“We need to find my mom some boots,” Jessica announces to the concierge.
“We’re going to Macy’s,” I say. “I know it’s around here somewhere.”
The concierge tells us how to walk there. Jessica gives him a brilliant smile and he blinks and smiles back like it’s something he’s not used to doing, and we head out into a cold but sunny afternoon.
“How did you know about Macy’s?” Jessica asks.
“It’s a New York institution,” I say. “Of course we have to go to Macy’s.”
“You could have shared that with me,” she says and I realize I have somehow embarrassed her but then she is a teenager so I embarrass her about ten times a day. “You need to communicate,” she tells me, marching down the street.
“I’ll do better,” I tell her. “You’re going to have to turn right at the light.”
So we brave the Macy’s shoe department, and I do mean brave, and I score the most excellent pair of boots. Jess seems somewhat shaken by the experience, and we retreat to the coffee shop for hot chocolate and a chance to recover.
No one else in New York is wearing a peach sweater, I notice. Jess has a dark sweater on, and I am the only island of color in the sea of shoppers. I think this is how you get spotted as a tourist.
