Let me set the scene: It’s December 2005, and my mom has declared we’re “taking a personal day.” School can wait. My grandparents are tucked away in the Berkshires, so we hijack their apartment on 89th and York, drop our bags and step out into the city. Outside, Manhattan feels like a snow globe that’s just been shaken: steam rising from subway grates, taxi lights smearing across wet pavement, the faint jingle of a Salvation Army bell echoing down Madison Avenue.
My mom, my sister and I lock arms in bundled coats and wool scarves. My dad trails a few paces behind with a folded Times, calling out, “Where to first, Jaim?” Mom doesn’t even look back. “Take a wild guess.” We all know what that means: Ralph Lauren.
From the street, the store looks like a Christmas card—limestone façade draped in garland, navy awnings taut as ribbons, brass lanterns flickering beside evergreen wreaths. Inside, it smells of pine, tobacco and polished mahogany. The staircase is wrapped in tartan ribbon, red velvet bows dangle from chandeliers and the mannequins wear tweed blazers like guests at a Scottish dinner party. Bing Crosby croons faintly through the speakers while crystal decanters catch the light like jewelry. My five-year-old sister’s making the sales associate sweat near the snow-globe display, Dad and I are sipping Ralph’s hot chocolate from the oversized leather club chairs and Mom’s somewhere upstairs, insisting she’s “just browsing”—though we all know she’ll leave with something plaid.













