Poaching a Prada

And now, I’d like to share a cautionary tale about buying knock-off handbags…I’m sure all the guys are yawning right now, but I almost get arrested in this one-  so hang in and read on.

Not too long ago, I had the gall to go on a Girl’s Trip to visit my friend in New York City.  As a rule, kids hate it when their schedules are messed with.  Woe to the parent that steps into their obsessive-compulsive, narcissistic, paranoid existence with Plans of Their Own.  The news will not go over well.  In fact, when we explained to our youngest that Mom was going to head out for a weekend of skulking through the East Village looking for designer treasures at not-to-be-believed prices, he responded with, “So,” hands on hips, “you’re going?  Well that’s GREAT! WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA EAT?!”  My teenaged daughter took the news much better.  I only had to cross my heart and hope to die that I’d bring her back “something designer, like Coco Channel.” Oh sure, no problem.  My other son just sort of grunted.

So off I go to New York City, wildly anticipating dirty martinis, complicated food, and my Big Designer Score.  My friend lives in Gramercy, so we tooled around that area, where I was very pleased to discover that designer shops do indeedy have racks of stuff they can’t sell to People with Taste.  Evidently, I do not have that problem, as I found a couple of very cute tops- one for me, one for my daughter- very attractively priced.  I overlooked the fact that they weren’t Channel and felt confident that I could placate my daughter with Pinkyotto. 

You know what? I wanted to get something Channel.  I wanted to knock her socks off.  She’s the greatest daughter on the planet and there isn’t one person who’s met her that doesn’t adore her.  My gal pals and I were discussing this very thing, when the idea of getting her a knock-off bag came up.  There are copycat purse vendors all over the place in the city, but according to my friend, the really GOOD stuff can be had in Chinatown.  There is, however, a catch; design houses don’t appreciate posers like me running around with their labels glued on to a bag I didn’t pay upwards of $400 for.  I can see their point, but I am the kind of girl who heaves handbags into the nearest corner floor space- I just can’t be trusted with nice things.  Design houses get so snarky about this issue, in fact, that they vehemently encourage the NYPD to shut down any knock-off vendors whose copies are a little TOO good.  The odds of getting busted (and having a decent story to tell later at parties) made the idea all the more compelling.

My friend explained the process to me on the subway heading to Chinatown; we would be greeted by “someone” asking us if we were looking for bags, then we were to follow them.  That’s it.  “How will we know them?  What will they look like?” I asked, all freaked out feeling very much The Rube from the Midwest.  “I have no idea… but we’ll know,” my friend replied. We were literally two steps into Chinatown when a tiny Asian woman in a black North Face jacket ran up and babbled, “Gucci?  Prada?  Louis Vuitton?”  When we said yes, she took off down the street like a cruise missile, and I realized as we skittered after her that there were Tiny Asian Women in North Face Jackets EVERYWHERE.  Matter of fact, one of them tried to boost us from the one we were following (which is very frowned upon, hence the 30 second squabble that ensued).  When we got to “The Place of Business” I saw nothing but cheesy watches and the same junk handbags everyone else had. My disappointment must have shown, because the TAW in the NFJ (I do hope no one minds the abbreviation- that is quite a lot to type) said, “WAIT!” and pressed a button under the counter, which opened a little door to a little room.  Talk about your High Adventure! WE’RE TALKING COLUMBO TIME HERE!  JAMES BOND AT THE VERY LEAST!  The little room contained The Mother Lode of bags. A quick haggle and display of cash netted me the coveted Channel messenger bag and a very festive Prada hobo number in taxi cab gold.  THEN… the TAW in the NFJ slammed the door and whispered, “Cops outside.”  COPS.   I’m about to wind up in some Women’s Prison upstate.  We suffered through two minutes of her frantic texting to the indifferent guy minding the stall outside, then she opened the door and let us out after the cop left. I’m sure the cop saw us as we bolted back to the subway, but he seemed far too busy yelling at no one in particular to run us down and bust us.    My daughter loved the bag, took it everywhere for 3 days, then relegated it to the hook on the back of her bedroom door where it remains today.  At least she takes care of her stuff; my yellow Prada is in a crumpled heap on my closet floor, right where I tossed it.  The damned label is coming off…

By the way; if you're not up for getting arrested, the site listed below seems to have some good stuff- but not nearly as cheap as the $25 per bag I paid for mine.

http://www.ireplical.net/