Thrifty, Part 2

The difference between thrift shopping in Colorado and South Carolina is mainly in the type of clothing bargain one finds. While it is easy to snag a Lily Pulitzer dress at the Goodwill near Isle of Palms, in Colorado, it’s all about the outdoors and the cowboy look. So, like the Vikings hopping and sacking one community after another, as the rain set in each afternoon, we ventured to a new thrift store in the Durango area, hungry to lay claim to any hidden treasures we could find. By the end of our exploits, we hit at least seven stores, lugging off a heavy load of gems, including a $22 genuine leather jacket worth about $300 (I am so jealous of Rosa Marie), a(nother) cowboy hat for Hoffa, and my four dollar puffy vest.

After the Jailhouse, we stormed into the United Methodist Thrift store at 3:15 for our second plunder, where pillaging ensued. In half an hour, we seized all kinds of valuable goods from the racks. But we were cut short. I don’t know when stores started closing at 4 o’clock, but this one, probably manned by volunteers who made it very evident they were eager to listen to mountain music that night, were ready to go.

“Customers, please report to the cash register to make your final purchases.”

As they make this announcement, I am in the dressing room, and treat this appeal much like I do Mama’s calls for supper when I have not quite finished up with my work. Don't worry, I'll be there in five minutes.

Literally two minutes later, they are back on the loudspeaker. “The store is closing. Attention, the store is closing. It is time to go.”

Jesus, calm down old retired people. Not sure you could be too much more subtle there. I have one more dress to try on, and I’m probably going to buy it. Chill out a sec!

The dress was a go, and in a chaotic rush to make it out the door without physically receiving the boot, we all piled our findings on the checkout counter, helping  remove clothes from hangers and report price tags - none of which were over five dollars - to be manually entered into the register. All of our clothes were subsequently stuffed to the brim in a white kitchen-size trash bag. The rush worked in my favor, though; despite their meager price, I am not sure my padded spandex biker shorts would have made the purchase cut otherwise.

“How are we going to get all this stuff home?” Cain asked as we hauled our booty down the street.

It was a legitimate question, but I reassured him we would resolve that when the time came.

The spree continued. At one ten by thirteen foot sketchy hole in the wall, it may have been hard to navigate the piles of clutter, but if you found something good, it was practically free.

“Oh heck yes,” Georgia exclaimed as she pulled off an American flag blouse from one of the store’s two racks. “‘Murica forever.”

“Georgia, when are you ever going to where that?” I reprimanded.
“Ummm, basically to anything having to do with our country. Duh. I realized during the World Cup that I own nothing to display my ardent affection for my country.”

When Mama went up to pay for three shirts and a puffy Northface vest, the cashier-less cashier counted the items and said, “That’ll be five dollars. Plus forty cents tax.” He just stuffed the cash in his pocket, and I somehow doubt that forty cents will be submitted to the IRS. But hey, Georgia can now be patriotic, so I’m not complaining.

At Dunn Deal, another store selling more furniture and gear than clothing, I happened upon a pair of clip-in road bike shoes that fit my foot perfectly, and the price seemed right. I brought them over to my sisters for evaluation.

“You know, you should probably get a road bike before you get shoes,” Georgia suggested.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s just hard when I know I won’t find a deal like that back home…” Plus, I thought, I might as well complete that new biker outfit of mine.

I returned to put them back on the shelf, but the owner intersected my direction. After talking about the shoe brand, its fit, and the hardly worn, fantastic shape they were in, I began to cave.

“If you were my daughter,” he disclosed, “I would be announcing to you that we are spending getting those shoes. Thirty dollars on a pair like that is a steal.” Of course, he had a vested interest in me buying these shoes, but his advice seemed genuine, so I went for it. I really am hoping owning all of the gear, you know, minus the bike, will encourage me to hit the roads more seriously in the future. Or at least a few more spin classes.

After almost entirely disregarding price tags up to this point, our next stop to ReRuns made me gasp, literally. Thrift stores that identify themselves as “high-end second hand stores” are one of my biggest pet peeves, and this was one such boutique. Once that article of clothing is back on the market as “lightly worn,” those stingy store owners need to realize that it no longer matters that that sucker was once marked at $85. It is not anymore, so don’t go off trying to sell it for $40. I might have scoffed a little too loudly. “They don’t make dresses like this anymore,” the stylish and age-appropriately dressed older owner retorted. Yeah, just like you. You’re cramping my steal-a-deal style, grandma.

After a very chilly and under-dressed semester in DC, I have become an advocate for owning the right clothes for the weather. The down coat I splurged for in Italy was one of my wiser purchases, and it kept me toasty for half a year plus a backpacking trip…and then it began to stink. Although I carefully researched proper washing methods for such gear, all that was left after the light tumble dry with tennis balls was a clumpy, featherless heap of nylon and a despondent owner. I already missed its squishy, body-heat trapping attributes, and I longed for another one.

Over the past few years, I have almost entirely converted to consignment stores, where my shopping has become economically frugal, though perhaps quantitatively excessive. In my experience, I have learned that you will likely be disappointed if you go in searching for a particular item. You just have to survey what is available, and let the right clothes and their beautiful prices find you. Still, with every door we entered, I had my eye out for that down coat. Day by day, we began to exhaust the host of thrift stores in Durango. Each time we entered a new shop, I searched for it; I just felt like I was going to find it – somewhere on a rack it would be hidden from the masses, just waiting for me, the destined second owner. But as the week progressed, that fate seemed increasingly less likely.

So I must confess, having been let down by my search for that ten dollar down coat, there is one exception to my stingy sprees. I’m a sucker for outdoor clothing brands. Marmot, SmartWool, Chaco, and so many other overpriced, Made in America, lifetime warranty rugged companies, you’ve got me. I consciously guard against this weakness by only entering REI or Half-Moon Outfitters when I do not have money. I did have money in Durango, though, and I did mosey into one of those local outfitting stores to happen upon the perfect down coat, and by the end of the week, after a thorough investigation of online prices and a daily visit to the same sale rack, I did, of course, crack. It was sixteen times more than the envisioned price tag, but that charcoal black, thirty percent off Patagonia was calling my name. Following a week’s worth of cheapskate shopping, I splurged on something that will not lose its European goose down, and I am glad I did.

After shopping almost everyday, our trip came to a close. To solve the predicament Cain addressed from the very beginning, we returned to Dunn Deal to buy a seven dollar suitcase; it is only fitting that our thrifty finds be packed in a reused item. We crammed and kicked and stood on top of our luggage to zip it up, but we successfully returned home with all of our thrift booty, and we made the most of our rainy afternoons. Our wallets are a little emptier, our drawers a little fuller, but I would say that a combination of Caesar’s famous phrase and our family trip Instagram hashtag #ComptonsConquer applies quite well to our thrifty ways. 

We came to Colorado, we saw the sights, we conquered the thrift stores.

And now, if you have made it this far, you may be entertained by a just-shy-of-fifty item inventory of our ridiculous thrift store purchases.

Hoffa

Mud Doc Boots

Hat

Braided belt

Flannel shirt

Nice heavy jacket – barber-esque

Leather Cowboy hat

Baseball cap – 50 cents

Tie – 70 cents

Tassled Loafers

Mama

Gray Shirt

(With the caveat that she doesn’t need USA shirts and joke Jerry jackets.)

She is a minimalist. We could probably take a lesson from her.

Jessica

Patagonia down coat

Patagonia thermal shirt

Brooks long-sleeved running shirt

Yellow V-neck

White long-sleeved shirt

Lucky shirt

Gray dress

Bike shirt, shorts, and shoes

Puffy vest

Heavy pea coat

Colorado t-shirt

Georgia

USA vest

Jerry jacket

USA shirt

Gray striped shirt

Patterned belt

2 white shirts

Black shirt

Baseball cap

Rain boots

Denim shirt

Rosa Marie

Great western rocky mountain brass band festival, 2004 (what?)

Green beaded belt

Leather jacket

Floral dress

Hawaiian shirt

Fancy white going out shirt

Brown Native American Shirt

Blue jean dress

Nike shorts

Cain

Pullover sweater

Vest

2 t-shirts

Canvas Coat

Thrifty, Part 1

When most people travel, it’s common for them to pick up a few souvenirs along the way. Indeed, my two knick-knacks after ten fun days in Durango include a metal Native American bracelet, a new bumper sticker on my Nalgene, and a Colorado state flag patch to add to my collection. Upscale shoppers in Milan or New York may even need an extra bag on the return flight to pack all of their new chic outfits. But we did not spend ten days in one of the world’s great shopping centers. We were in the Four Corners region of the United States, where tourists flock to the many National Parks and Forests, the more adventurous taking part in outdoorsy activities like climbing and mountain biking, the less simply enjoying the area’s geographic diversity, ranging from towering mountains and giant evergreens to barren clay desert and deep canyons.

And we did do a little bit of both of those. Every morning we woke up early, attempting to get out the door at a respectable hour. We are a distracted, dawdling group, though, so our departure usually ended up being around 10 a.m. But eventually we got out, and each day, we checked off an excursion: taking the tourist-obligatory Durgano-Silverton Narrow Gauge railroad train, hitting several hiking trails, horseback riding, exploring ancient 1,600 year-old cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde, soaking in natural hot springs, and bike riding.

And though we did all of those things, we still had to check a whole extra suitcase of garments we picked up during our stay in South Colorado. It weighed in at 28.7 pounds. This is how the thrift store shopping escapade started.

Despite being in a several-year-long drought, we arrived during Colorado’s monsoon season, and the rains came consistently almost every afternoon. Like clockwork, we knocked out an activity in the morning, and then we prepared for the mass of converging clouds ominously darkening before us to empty themselves. They did. And what does a cheap family of six on vacation do in the rain? Plunder Colorado’s abundant thrift stores inundated with expensive outdoor brands of course.

The first time was actually a mistake. Compton family plans almost always go awry, and that is probably because we don’t have too much of a plan to begin with. On the second day of our trip, we decided to go biking. It was mid-morning, and all the bikes had already been checked out for the day. Ohmagoshhhh, I think to myself. I can just forsee this becoming a recurring pattern for the rest of our time here. Okay, regroup.

“Mama, we better go book that train ride,” I urged. “I don’t want to miss it because we didn’t reserve tickets in advance.”

The Silverton Narrow Gauge railway has been running between Durango and Silverton since 1882, and steam engines that are now almost one hundred years old still carry over 160,000 passengers a year. During a round trip seven hour ride, over six tons of coal and ten thousand gallons of water are used every day as the train chug-a-chug-a-choo-choos its way through the San Juan National Forest[1]. Given the monsoons we had already learned to expect, it is ideal to take the train in the morning and bus back. At the station, we asked to book a morning train ride for the next day. Full. Saturday? Sorry. Sunday? Nope. Any time in the next week?!

“I’m sorry,” the cashier dressed in a conductor’s uniform responded. “For six people, it looks like that won’t be possible. You can take the bus now and the train in the afternoon, though.”

Hoffa can be a little impulsive, so without much consulting, he decided that we would go now; the bus departed in an hour.

Now, had we booked these tickets online ahead of time, we would have been able to reserve a morning train and not even worry about the weather. And had we done that, and happened to mysteriously be really on our A game, we may have even checked out the FAQ page, where it reports that “Mountain weather in Colorado is often unpredictable. Wearing layers of clothing that you can remove or add as the temperature changes will add to the enjoyment of your journey.” But, you know, that is a bunch of “if”s that never transpired. So Hoffa and my siblings went back to the house to grab the GoPro, while Mama and I puttered around the downtown shops. Which turned out to be just one more bad idea. When we re-convened for the bus ride, Mama asked where the rain coats were.

“We didn’t pack any coats.”

“David. We are taking an open-window gondola at three o’clock in the afternoon, just in time for the rain to start. We’re going to freeze!”

A Mama reprimand is at the top of Hoffa’s metaphorical “Avoid at All Costs” list. In typical Compton fashion, we boarded the bus transporting us through 14,000 foot mountain views and deep valley gorges completely unprepared. So, upon arriving in Silverton - a small, notoriously lawless town of bandits and prostitutes during the American Gold Rush – what was the first thing we did during our mere three hours in town? We headed straight to the Jailhouse Thrift Store, a dilapidated shack which actually used to be the town jail back in 1883. Thirty minutes of scouring the store and six warm layers later, we were prepared to weather the expected storm in style.

The Jailhouse saved Hoffa from the doghouse, and we walked out with an over-sized silver hip-hop coat with the monogram “Jerry,” an authentic button-up flannel (frockets and all), a tan canvas cargo coat reminiscent of a U.S. army uniform, a heavy pea coat that could keep one insulated through a Chicago winter, and a horizontally patterned knitted wool pullover. While we were at it, we may have also picked up a pair of burnt-sienna rainboots, a ghetto baseball hat, a New Mexico-style beaded belt, and a Lucky brand shirt. While most items were only a few dollars, it took some serious restraint to abstain from buying a $30 pair of climbing shoes, which, though ideally I would like to use, in reality I knew I probably would not. I think we also met the week’s store quota on sales, all benefitting Silverton’s local radio station.

And thus it began – the thrift shopping escapade of the 2014 Durango family adventure. The Colorado thrift store saga continued on. Check in soon to read what ensued.

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[1] http://www.durangotrain.com/faqs#.U-bjpfldWSo

A Scheming Neck

In “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” one of my go-to movies, the Portokalos family obnoxiously clings to their Greek roots while living in America. Toula, the first grown daughter to dare to date an American, struggles to keep the peace with her ultra-traditional, over-protective father. In one scene when Toula is particularly upset with her father’s stubbornness, her mother encourages, “Let me tell you something, Toula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

Though I (very fortunately!) do not have a family quite as crazy as Toula’s, Mrs. Portokalos’ wisdom holds true.  Even as we grow up, Hoffa is clearly the head of our household; he leads us, generously provides for us, and does not hesitate to discipline when necessary. But, there is also no question who is determining the Comptons’ direction.

You see, my mother is a schemer.

When she and Hoffa got married, they talked about taking a trip around the world. The Comptons are notorious for talking, rather than doing, but about a year later, a 27-year-old Mama confronted him.

“Alright, David, are we taking this trip, or what? Because if not, it’s time to start having a family.”

Hoffa responded with little hesitation. “Uhhhh, I think we’ll take that trip.”

She came home the next day announcing that she had given her two-week’s notice at work, which I think surprised Hoffa a little. The reality that they would soon be strapping on their backpacks began to set in.

So they went. The three-ring binder photo albums Mama meticulously scrapbooked from their four and a half months of travel provided hours of entertainment in my childhood, and the stories my parents share from that trip continue to humor and inspire me. While riding mopeds in Greece, Mama shocked Hoffa by intentionally jumping off as he approached a bend in the road, thinking he surely would have turned by now if he were going to. When virtually everyone speaks a foreign language, English-speaking travelers, different as they may be, begin to stick together. Along the way they connected with a loud New York Yankee and a sensible, witty South African. 

With the Berlin Wall still just recently crumbled, they tramped through and enjoyed inconceivably low prices in Eastern Europe. After they figured out that nodding one’s head in Bulgaria means “no,” and shaking means “yes,” La Crème was a highlight. While most guests were in their formal wear and officers donned their full uniform,  the American dollar in the my parents’ blue jean pockets more than compensated for their grungy backpacker appearances. With a string quartet playing in the background, they dined over a five-course meal, caviar included, for seven dollars. Understandably, they went back the next evening, still wearing the same clothes.

After the return of three very drunk men to the hostel room they were all sharing late one night, Mama got so put out that she abandoned them the next morning and began walking through Budapest’s grand, Soviet-influenced streets alone. Given her shockingly poor sense of direction and having no way to reach her, Hoffa was not sure he would ever see her again. Welp, it was nice being married I guess. She eventually made her way back, because they went on to marvel at the ruins of Ephesus in Turkey, bop through Germany and London, soak up the heavy mist of Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls, and in South Africa, almost were charged both by an elephant in Kreuger Park and baboons in Capetown. They finished off their last month in the tropics, snorkeling off the Great Reef, enjoying every gratifying lick of fresh blackberry ice cream in New Zealand (they still talk about it today), and settling right in to island life in Fiji and Hawaii.

Obviously, that was the trip of a lifetime, but when the Compton kids were old enough, the tradition was resurrected. Mama’s schemes continued, employing her ability as the “neck” to move the “head” toward destinations all over the world. Using credit card points for the flight and often staying with friends, it was economically feasible to travel together. In 2007, aged 14, 12, 10, and 8, the Compton Clan ventured over to Ireland “to visit our first cousins.” While waiting for a layover at the Newark airport, the accent was already so different that Cain asked, genuinely curious, “What language do they speak here?” Needless to say, the even more distinct Irish accent was a challenge for him to understand. Though it was great visiting family, we only saw them for two days, and we spent three weeks in the United Kingdom… The first week, we stayed at the Sandy Field, the humble extra cottage of some family friends located on the strand of Sligo Bay in Northern Ireland.

The modest table inside only seats three people, so we ate dinner atop a blanket on the grassy knoll everyday. 

After a second week in Killarney, we took a ferry to England and were guests at Dean’s Court, a different friend’s manor inherited generations ago after the Catholic church’s property was divided in the aftermath of the Reformation. Everything about that first trip, from the plane ride to the pubs to driving on the other side of the road, was new and exciting.

Almost every summer since then, Mama has made it a priority to whisk the family away somewhere, instilling a love of travel in each of us and allowing us to spend quality time together in the absence of distractions. As we grow up, these trips are also her plot to keep the family together. So far, it's working.

2008: California (San Francisco, Yosemite)

2009: Return to Sligo County, Ireland

2011, January: Cross Country Skiing in Bend, Oregon with the Hayes Family

2012: British Columbia (Whistler & Vancouver)

(and celebrating Canada Day!)

2013: Nosara, Costa Rica

And now, here we are, in the present, just over twenty-four hours into our ten-day 2014 adventure in Durango, Colorado.

We flew into Albuquerque and stopped for lunch at El Pinto, a family-owned restaurant with a 1,000 guest occupancy capacity. The rental car woman (who probably got a kickback) recommended it, and she gave us a coupon for free appetizers, so we checked it out. El Pinto is one of those places that has framed pictures of famous people like Katy Perry and the presidents and Gabriel Iglesias all over the walls. Maybe it is a tourist place, but the ingredients were fresh, and the ambiance authentically southwestern. It also has a full-blown salsa factory in the back, making over 25,000 jars a shift. After trying my first Chile Rileno, I relaxed under the giant pergola laced with ivy, enjoying the gentle breeze and the absolute lack of humidity. 

"Y'all! We're on vacation! Gahh, I love you. I'm so happy to be with you."

I am notorious for these random outbursts of joy. I just have this uncontrollable desire to verbalize the obvious, to declare my affection or gratitude for the abundant goodness around me. They all laugh and roll their eyes. "Oh, Jessica, there you go again."

But it's true. We are so blessed, and though we have all been living under the same roof in Charleston this past summer, it's inevitable that we disperse to our individual daily to-dos at home. Here, the focus is on each other.

"You know, we really have a good time when we're forced to be together," Mama points out.

"Yeah, especially when we put our phones up," I respond. "Now where is my phone?"

The powerful smart device we each keep by our side really is the primary distraction from full-throttle family time. Well, yeah, our various phone apps, and also the Lego Movie. I kid you not. After lunch we stopped by a Red Box, and what do we watch on the four hour road trip to Durango? As we drive blindly by an unfamiliar landscape of distinct mesas bulging out of New Mexico's dry, bushy savanna? The Lego Movie. Yep. And my siblings have been bursting out singing "Everything is awesome!" ever since. The only thing potentially worse than that movie was the number of times we had to roll down the windows due to the rear sides of select culprit siblings. It must have been the Mexican cuisine at lunch, I'm not sure, but some of that gas was downright potent. 

Mama took her scheming to a new, wonderfully frugal level this year. We signed up for Home Exchange, and the people whose house we are residing in are currently staying at ours back in Charleston. From the back porch, just beyond a bit of suburbia, there is an incredible view of a sharp, jagged-top mountain, stretching hundreds, if not thousands, of feet above the cowboy hat and boot struttin' locals of downtown Durango. As for altitude, we are adjusting. The single beer that feels like 1.5 beers at this height is a plus, but not compared to the lack of oxygen I am fighting. In the brisk, sixty degree morning weather (sixty degrees!), Georgia, RoRie, and I ran for a bit. Ten minutes in, my body was just fine, but my lungs were not. It was like they had forgotten how to work and little needles were threatening to poke all around them. I would breathe in as much as I could, and the oxygen just would not be enough.

I am not alone, though. Today we also hiked the short but precipitous trail just outside our house, and 59-year-old Hoffa took it like a champ. After we decided that all Compton trips forevermore will be tracked with the hashtag #ComptonsConquer, Hoffa kept brainstorming. As he caught up to us huffing, he announced he had another hashtag idea.

"How about...[deep inhale, heave of breath] #ChildrenPonderParentalProperty...andPerhaps...PursuePatrocide...astheyProceed...TowardthePrecipice."

"Yeah, hashtags don't really work like that, Hof, but good alliteration. We'll try not to kill you on this hike."

It always takes a little while for the Comptons to settle in somewhere. We have failed for seven years straight to do any significant advance research before a trip, so we spend the first day or so checking out the area and lounging around the house. A few years ago, my frustrations over our inability to get going before noon almost ruined my whole experience, but we have found a balance. This morning Mama and I hashed out a list of things we would like to do while we are here to go forth with a bit of purpose.

I doubt we will accomplish everything, but I am already satisfied with our goals, and I bet we will check off over three quarters of the list. While it still takes several more hours than I prefer to rally ourselves out the door, I have since learned to content myself with the rhythm of vacation, slowing down and filling my need for productivity with writing, reading, praying, and running. 

Most of all, I am thankful for this precious time with the people I love the most. Twenty-three years after my parents ventured on their trip around the world, the legend continues. Though the novelty of riding planes may have worn off since 2007, I treasure these trips we share, especially now that their future is hazy. With the uncertainties that accompany post-graduation, the annual Compton family adventure may begin to disintegrate, losing members to full-time jobs and the responsibilities of adulthood. Hopefully we can still keep it going, but for now, I will appreciate these past seven years, and I will enjoy the present. Thank you, Hoffa, the head of our house, for taking five other people around the world on your dime. Thank you, Mama, for being the neck to turn him toward an annual Compton adventure. May Durango be fun and memorable, and may the travel schemes continue!