About three weeks ago, I was wandering around the yacht-cabin-like bowels of Rugby, the Franklin Street store also known as the mecca of gratingly WASPish attire. Immediately deemed sartorially unclean (thank you, ripped jeans), I escaped the notice of the gratingly WASPish salespeople, one of whom was instead turning her attention to a 50-something, blond-bobbed woman shopping for her daughter.
"There certainly are quite a few items on sale," said Anna Wintour's long lost American twin, rifling through Nantucket reds.
"Yes, well, we're closing on March 10," the salesgirl replied casually, stacking cashmere cable-knit crewnecks.
"What?!" cried the woman, stricken. "What ever shall I do this summer, when I need a seersucker blazer with silk-tie lining and pink skull-and-crossbones embroidered all over it? Surely, I shall perish!"
(.Actually, she didn't really say the last part. But I bet she would have, if the salesgirl hadn't promptly replied.)
"Leasing this building is pretty expensive, and we don't get enough traffic during the week. On the weekends, sure, but other times, not so much," the girl said.
I listened quietly to all of this. Two years ago, I covered Rugby's grand opening for this paper's arts and entertainment section. Now, I was bearing witness to its early departure-its very, very surprising early departure.
To retrogress for a second: Rugby was conceived of as the younger, hipper, more athletic son of luxury American sportswear company Polo Ralph Lauren. It does not have an online counterpart, and its stores-purposefully located only in college towns like Georgetown, Boston and Charlottesville-market a lifestyle just as tenaciously as they market their signature pique cotton. There are posters of sailing teams and worn badminton racquets; there are beat-up leather suitcases and vintage prep school patches everywhere. Exactly the vibe you'd expect, I suppose, from the design team selected to swath the officials at last summer's Wimbledon.
Everything about Rugby's vision and its execution pointed to success in the South. There are certainly more occasions for which seersucker and sundresses are appropriate in North Carolina than in Greenwich. And there's the small matter of all the masses of pearl-loving prepsters and conservative dressers walking around these parts. So despite the store's occasionally questionable wares-Grandma's floral sofa upholstery fashioned into cheek-baring mini-skirt, anyone?-the overall brand seemed a guaranteed fit for Chapel Hill.
So why the flop?
Anyone who follows Chapel Hill urban planning knows that store closures and reshuffling businesses on the west end of Franklin Street are not new problems. Short of "Tar! Heels!," "For lease" have to be the most popular two syllables in Chapel Hill. In recent years and months we've seen that wacky outpost of Kerr Drugs, Peppers Pizza, the Gap, Wachovia and many others go under, leaving dust and peeling carpet for all to see. Walking down Franklin Street again last weekend, I kept glancing around for tumbleweed.
There are many reasons for the city's stumbling, including disagreements over development of parking lots and other fun city-council-meeting fodder. The thematic reason is Chapel Hill's struggle for identity as it urbanizes.
The same thing can certainly be said about Durham. Chapel Thrill and The Dirty D are both college towns (on paper, anyway). The two cities' proximity to top-tier universities makes them "cultural destination[s]," in the words of Liz Parham, executive director of the Chapel Hill Downtown Partnership. "Great college towns are great because of the cultural offerings that are simply not found in other towns," Parham wrote in a Feb. 20 guest column for the The Chapel Hill Herald. She went on to suggest that revitalizing a wilting college town means "to reinvent ourselves by looking closely at what is driving foot traffic today, and then identifying complimentary businesses that we can recruit in."
This theory is already riddled with buckshot. Rugby seemed to fit perfectly the definition for what Parham and others feel is an ideal college town business, despite being nationally owned and operated. It was conceived to cater exclusively to denizens of college towns, in fact. So why no stampeding shoppers?
Because that elusive foot traffic everybody's seeking is off getting a better deal, clicking its way to stylish duds on an iBook.
I am not sounding the death knell for the picturesque, economically vibrant college town. But as people continue to shy away from the specialty boutique and the physical store, preferring instead to take their business to booming department stores and online venues, the makeup of the college town is going to change, and drastically. Maybe we should just accept it.
Of course, the one thing that college kids can't do online is kick back with a drink. Prepare yourself for the future of the Triangle: more brilliant medical researchers and buck-a-beer dives per square mile than anywhere else in the world.
Sarah Ball is a Trinity junior and former editorial page editor of The Chronicle. Her column runs every Thursday.
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