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Today’s story is a tale of epic proportions, a journey fit for the storybooks. In England, they tell tales of mysterious garments known as ‘movement trousers.’ For centuries cryptoclothologists have debated the true nature of these secret slacks. When I studied abroad in London, I got a chance to try and pierce the shroud of secrecy. My dance teacher required us to find a pair of these clandestine chinos, and I couldn’t wait to take my shot. Armed with good weather on a Saturday morning, I set out on a quest for the ages. My good friend Abigail, also studying in London at the time, bravely answered my call for compatriots. She and I met at my campus (Heythrop College) and set off for a bit of museum-based enculturation before our expedition. First, we walked over to the Natural History Museum. Lots of dinosaurs (I love dinosaurs) and some really cool other stuff, including a first-edition Origin of Species and a vertical slice of a tree. Then over to the Victoria & Albert Museum, a labyrinth of plaster and paintings and porcelain (so much porcelain), where time slips away and you find yourself alone in the dusty upper reaches of the building five hours later. Finally, it was time to embark on our search for ‘movement trousers.’
Okay. I’m gonna take a little break from the narrative here to ask, really quick, what even are ‘movement trousers?’ I’ll say it’s not even one of those British terms that Americans just don’t know; I think it’s just something that Angela Hardcastle made up to try and illustrate what she wanted. Except that she’s a very particular woman and would normally set tight standards for any pants to be worn in her class, down to the fiber content. ‘Movement trousers?’ What the hell even are those? Our plan was to find a clothing store and browse their selections to see if anything fit that description. So we walked from the V&A back towards Heythrop to a Starbucks to pick up their wi-fi, ordered a coffee, and looked up various retailers. We settled a Marks and Spencer which was back past the museums. So back we went, retracing our steps as we went further afield. A half hour later, we arrived at the store—and discovered that M&S has a set of grocery-only stores. Somewhat doubtful that we’d catch our quarry among the Jaffa cakes and Marmite, we cut our losses and moved on. Our backup plan was to investigate Primark, the go-to place for all your class-act nylon sweaters and 120% synthetic comforters emblazoned with the Union Jack. We set forth from Marky Mark’s through the streets of Kensington and Chelsea, back past the museums to the British Palace of Mediocrity. We arrived at our destination at 6:15 local time—a quarter hour after it had closed. All our efforts had been in vain. Our quest had failed. We drowned our sorrows in sandwiches at Pret a Manger. We had to eat on a windowsill because they had no more seats. It was just that kind of day.
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