Escaped: Juliet's beaded lost French cape
Not many people hold on to a favorite piece of clothing and regularly wear it for over twenty years. Had I known that I was flirting with the law of averages and perhaps even Fate herself, I would have guarded my black, woolen cape with the vigilance it deserved.
I bought it in Bordeaux as a study abroad student, and it cost me almost as much as I paid for two weeks of the tepid to outright frigid restau-U food available to desperate students in the campus cafeteria. I was happy to forego the food; the cape had tiny, glistening black beads that had been hand-sewn on to each epaule and were then randomly and discreetly echoed down the front and at the hem. I wore it home from the boutique that night; every girl molecule in my body thrilled at the sight of the beads glimmering in the light of the streetlamps on the dark street that led to my cramped apartment.
The greatest endorsement was immediate. And it came from a young, male professor who had never spoken to me over the course of three months in his class. The first time I wore it to class he stopped mid-sentence while speaking to another student. “Tenez—comme vous faites chic dans cette cape!”
I wore it with everything and for years—with jeans, with long skirts, through my undergraduate years, three pregnancies. And then, during a move to a larger home to accommodate a growing family, the cape was mistakenly placed in a bag for charity. I’d like to say that I simply cried, but the loss was too bitter. I ranted. I raved. And I can taste that bitterness now just as clearly as I can see those French beads sparkling in the light of the streetlamps.
Juliet Hubbell
I bought it in Bordeaux as a study abroad student, and it cost me almost as much as I paid for two weeks of the tepid to outright frigid restau-U food available to desperate students in the campus cafeteria. I was happy to forego the food; the cape had tiny, glistening black beads that had been hand-sewn on to each epaule and were then randomly and discreetly echoed down the front and at the hem. I wore it home from the boutique that night; every girl molecule in my body thrilled at the sight of the beads glimmering in the light of the streetlamps on the dark street that led to my cramped apartment.
The greatest endorsement was immediate. And it came from a young, male professor who had never spoken to me over the course of three months in his class. The first time I wore it to class he stopped mid-sentence while speaking to another student. “Tenez—comme vous faites chic dans cette cape!”
I wore it with everything and for years—with jeans, with long skirts, through my undergraduate years, three pregnancies. And then, during a move to a larger home to accommodate a growing family, the cape was mistakenly placed in a bag for charity. I’d like to say that I simply cried, but the loss was too bitter. I ranted. I raved. And I can taste that bitterness now just as clearly as I can see those French beads sparkling in the light of the streetlamps.
Juliet Hubbell
Response from OMF
Such lovely writing, Juliet. Love "my body thrilled at the sight of the beads glimmering in the light of the streetlamps on the dark street" and that recurring image. Such a poignant tribute to the amazing piece of art that was your cape.
