A trip to Brooklyn results in a little sartorial nausea, courtesy of the trying-so-hard-to-be-hip transplants crawling out of every nook and cranny. On the other hand, my native-to-NYC friend doesn’t seem to be trying much at all, and blows them out of the water.
While dabbling in vino, German philosophy, or swaths of cashmere is all well and good, a more all-inclusive strain of luxury has been rapidly forming–one that transcends taut definition and allows for an exciting melange of things high and low, textbook-right and textbook-wrong. To put it simply: luxury has been Kanye West-ed.
Am I convinced that eternal coupledom is THE route to take—an American Dream worth having? Not exactly. But, damn, is it an appealing ideal.