lol I got that coat for my daughter.. its rather roomy..and I think it goes up to size 13-14 (years)so Naiala you should look in the kids section..maybe it'll fit ? I was actually contemplating doing that mysefl, because it is a super nice coat.. but I dont want to be too matchy with my daughter..I bought this coat in a large size and it's so nice too......I'm gonna dress like this little girl...
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monidoll4u
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yeah...I got the biggest size 13-14 years old......I'm normally a size small...
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manekenkica
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I’ve just placed my first online order in Zara’s site 
. I’ve been looking for a white satin tank top for a while now and couldn’t resist buying this one 
, it’s from TRF section so I’m not sure about the quality of the fabric and haven’t been able to find it in store. Does anybody have it? How the texture feels like? Is it see through?
Picture: www.zara.com
. I’ve been looking for a white satin tank top for a while now and couldn’t resist buying this one , it’s from TRF section so I’m not sure about the quality of the fabric and haven’t been able to find it in store. Does anybody have it? How the texture feels like? Is it see through? 
Picture: www.zara.com
greengrassia
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i bought this scarf the other day. thought 50 euros was quite pricey for a zara scarf, but it feels so soft & comfy...and i can't stop wearing it ever since...so it's a worthy purchase, i guess...btw, i don't see many things i like there, the majority is just a bit too trendy for my taste.
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FleurDeLys
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I bought this coat in a large size and it's so nice too...
zara.com pic
I just saw this in my Zara and thought: when I have more time I have to try this coat! It's such a beautiful coat, I hope it'll fit me too!monidoll4u
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I know...it's cheaper too...
...
it's last season. but they have something very similar now. I think it's actually the same fabric but part of it is leopard and part is just plain brown
I missed the one you posted last year so I think I'm gonna get the new version instead.
greengrassia
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yeah, me too! indoors i wear it as a shawl to keep me warm.
FleurDeLys
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Tried on the nice coat from the kids' section today. Didn't buy it. It's a really beautiful coat but it made me look wider than I am. It did nothing for my figure 
.
.FleurDeLys
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Yes, I'm sure it looks great on taller and slimmer people
.
.can anyone else relate to this story? nytimes.com
Chasing a Fast-Fashion Knockoff
By CHRISTINE MUHLKE
IT happens every season: the knockoff that sends me scrambling; the capsule collection that leads me on a treasure hunt, online and off; the bargain that I’m willing to fly overseas for. Logic has nothing to do with it.
I’m a pretty loyal shopper, favoring a handful of labels and getting my purchase(s) out of the way early in the season. Typically, I’d rather pay more for one good thing than a dozen lower-priced approximations, and I try not to spend much time in stores.
But something about the wave of you-snooze-you-lose collaborations between great designers and megastores has unleashed my competitive-shopping side. By selling limited editions, chains like Gap, Target and Wal-Mart have transformed something mass and inexpensive into a fashion badge of honor. I totally took the bait.
I stood in line for Karl Lagerfeld’s collection for H&M, clawing my way toward a pair of men’s jeans (not my size, nor that of anyone I know) and a weird choker. I don’t even like Karl Lagerfeld. I’ve organized SWAT teams to buy white Gap shirts by the likes of Phillip Lim. While on assignment to interview a man who sells heirloom beans in Napa, Calif., for the farming column I write, I went out of my way to visit Target in search of the Thakoon collection, the New York area having been wiped out. (Best score ever; I bought a second dress on eBay.)
Going far afield doesn’t always pan out. When I asked a clerk at a Wal-Mart in upstate New York where to find the Norma Kamali section, she squinted hard and said, “Guacamole?” “NOR-ma Ka-MA-li,” I moaned. “Let me see if she’s working today,” the woman said, reaching for her walkie-talkie.
And then there is the goose chase triggered when a fast-fashion chain climbs into your brain and reproduces the item you wanted for 90 percent less. Make that the item that everyone wanted. It can drive a woman to the most embarrassing distraction.
In March, I was biking the wrong way up Fifth Avenue, late to meet a friend for a birthday drink at the King Cole Bar, when the windows at Zara made me brake hard. The toffee-colored leather shorts. The wide pants. The silk tuxedo shirt that I was in the process of talking myself toward, even though the real one was $990 in the Barneys ad. (It would go on sale by July, I figured — what better time to wear a long-sleeve white silk blouse?)
Last spring, Phoebe Philo’s debut collection for Céline was that exciting. And, what was this? The knockout knockoffs were already in stores, like Pixar bootlegs being hawked opening week. I considered popping in, but I was already on borrowed time.
“Mind if I tweet?” I asked my friend before I’d sat down. “They’re knocking off Céline at Zara.”
Her eyes bulged. “That was fast.”
After drinks — which ended up being so expensive that the birthday girl insisted on paying — I zipped around the corner to the store, just before closing.
“Sold out,” the saleswoman told me, shaking her head. Not a five-inch platform clog sandal to be found.
Be calm. Think this through.
So began the shopping math: which Zaras would carry it, minus those that wouldn’t be shopped over by fashion-smart customers. The chase was on. The next morning I was at the lower Fifth Avenue store as they were unlocking the doors. They hadn’t gotten it yet. Before dinner the next night, I tried the SoHo location — the craziest — anyway. So busy! So gone. Lexington and 57th. Nope. I wished that I was in Paris, where the selection at Zara is so on trend (what career basics?), the location on the Rue Saint-Honoré — somewhere between the Lanvin men’s store and Colette — fits right in. Then I got so busy that I had to pull back: why was I chasing down clothes that would end up in my yard sale within two summers?
But when my husband and I finished plans for a belated honeymoon in Spain at the end of April, the drums of the hunt began beating again. Zara is a Spanish company. (Its owner, Amancio Ortega, is the ninth richest person in the world, according to Forbes. Tadashi Yanai, the founder of Uniqlo, is the richest person in Japan. So stop snickering at fast fashion.) We would be in Madrid for 18 hours. The Prado could wait: I was going to the mother ship.
In Seville, I pressed my face to the store’s glass during a midnight tapas crawl. In Granada, I did a pre-Alhambra drive-through. In the delightfully dated city of Córdoba, I dispatched my husband to the men’s floor while I hunted in vain. (And how cute are their children’s clothes?) Bring on Madrid.
By the time we arrived in the capital, I was flu-y and dizzy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through the Prado, which my husband and I had been looking forward to all week. When I woke up from my nap, he presented a map of the city, on which the concierge had marked all of the nearby Zaras, including the biggie. (Thank you Hotel AC Santo Mauro.)
“If I’m not back in two hours, send the police,” I said, rousing myself to look for a subway map. Sick and unable to speak Spanish, I was gone before I could be stopped.
I tried the closest location first. As soon as I walked in, I could see the tuxedo shirt glowing from the wall. I began to sweat. They had it a size up and a size down, but not in my size. Neither was quite right. But the cut was indeed good, and the silk looked almost luxurious. I think it was 89 euros, about $115. Not exactly a whim. Everything else in the store looked kind of trashy and cheap, tight and bedazzled; nothing like I imagined based on my Parisian experiences. There was only one thing to do.
Somehow I made it to the megastore on the Gran Vía, which is kind of like Times Square crossed with 34th Street. Even though it was siesta time — wait! Would it be open? — I was crowd-surfed to the front door. The lights were bright, the music 2,000 beats per minute. The layout was completely different than that of American Zaras, which meant that the “prestige” area wasn’t where I expected it to be. In a nauseated haze, I covered two floors before I found the “Céline.”
They had everything. The leather shorts, the leather skirts, the shoes, the jackets and jumpsuits, not to mention a take on that great black-and-white sharp-shouldered Balmain jacket. I could buy it all and make my friends so happy. I could sell it on eBay and pay for my trip. I could do lots of things, except find that tuxedo shirt in my size. I tried the other sizes again, wishing I could speak enough Spanish to ask for an opinion. And then, dear reader, I turned around and left.
By the time I returned to the hotel, I’d gone through the cycle of emotions brought on by this kind of episode: shame, embarrassment. And relief.
The Prado was the real catch. My husband and I stood in front of John Singer Sargent’s “Daughters of Edward Darley Boit” for 10 minutes at a stretch, circling back to experience the awe anew. The white pinafores the little girls were wearing almost glowed, reminding me, for just a moment, of the real Céline shirt. But then the thought was mercifully gone.
Chasing a Fast-Fashion Knockoff
By CHRISTINE MUHLKE
IT happens every season: the knockoff that sends me scrambling; the capsule collection that leads me on a treasure hunt, online and off; the bargain that I’m willing to fly overseas for. Logic has nothing to do with it.
I’m a pretty loyal shopper, favoring a handful of labels and getting my purchase(s) out of the way early in the season. Typically, I’d rather pay more for one good thing than a dozen lower-priced approximations, and I try not to spend much time in stores.
But something about the wave of you-snooze-you-lose collaborations between great designers and megastores has unleashed my competitive-shopping side. By selling limited editions, chains like Gap, Target and Wal-Mart have transformed something mass and inexpensive into a fashion badge of honor. I totally took the bait.
I stood in line for Karl Lagerfeld’s collection for H&M, clawing my way toward a pair of men’s jeans (not my size, nor that of anyone I know) and a weird choker. I don’t even like Karl Lagerfeld. I’ve organized SWAT teams to buy white Gap shirts by the likes of Phillip Lim. While on assignment to interview a man who sells heirloom beans in Napa, Calif., for the farming column I write, I went out of my way to visit Target in search of the Thakoon collection, the New York area having been wiped out. (Best score ever; I bought a second dress on eBay.)
Going far afield doesn’t always pan out. When I asked a clerk at a Wal-Mart in upstate New York where to find the Norma Kamali section, she squinted hard and said, “Guacamole?” “NOR-ma Ka-MA-li,” I moaned. “Let me see if she’s working today,” the woman said, reaching for her walkie-talkie.
And then there is the goose chase triggered when a fast-fashion chain climbs into your brain and reproduces the item you wanted for 90 percent less. Make that the item that everyone wanted. It can drive a woman to the most embarrassing distraction.
In March, I was biking the wrong way up Fifth Avenue, late to meet a friend for a birthday drink at the King Cole Bar, when the windows at Zara made me brake hard. The toffee-colored leather shorts. The wide pants. The silk tuxedo shirt that I was in the process of talking myself toward, even though the real one was $990 in the Barneys ad. (It would go on sale by July, I figured — what better time to wear a long-sleeve white silk blouse?)
Last spring, Phoebe Philo’s debut collection for Céline was that exciting. And, what was this? The knockout knockoffs were already in stores, like Pixar bootlegs being hawked opening week. I considered popping in, but I was already on borrowed time.
“Mind if I tweet?” I asked my friend before I’d sat down. “They’re knocking off Céline at Zara.”
Her eyes bulged. “That was fast.”
After drinks — which ended up being so expensive that the birthday girl insisted on paying — I zipped around the corner to the store, just before closing.
“Sold out,” the saleswoman told me, shaking her head. Not a five-inch platform clog sandal to be found.
Be calm. Think this through.
So began the shopping math: which Zaras would carry it, minus those that wouldn’t be shopped over by fashion-smart customers. The chase was on. The next morning I was at the lower Fifth Avenue store as they were unlocking the doors. They hadn’t gotten it yet. Before dinner the next night, I tried the SoHo location — the craziest — anyway. So busy! So gone. Lexington and 57th. Nope. I wished that I was in Paris, where the selection at Zara is so on trend (what career basics?), the location on the Rue Saint-Honoré — somewhere between the Lanvin men’s store and Colette — fits right in. Then I got so busy that I had to pull back: why was I chasing down clothes that would end up in my yard sale within two summers?
But when my husband and I finished plans for a belated honeymoon in Spain at the end of April, the drums of the hunt began beating again. Zara is a Spanish company. (Its owner, Amancio Ortega, is the ninth richest person in the world, according to Forbes. Tadashi Yanai, the founder of Uniqlo, is the richest person in Japan. So stop snickering at fast fashion.) We would be in Madrid for 18 hours. The Prado could wait: I was going to the mother ship.
In Seville, I pressed my face to the store’s glass during a midnight tapas crawl. In Granada, I did a pre-Alhambra drive-through. In the delightfully dated city of Córdoba, I dispatched my husband to the men’s floor while I hunted in vain. (And how cute are their children’s clothes?) Bring on Madrid.
By the time we arrived in the capital, I was flu-y and dizzy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through the Prado, which my husband and I had been looking forward to all week. When I woke up from my nap, he presented a map of the city, on which the concierge had marked all of the nearby Zaras, including the biggie. (Thank you Hotel AC Santo Mauro.)
“If I’m not back in two hours, send the police,” I said, rousing myself to look for a subway map. Sick and unable to speak Spanish, I was gone before I could be stopped.
I tried the closest location first. As soon as I walked in, I could see the tuxedo shirt glowing from the wall. I began to sweat. They had it a size up and a size down, but not in my size. Neither was quite right. But the cut was indeed good, and the silk looked almost luxurious. I think it was 89 euros, about $115. Not exactly a whim. Everything else in the store looked kind of trashy and cheap, tight and bedazzled; nothing like I imagined based on my Parisian experiences. There was only one thing to do.
Somehow I made it to the megastore on the Gran Vía, which is kind of like Times Square crossed with 34th Street. Even though it was siesta time — wait! Would it be open? — I was crowd-surfed to the front door. The lights were bright, the music 2,000 beats per minute. The layout was completely different than that of American Zaras, which meant that the “prestige” area wasn’t where I expected it to be. In a nauseated haze, I covered two floors before I found the “Céline.”
They had everything. The leather shorts, the leather skirts, the shoes, the jackets and jumpsuits, not to mention a take on that great black-and-white sharp-shouldered Balmain jacket. I could buy it all and make my friends so happy. I could sell it on eBay and pay for my trip. I could do lots of things, except find that tuxedo shirt in my size. I tried the other sizes again, wishing I could speak enough Spanish to ask for an opinion. And then, dear reader, I turned around and left.
By the time I returned to the hotel, I’d gone through the cycle of emotions brought on by this kind of episode: shame, embarrassment. And relief.
The Prado was the real catch. My husband and I stood in front of John Singer Sargent’s “Daughters of Edward Darley Boit” for 10 minutes at a stretch, circling back to experience the awe anew. The white pinafores the little girls were wearing almost glowed, reminding me, for just a moment, of the real Céline shirt. But then the thought was mercifully gone.
I can somewhat relate to that feeling of wanting something so much more than you did originally just because they ran out of it. Then struggling so hard just to get it, only to feel disappointed when they order in extra deliveries of it that in the end ends up on sale. I hate it when that happens, because it almost always happen with high street fashion, it ruins the exclusivity of it.
Yes, I'm sure it looks great on taller and slimmer people
yes i am aware how stupid post it was
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