Caftan city

Tomorrow I’m taking Aunt Jean and Cousin Shona to a second-hand caftan sale. It’s for charity, so there are too many bonuses here to count. The sale takes place once a year, and I’ve been looking forward to it since I started hearing the rumours. On your marks, ready set GO at 10 am tomorrow, got to be quick and ready with the cash and price negotiation. So I’m told. I’ve done much research, obviously. Asked all my friends here, bored them stiff with images of what I want and harassed them with question after question. Even bought a 300-page caftan mag to check out the different styles (I’m looking for a gandoura, in case you’re wondering. Emerald green please) and made my aunt and cousin look through the WHOLE THING. I’m imagining those crazy wedding gown sales in NYC, where the brides-to-be all trample each other on the way to the knock off Vera Wang. So couture, much excitement.

A word about the caftan industry here: we’re talking big bucks. These frocks are hand-made, hand-embroidered, hand-bedecked with Swarovski shiny things. They’re long (made to wear with 6-inch heels) and they’re made of layers of  gorgeously expe-e-ensive materials. They have fancy, fancy, stiff, large belts to show off a narrow waist but elsewhere the fabric flows. They’re worn at events, at weddings, at soirées. They’re not to be worn more than a couple times (hence the second-hand sale, lucky me). Google image “caftans du Maroc” if you’re curious.

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