a sudden flutter appeared in my stomach. At first I thought this was just my one millionth case of buyer’s remorse, but then I realized it was something entirely different: guilt. I could not shake it. All of a sudden I felt passers-by eyeing my bag as if it was public enemy number one. But why now? I knew what I was getting into. I knew that these were fake. This was no scam. I felt crummy. I had just cheated the system that I have been a proud supporter of since I would put my mother’s La Perla on my head.
I was contemplating this pang of guilt sitting at the bottom of my stomach, but with every block, it began to become clear to me that no one actually cares. This whole stigma around counterfeit fashion has been constructed and I did not have to subscribe to it. Instead, I could finally begin my fantasy of storming out of an argument, swinging my Dior Saddle bag over my shoulder as the gold D that hangs from it knocks over a glass on a nearby countertop. When you buy something fake, you feel like a small little person and you now have to keep your little secret. But the truth is, you are not alone. When I told people that I was going to go to Canal Street for “research”, instead of shaming me they told me about their own adventures of hunting down the perfect fake bag. And I’m talking mothers of my friends, bosses, older sisters, and grandmothers. So I told myself to ditch the guilt. And besides, if my new cherry red Dior Saddle bag falls apart in the rain, at least I didn’t spend my apartment’s rent on it.
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