Good Hunting

A treasure from Ecesri Flea Market which I’ll write about soon.

Thrifting is one of the joys of my life. It’s such an adventure, to walk into a shop full of castoff odds and ends and sift through the silt for buried treasure. Some treasure hunts are more successful than others, but that’s just part of the joy of the thing. I’m always on the lookout for the next good find, and Budapest has been topnotch in the good finds department.

Budapest itself has mostly second hand or vintage clothing with loads of antique stores proper lining a street by the Danube a block from the Parliament. Antiques don’t generally lend themselves to thrifting on a budget, so real time antiquing isn’t really my scene. That being said, I just may spring out of said budget for real opera glasses because every antique store that I’ve ventured gingerly into has them in spades, and I need to cement my theatre going ensemble a la the Dowager Countess while I have the chance.

Clothing-wise, I have had tremendously good luck. Quality forever beats out quantity, especially since eventually all of my treasures will have to fit into our suitcases to return to the United States, so thrifting isn’t a no holds barred endeavor these days. Still, I will forever be tickled absolutely pink with a real fur coat that I found at a thrift store down the street. It’s called Cream. It’s small. There’s no homegoods section, which is usually a significant knock, but that shortcoming has long since been forgiven since Cream once housed the greatest treasure of my thrifting career thus far.

Let me set the scene: a Saturday in October, before the temperature really dropped. I was rummaging around the clothing racks absentmindedly, just getting a lay of the land. I think I had one headphone in with a true crime podcast playing in the periphery of my consciousness. I thrift for clothes half by sight and half by feel. If an item feels like it’s made of chintzy material, I pass it up. But if something feels like quality, I stop.

The coat section was intriguing to me in October, because the romance of pulling out warm clothes for the first time that year hadn’t worn off. (Note how by March, the scarf and glove sparks are decidedly gone). I was in the coat section that October Saturday, flicking past puffer coats, oversized tweeds, and synthetic fur, when suddenly my hand swept across something so soft I did a double take. I stopped, pushed the coats away from either side, and pulled out: the coat. It slipped deliciously off the hanger and into my hands. It was lined in silk, with clever little clips buried in the fur and gorgeous buttons on each sleeve. There was no tag. Even without googling, “how can you tell if a coat is made of real fur,” I knew it was real. I checked the pricetag and did the forint to dollar conversion in my head. I tried it on—walked around in it—took a picture, then another—texted friends—called my husband—hemmed and hawed: the whole 9 yards that usually happen on the edge of an edgy purchase. Would I look like a Disney villain wearing a fur coat in 2024? Would I look like my Grandmother? Was I confident enough for that? Did I have the courage?

I’ll spare you the painstaking details of the whole ordeal in which I decided I would leave the store to reflect on said purchase and come back later. That was a rookie mistake, the kind of thing that veteran thrifters can only shake their heads at. To no one’s surprise but mine, I did come back later only to find that the coat was gone. Cue despair and a long and angry lecture (from myself to myself) on the importance of seizing the moment. I went on a run to clear my head, which at that moment was replete with disgust at my utter naivete. I’d let the white whale slip through my fingers—released him back into the ocean of clothes racks on the promise that he’d swim back when I felt like returning. What rubbish. And to add insult to injury, every single person I passed on the long and lonely metro ride to Margaret Island had on some piece of fur—a stole, a hat, a coat, even. They were all conspiring to remind me of what I’d lost, I was sure of it. What a horror show.

If the story didn’t end happily, I would be too embarrassed to admit that I made a third trip to the thrift store that day. On my run, I gave myself a stern talking to on the virtue of gratitude. I listed the many things I was grateful for that day. I even managed a wry grin—the dour precursor to a laugh—at my own expense. The sour grapes phase was nearly a thing of the past. They were indeed sour, and the twinges would come when I thought I’d swallowed the last of them. But I found a new equilibrium in which I lived a long and happy life without the beautiful coat, and the beautiful coat lived a long and happy life in some other lucky girl’s closet. And then, once the sun had set, I just chanced by the thrift store one more time. I had no hopes, no vain illusions, just some piquant curiosity about what I might have overlooked while I was agonizing over the coat that was no more.

I pretended I wouldn’t look in the coat section—and of course, that was all just a tall tale I told myself on the way in the door. Of course I looked. But the ocean of puffers and synthetic wool remained, a still pond with nary a ripple or a whisper of my beloved coat. “Oh well,” I thought, “You’re no poorer than you were this morning.”

To console myself, I kept walking listlessly flicking through the sweater section, then the skirts. I’d been there before but I hadn’t really given them my full attention. I forced myself to slow down and concentrate on the pretty patterns. “That one wasn’t so bad, was it,” I thought, “paired with a black sweater I could…”

Hey Presto Jackpot! There she blows! The coat was there, as if by magic, tucked far back in the rack, just a hairs breadth away from escape!

In a twinkling, I’d grabbed my prize and dashed to the cash register, chuckling with ill-contained glee. I kept chuckling all the way home, and I kept right on chuckling at my great good luck for the rest of the night. I blessed all the ornery people that I’d glowered at earlier, wrapped in furs that were nowhere near as nice as mine. Sour grapes indeed! And I made sure to dance and shout to make sure my husband was fully aware of how lucky he was that I’d made such a good purchase—ahem, investment—in our future. He was delighted, as I’m sure you can imagine.

I fancy myself some kind of Mark Twain, as I’m sure you can tell, lacing Melville, Aesop, and 101 Dalmations together in my very own trademark edition of Yankee Overseas. I think the coat has literary powers that I’m just now tapping into. Or maybe I’m still a little sick. Give me some modicum of tolerant grace, and I’ll be back to a more serious brand of essay in the not-too-distant future.

The Hungarian State Opera House and my prized white whale.