The Water Table | The Violet Drift
This summer my son Dylan and I headed north to Alaska—a bucket-list destination for both of us. And Alaska? She delivered on her promise—and then offered more.
Wild and untamed, she isn’t like the “lower 48.” The air is clean here—she smells crisp—green, wet, alive. The skies are bright, and they stay bright, dripping daylight well past the midnight hour. Skies so sunny and streaked with light, Dylan played golf past midnight. We took ocean-side journeys late into the night, soaking up the rays, remarking at the devastating beauty that is Alaska.
Because for all her ruggedness, she is beautiful—strong, unbroken in spirit. Dipped in green foliage so crisp, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Chocolate browns rich as a bear’s pelt, snow-capped mountain peaks, and violet light that never wanes, she is an impressionist’s dream.
And to meet her halfway, I brought some of my most trusted confidants—the kind who should always accompany you on your travels. But I, normally the consummate over-packer, determined to travel light this trip—only a carry-on and my trustworthy Louis Vuitton Neverfull—I, who packed four bags for a one night trip to Indy to watch Dylan graduate. But I was focused and a ruthless editor.
These are the ones who made the cut.
My battered Louis Vuitton, who joined me 18 years ago in her first life as a diaper bag when my youngest, Blake, was born, has dutifully carried her weight—and then some—on every trip since. She’s crossed oceans and cities with me, graceful—without complaint—which is more than I can say for some of my companions.
A curated crew of softened tees, broken-in denim, and a fringed cardigan—frivolous at first, secretly a hidden gem. Blanket, statement, and subtle flex. Worth her weight in gold. Even Dylan noticed—“You’ve literally worn that every day,” he said, amused.
A pair of violet velvet mules, a pair of boots, a few well-chosen beauty essentials. It wasn’t about doing without—it was about choosing with intention.
A curated color story with a voice all its own—soft but sure—gently guided every choice. “Violet,” it whispered. And I listened.
Dinner at The Crow’s Nest and Dylan’s first taste of caviar? Served with a silk pareo painted in periwinkle, terracotta, chocolate, and sand—bewitched by the dreamscape brushstrokes of Joanna Ortiz. She found her soulmate in a pair of violet Manolo mules. They were joined by Naked Cashmere’s Slyvie tank, a cloud-whisper beneath the Figue cardigan, accessorized with periwinkle-tinted Dior sunnies and Saint Laurent’s shearling pouch—the love child of Alaska and a polar bear, undoubtedly.
Orso for Italian? Complemented by Citizen’s horseshoe jeans, in a horse of a different color. They say copper, I say caramel—dyed perfectly for my color palette and a worthy dance partner for Vince’s dark peri short sleeve cashmere-blend sweater. And, of course, those velvet mules. Chef’s kiss.
During the day, I exchanged the Manolos for soft white sneakers, pairing them with a periwinkle legging set and a crisp white tech jacket from Hailey Bieber’s collab with Fila—layered not loud. A Ralph Lauren lavender hat, sunnies, and the Alaskan sun overhead. Not every moment needed Manolos.
Featherweight sweaters—Polo Ralph Lauren, Khaite, Vince—that layered like butter over soft white tees and tucked beneath tech jackets with leggings during the day and crushed boyfriend jeans at twilight. These were the pieces that earned their keep.
I didn’t bring much. But what I did bring, I wore like armor. Or maybe more like permission. To walk slower. To take in more. To be fully in it—just for a moment—before the drift carried us home again.
