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Nina In New York: Our FAO Farewell Tour

A lighthearted look at news, events, culture and everyday life in New York. The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.
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By Nina Pajak

In July, FAO Schwarz will turn out its lights and shut its doors for the last time. It will pack up all the life-sized stuffed animals, the precious baby dolls and their elaborate suites of accessories, the rows and rows of crayons and Playmobil sets and superhero toys and costumes. I imagine someone will have to take apart the Lego Statue of Liberty, brick by brick. Those doormen dressed as tin soldiers will march on into the sunset. The famous giant piano will honk its last note. Barbie will have to gather up her pool party dreamscape, get in her convertible and ride off into the sunset (cardboard box). The dollhouses will all be shuttered and locked. The singing clock will go softly into that good night. Welcome to our world, welcome to our world, welcome to our world of . . . nothing. Forever.

Or, at least until they find a cheaper space than that famous corner of 59th and Fifth Avenue which they've occupied since the 1980s. But we all know it won't be the same. I think it's safe to say that New York isn't even for the rich anymore.

So, it was with that special kind of nostalgia-fueled, panicked melancholy in our hearts that my mother and I decided to bring my daughter for her first and likely last visit to this childhood mecca.

It was still pretty magical, I have to say. Though she's only two, my daughter entered and immediately began buzzing around the entry way like a pinball gone full tilt. She approached each section with the proper level of enthusiasm and reverence, as though we were touring a museum. And in a way, we were: a museum of commerce. And innovation. And plastic, and also of capitalism. The store is a cultural touchstone of MOMMY BUY THIS BUY THIS NO THIS HOW 'BOUT THIS CAN I HAVE THIS OR THIS OR THIS AND THIS? And somehow, it wasn't obnoxious. It was infectious.

We stomped on the big, "Big" piano, admired elaborate Lego villages, and dug our hands through bins of plush beasts and $20 apiece carved quartz angels (why?). We said hello to no fewer than fifty different stuffed doggies. I ate a lot of candy. My mother had a series of conversations about "what a shame it was" with employees whose reactions ranged from sad to politely sympathetic to "I was already looking for a new job, anyway." We saw toys that could spark a child's imagination, toys that were well made and well conceived, all of which we will likely never stumble upon in the virtual aisles of Amazon.com. My mom and I spent an embarrassing amount of time salivating over a set of miniature animal families and their elaborately designed and furnished dwellings. My daughter had no interest, but I was burning to buy one of those tiny, pastel wardrobes with its tiny, tiny hangers. Tiny hangers! You guys. Oh my god, that skunk has a teeny madeleine pan! YOU GUYS.

Yes, they are just objects. And yes, it's just a store. But there's something to that sense of discovery and wonderment FAO has cultivated that no other toy retailer has managed—or even attempted—to replicate. When was the last time you, the parent, felt your heart leap in the pink or blue aisle at Target? I've spent more time obsessively reorganizing the shelves there just to find something that wasn't obviously damaged than I have in my own home. As incontrovertible evidence of this notion, I offer you this: my daughter, who wants everything all the time everywhere, didn't actually care whether or not we bought her anything. She thought we were just there to run around and ooh and aah and hug giant animals. She'd pick things up and carry them around for a bit before forgetting, and I hastily agreed to get her a teddy bear as a kind of souvenir, but she didn't actually care. If I'd told her she'd be leaving with a door prize of the same crap we came in with, she'd have been fairly satisfied.

In the end, my mother and I had to pry ourselves away from the weentsy cat family and their grocery store, but contented ourselves with buying a remote control toy helicopter for my husband "who will definitely, definitely love it and need it."

All in all, a success. My kid won't remember it, but we have the photographs on the big piano and the lackluster teddy bear to prove it.

. . . and maybe a wee set of rabbit children who live in a wee treehouse and bathe in a wee ceramic clawfoot tub. Maybe. It's possible I've got one visit left in me.

Nina Pajak is a writer living with her husband, daughter and dog in Queens. Connect with Nina on Twitter!

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