One of the most liked comments on Renne’s video — 950 and climbing — came from my hometown friend, Julius: “Stockholm is probably one of Europe’s most boring capitals. It’s crazy given how much potential there is. But no, no, no, Ulf and Agneta aged 60+ want to watch Sweden’s Bake Off on Friday at 8 PM and then pass out, so the rest of the city has to keep it down.”

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I giggled reading the comment. Julius has that charm where you can trust that a good time follows wherever he goes. When he came to New York last fall, he wasn’t asking me for going-out spots; he was giving me suggestions by the end of his trip. So if Stockholm can’t hold his interest, that’s a story I wanted to follow.

So, naturally, I had to interview him today to get the inside scoop. BTW, I love living in an age of conducting interviews over voice note.

“When I lived in Paris, I could go to the gym after work and still meet my friends late for a drink, because things are actually open weeknights,” he told me. “It’s like the clean girl aesthetic has permeated even Swedish guys. People want their twelve-step skincare routine, their eight hours of sleep… They prioritize that over human connection.”

I’m guilty of this, too. The second I landed in Stockholm this summer, I went straight to the archipelago by boat. Half my friends weren’t in the city anyway, off on their own islands or EuroSummerMaxxing. Next week I’m in Ibiza with my two Swedish besties — Vici and Anna — chasing the hot girl summer we’re craving.

When I asked Julius if Renne had caught the city on a bad week, he said: “She was there during peak summer, when all the locals are away at their countryhouses or traveling abroad. So I’m not surprised it seemed dead. But should it? It’s the capital of Scandinavia, in peak summer. No other city is dead during peak summer.”

He’s right. With wildfires and record heat waves across Europe this summer, tourists are flying north instead. The demand is there. But Stockholm loses its locals during the exact months it should be reeling them in. Copenhagen Fashion Week, happening as we speak, has become the Scandinavian showcase the industry pays attention to. Toteme, Acne Studios, House of Dagmar, COS — all Swedish fashion brands to their core — show in Paris or Copenhagen. There are whispers of Brilliant Minds taking place outside of Sweden next summer. Even flight connections reroute through Copenhagen’s shiny, new airport instead of Stockholm’s Arlanda.

It’s a strange thing, because the raw materials here are absurdly good. Swedes are hot (and tall). We love to boogie and throw parties: Midsommar, studentskivor, kräftskivor. One of my past college situationships told me he always wanted to date a Swedish girl because he’s heard they’re so “fun.” The reputation precedes us, even stateside.

There’s something to be said about the archipelago, too: 30,000 islands as expansive as the Amalfi Coast or the French Riviera, yet Sweden hasn’t built — or marketed it — for people with real discretionary spending. The bougie infrastructure is missing: the yachts, the beach clubs, the Scandinavian answer to a Positano afternoon. Stockholm offers fika with cardamom buns when tourists might actually be craving a Scandi-aperitivo.

What Stockholm needs is more range. Right now it serves two crowds really well: young families pushing strollers through Humlegården at 9 AM, and an older generation that wants the quiet hours late at night. Both groups are happy with an early dinner reservation and lights out by 10 PM.

Everyone else (me and Julius included) is underserved. There isn’t a chaotic enough scene for cheap bar hopping and meeting strangers until sunrise. Despite iconic DJs like Axel Boman, Avicii, Eric Prydz, and SHM, there’s no decadent nightclub culture for the crowd chasing an overpriced Ibiza with better lighting. Not enough edge pulling in the cool design or fashion crowd the way Copenhagen does. And dare I say, not enough of a playground for the ultra-rich? Will we ever see mega-yachts parked by Strandvägen?

I ended my voice note interview by asking Julius for his own late-night summer picks. Trädgården, open until 3 a.m., though it can skew younger. Fotografiska, somehow the latest closing museum in the world. And mmmmm club, which is more of a party collective, less commercial. I’d add Slakthuset and an RA guide-approved forest rave to that list too.

I love Stockholm. And maybe my own disappearing act to the archipelago every summer doesn’t help my case. But selfishly, I think the city needs to give me more reasons to stay.

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I point in a direction, half guessing, working backward from whatever he taught me last time. Wrong. The red lighthouse we’re looking at in the distance is south, he tells me. Then more questions. How do you find the North Star in the sky? What kind of tree are we walking past right now?

In an age of Google Maps and ChatGPT, when the honest answer to “will I ever be stranded without my phone?” is probably not, I love these conversations with my dad. He helps me think on my feet, question things that are strange or beautiful, and challenges me to use my head instead of my phone. That mode of thinking without a guide followed me straight into this summer, when I read Caro Claire Burke’s Yesteryear and Belle Burden’s Strangers back-to-back by accident and found them, surprisingly, in dialogue with each other.

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My boss Alice recommended Yesteryear to me, and it’s the best novel I’ve read this year. Natalie Miller is a tradwife influencer who wakes up in the 1800s and has to actually live the aesthetic she’s been portraying online. The book’s hype is riding the same wave as media-anointed tradwives like model/actress Nara Smith, who went on the podcast Call Her Daddy last month to reject the label, and Hannah Neeleman of the ultra-successful lifestyle and food brand Ballerina Farm (P.S. her Maple Cinnamon protein powder is 2 die 4). Underneath the label fight is an older argument about nostalgia, a past where men’s and women’s work were sharply divided (one plenty of political movements want back and amplified by these influencers’ social media pages).

If Yesteryear is the fictionalized aesthetic of that, Strangers is a real-life reckoning. Burden’s memoir describes her husband’s affair, his abrupt exit during the pandemic, his attempt to take their Vineyard house, and the income he never disclosed during their divorce proceedings. Burden rebuilds from there: with her three kids, finding her own place and purpose again through writing and becoming financially literate.

There’s debate around her story that’s worth noting. A New Yorker piece points to Burden’s substantial personal wealth held in trust, which was never fully revealed in her memoir. But her fans don’t care. They read it as a universal lesson anyway: how well do we really know our partners and our finances? If this can happen to someone as privileged and beautiful as Burden, can it happen to anyone?

What I essentially got from both books, internet opinions aside, was how important it is to question things: to stay curious, know the how and the why, so you can get out of precarious situations, or better yet, avoid them entirely.

In Burden’s case, that’s understanding how much money comes in and out of her household: which assets are in both names, what was signed in the prenup, and where those assets are parked. In Natalie’s case, was there ever a reality where she could have finished her undergrad at Harvard? Whose name is on Yesteryear Ranch — hers, her husband’s, or her rich father-in-law’s? Or something as simple as why none of her brothers-in-law were at their wedding, and what does that say about her husband’s relationship to his family?

I’ve noticed this outside books too. Ashnelle Hall’s Substack post last week, “’I’m Just a Girl’ Is Not an Excuse to Turn Your Brain Off,” is about women online romanticizing the idea of switching off around their partners: letting someone else handle directions, decisions, the logistics of a life. Somewhere between cute and convenient, “turning your brain off” starts to look like handing someone else the keys, whether that someone is a partner, an algorithm, or a phone.

However, this doesn’t mean that always going it alone is the goal. There’s something to be said for letting someone else do things for you out of love or trust. And using my phone has made me more informed, connected, and worldly. What matters is whether you could do it yourself if you had to. Slower, maybe worse, but yours to figure out.

Which is why my dad and I have been walking every morning since I’ve come home. He’ll point at something — a bird, a boat, the shape of a leaf — and ask me to guess what it is or what it means before he tells me. I get it wrong more than half the time. Yet, I still guess, ask follow-up questions, and learn anyway.

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My friend Ashley, a member of the Apollo Young Patrons, was hosting a charity day event in Sag to benefit the Apollo Theater, the largest performing arts institution committed to Black culture and creativity.

I’d bought the ticket that came bundled with a seat on the designated shuttle there and back, one of over 200 RSVPs on a Partiful that kept the names hidden on the guest list. Of the three girls I knew, all were already staying out East for the weekend, so this leg of the trip was mine alone. I’d packed my laptop and book, thinking I’d want the quiet, some armor against being social this early in the day.

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The second I climbed on, the bus was already deep in giggles and conversation, guests introducing themselves, hands shaking, hugs happening across the aisle before we’d pulled off the block. There was a row of boys sitting up front, and I told myself to be bold, to scan and sit next to someone, so I picked the one with the kindest eyes.

His name was Ethan, a Minnesotan with a German-Swedish mother, which was a fitting coincidence. We covered the essentials: where we’d each grown up, who we might both know at this party, what we’d gotten into the night before, and the fact that we were both very, very hungover.

Somewhere in the Midtown Tunnel, things got personal — as it sometimes does with people we’ve never met before. We talked about relationships; I told him about my current boy dilemma and asked for his male take on it. His advice was not so encouraging. Still, it was a relief to talk about it out loud to someone with no stake in it.

About an hour in, I made what felt like a walk of shame down the aisle to the back of the bus. No sink back there, but on my way out, the girl seated right by the restroom caught my eye and handed over her hand sanitizer before I’d even asked. Her name was Cayla, and next to her was her best friend, Baldwin.

I never made it back to my original seat. The three of us turned out to work in the same tangled orbit of fashion, styling, and PR, so we spent the rest of the ride dissecting work drama, fashion IPOs, and beauty recommendations delivered with the seriousness of medical advice. The two boys in front of us kept the vodka shots flowing over their shoulders unprompted. Three hours disappear fast when that’s the pace you’re keeping.

We rolled into Sag and went straight to the first house for welcome drinks. Champagne in glasses engraved with APOLLO, white fans and sun umbrellas passed hand to hand, a step-and-repeat set up in the entryway. I found Ashley and Eliana in the crowd and hugged them tight.

I’d gone with a baby-blue Ulla Johnson dress, my beige Chanel slingbacks, and Ezgi’s white Dior shoulder bag, borrowed for the occasion. Looking around, everyone had clearly taken their “Saturday best” just as seriously: Colorful maxi dresses catching the wind off the water, block heels sinking gently into the lawn, clutches too small to hold anything but a phone and a lip gloss, blowouts and silk presses holding their shape against the humidity.

Ages ranged from 25-35, everyone with a good job, better manners, and a creative side hustle worth asking about. The boys were forward and flirty. The girls were sunkissed and impossible to ignore.

After an hour of mingling, we walked a few doors down, where Ashley and the other hosts gave a speech about their summers spent in Sag Harbor and what the place actually is beneath the glitz of “coming out East”: a beachfront haven that Black families built and claimed for themselves. The hosts asked us to bask in the atmosphere, to enjoy the day and each other’s company.

The post-speech applause turned into a push toward the dance floor. Line dances, sing-along choruses, drinks spilled down forearms from all the bumping and spinning. The shuttle back was supposed to leave at 5. It left at 6. I missed it anyway, still on the dance floor.

Around 7, I took an Uber into South and had dinner at Sant Ambroeus by myself, finishing the last chapters of Strangers between courses while the restaurant hummed around me. The maître d’ sent over cookies and a round of drinks I hadn’t ordered but didn’t decline, the last in a line of gestures that day from people who gave me something before I thought to ask for it.

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I was recently asked out on a date to see Christopher Nolan’s new film adaptation of The Odyssey. The offer was quickly rescinded when, upon further investigation, he discovered that there were no seats available at any theater for the next couple of Thursdays (my favorite day of the week to go on a date).

I can’t say I was surprised. Nolan has a gravitational pull that gets cinephiles and the average moviegoer into the same playhouse, and the tale of Odysseus has been doing the same thing for three thousand years.

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I first read The Odyssey my freshman fall at Columbia, as one of the required texts for my Literature Humanities class and as an introduction to our Core Curriculum. I remember relishing it, specifically Emily Wilson’s translation, which I found far more readable than the Iliad we’d trudged through the week before (translator: not Wilson), meaning I didn’t have to SparkNotes my way through as many chapters.

I was eighteen. I’d never read anything like it, not just in the abstract, “canon text” sense. Growing up in Sweden, I wasn’t taught these broad subjects in my specialized economics program. I hadn’t been handed Homer, Plato, or Machiavelli in high school the way some of my private school classmates had. So this was a very foreign story on many levels, in a language that wasn’t my first.

But I remember everything surrounding the story as much as the specifics of the story itself. Walking from my freshman dorm, Wallach, right next door, into Hamilton Hall, where every LitHum class happens like a rite. I felt inspired. I felt smart, in the way you only feel smart at eighteen, when you’re just starting to realize how much you don’t know. This was the whole reason I’d chosen this school: to struggle through something difficult and come out the other side, to start recognizing its fingerprints everywhere once I had.

Which is maybe why it’s been fascinating to follow the press cycle around the movie now.

There’s been real friction over the casting, the fact that not a single lead is Greek, in a story this specifically, insistently Greek. And the incomparable Lupita Nyong’o is playing the face that launched a thousand ships, and the backlash to that has had very little to do with Greekness and everything to do with Blackness.

Mind you, according to Greek mythology, Helen of Troy was hatched from an egg, the daughter of the god Zeus (disguised as a swan) and Leda, Queen of Sparta, so her origin story in itself is a creative leap. However, it’s the same fight we watched play out around Lin-Manuel Miranda casting Black and brown actors as the founding fathers in Hamilton, a tale that was always mythmaking until a person of color was cast at its center, and the history purists pounced.

Not every casting choice is a fight, though. Zendaya and her red carpet looks are getting exactly the kind of noise a movie like this hopes for. I’ll admit Zendaya’s looks are hit-or-miss for me… Must everything be so on the nose, Law?

But as Athena, she’s stopped me mid-scroll more than once. Not just the clothes. The beauty. Soft glam, bold neutral eyeshadow, and yes, blue is a neutral to me, same as denim, same as the sky, same as the sea. The hair looks like she’s just touched down from the sky onto a ship, wind still flowing through it, deliberate in a way effortless never is. I may or may not have saved the looks into my wedding folder on Insta.

Homer’s three-thousand-year-old epic has been re-translated into a smoky eye described in a hundred beauty roundups this week. But this story is always mid-translation. From oral tradition to written poem. Ancient amphitheaters to red carpets. Nolan’s film adaptation to Zendaya’s beauty interpretation. Every medium it passes through changes it slightly, the way every game of telephone does. That’s the answer to Mendelsohn’s question.

And that makes this Substack piece just one more translation, filtered through a freshman year seminar and, finally, through me.

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My friend Vici made me a floral crown from scratch right there on my lawn, expertly weaving in wildflowers as we gossiped. The second she set it on my head it felt like she’d found the missing piece my hair had been waiting for all day. I wore it from lunch until sunrise, even as it got slightly crooked and wilted by the end.

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My mom and I had spent weeks prepping. One hundred porcelain plates and schnapps glasses from Ikea, catered food from Monrads, flowers bought and transported from Hötorget to Stavsnäs, dozens of cinnamon buns from my local bakery for the midnight snack, and my own Midsommar songbook designed on Canva, printed and stapled with my dad’s help. I forced the boys to chop wood and build a maypole, so we girlies could decorate it with leaves and blooms. We turned one of our old barn storage houses into a “boiler room” with lights, speakers, a DJ booth, and a smoke machine from the city. Everyone danced until daybreak, and I saw my two worlds, the past and present, come together under the lingering northern light.

Midsommar is the one day a year I get nearly everyone I love in one place. If you have a partner, you bring them, so it was also the first time I met a lot of my high school friends’ new boyfriends and girlfriends. My own boyfriend at the time also shared the same space with a handful of my Swedish exes and situationships. I remember feeling nervous about it. Then I watched him take over the DJ booth, saw my exes dance to his music, and found myself being spun around once or twice. So much for the nervousness.

Last year was so much (in the best possible way) that I couldn’t even fathom thinking about Midsommar again, let alone hosting it this year. I also have a big work trip next week, our annual Beauty Forum, which usually occurs before Midsommar but falls after it this year (Check out the speakers and moderators here… Peep me at the very end).

And this isn’t a normal June anyway. The World Cup is in the US for the first time since 1994, and it has taken the city by storm. Flags taped to bar windows. Evening plans built around game times. Strangers screaming at each other on the corner outside my apartment. And, in a real Midsommar mood-killer, both of my countries lost this past weekend. Brazil put three past Haiti. The Netherlands put five past Sweden. Both my flags at half-mast.

The Swedish Consulate in New York throws its own Midsommar in Battery Park every year, filled with Swedish expats and a real maypole, and ordinarily I’d be there. But this year, Midsommar landed on the same day as Juneteenth, the federal holiday marking the day in 1865 the last enslaved people in the United States learned they were free. And with the World Cup still dominating the city and America’s 250th lined up right behind it, the whole country is busy throwing itself a party.

So I decided to lean into the U-S-of-A of it all. I watched World Cup games on my StairMaster (was too lazy to meet my brother at a dive bar), in a Swedish jersey. I went to 99 Scott and listened to Theo Parrish mix vinyl during his twelve-hour Juneteenth set. It was nice not to overly plan or overthink any of it. I also genuinely love summer in the city — even if it’s just me, summer interns, and World Cup tourists.

But, in honor of Juneteenth specifically, I went to the EveryStylishGirl x Nike x Fenty Beauty 5K. Nike gifted us gear, Fenty gave us beauty products, and the whole point of the morning was simple: Black women shouldn’t have to choose between appearance and exercise. Looking good and feeling strong are not competing priorities. A morning of running and jogging and walking in BK with girls I’d never met, watching strangers filming from the sidewalk as we moved past in a pack.

So this year there was no crown, no maypole, no schnapps. But I did jog down Bedford Avenue in a Nike headband with Fenty on my lips, which felt like its own kind of victory. More than I can say for Sweden or Haiti.

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This weather also means my clothes are everywhere, splayed across my bedroom floor, with the distinct feeling that I have nothing to wear, specifically no going-out tops. For the boys reading my Substack, going-out-tops are those stylish, often dressy or sexy shirts designed for nightlife, dates, and social events rather than everyday wear. This week, that top has a number on the back because all I keep seeing on the train and on the street are baddies in jerseys.

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The World Cup just kicked off (I’m cheering for Sweden, Haiti, and France, in that order), and the Knicks have been building toward last night’s win for two weeks straight. Put those two things in a blender with the heat, and out comes the jersey, the official going out top of the summer. Cheap, easy, versatile.

My bestie Ines and I threw a WAG Knicks party at Paul’s earlier this week, and we’d debated what to wear. She went with an oversized Brunson jersey, worn as a dress. I asked my girl Jesa, who runs Coco Cultr, to make me a custom Knicks off-shoulder top, which I paired with denim shorts, Jimmy Choo stilettos, and the Klein blue “Gigi” sunglasses Rosa Rims sent me. Getting something made felt more festive than just buying a jersey off the rack, as though the team and I now have a stylist in common.

I’m no hooper. I grew up playing tennis, skiing, and running track, sports where no one hands you a costume and tells you which side you’re on. Tennis is the sport I follow best, and it’s enjoying its own fashion moment, thanks to a strong WAG culture, “tenniscore” style, and a wave of young stars.

Still, tennis is an individual sport where dressing is about being seen as yourself. Jersey dressing is about being seen as part of a team. At a tennis match, you cannot tell who anyone is rooting for. At a soccer match or a Knicks game, thanks to the jersey, you know within two seconds.

Since I wanted to educate myself before the multitude of watch parties ahead, I asked the boys in my life to talk ball with me. Why is it West Coast vs. East Coast? Is Wemby the tallest player in the NBA? Were the refs really making all those bad calls? As I’ve learned more about basketball this week, I’ve also learned how to dress the part, something the boys have known since Jordan wore #23.

The jersey has been a boy’s de facto fit for a night out, a workout sesh, or dinner. It requires zero effort while still fitting in, whilst also signaling exactly who they are and who they support. With the WNBA boom putting female athletes front and center as style icons in their own right, a boxy jersey reads less like menswear and more like a statement piece, creating an instant sense of community. Truly the people’s garment.

Except maybe not so much the people’s anymore. Jerseys are democratic compared to designer streetwear; in theory, anyone can throw on a $99 jersey and call it a day. But, recently, Taylor Swift didn’t just wear a Knicks jersey sitting courtside at game four; she had Alana from Haim make her a custom blue-and-orange screen-printed “STEVIE KNICKS” t-shirt. Influencer Remi Bader posted that it was impossible to even rent a Knicks top from Pickle yesterday. Vintage Knicks tees are suddenly an investment category. And let’s not even get into what a single seat at MSG has been costing.

So is this democratizing fashion, or just inventing a new, niche kind of exclusivity? It’s both, at the same time, which is the most New York thing I could possibly tell you. I’m also still wearing my custom top, so make of that what you will!

Sports and fashion have always had a mutually beneficial relationship, but it’s deepening. People want a story. Where were you when OG Anunoby hit that shot in game four? What part of the city were you in when the Knicks won? Whether you saw the fireworks over the West Village or the cop cars getting jumped on in Times Square. Even Jordyn Woods (KAT’s fiancée) got in on it, with her “lucky bag” from Woods by Jordyn going viral as a good luck charm for the Knicks during their championship run. What you’re wearing is part of the narrative.

So, as I write this, I don’t think jersey summer is just a phase. Instead, the going-out top is being redefined, at least for us girls. Crop it, knot it in the back, buy it a couple of sizes too small, tuck it into a pair of low-rise jeans, and suddenly a jersey is doing more for your waist than half the going-out tops in your closet ever did. It comes with a number on the back, a team to root for, and a built-in conversation starter for whoever’s watching the game next to you. And in this heat, with this much going on in the city, that’s exactly the kind of top I want on.

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May was so fun, honestly. Paris with my mom, exciting panels at work, my brother James moved to NYC for the summer for his IB internship (basic, I know). And then there were the birthdays. My dad turned 63, the man who, among other things, taught me that birthdays are worth making a fuss over. Astrid and Ezgi both turned 25. And a guy I’ve been going on dates with had a birthday, too.

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In Sweden, birthdays are a big deal. The tradition is to celebrate the moment your loved one wakes you up. I’m a winter baby, and I still remember lying in my dark room, patiently waiting and pretending to sleep, smelling my mom’s pepper cookie cake baking downstairs, then watching light flicker from underneath my door as my parents carried in the candles and sang Ja må hon leva.

It’s a tradition I brought with me stateside, no hesitation.

I love birthdays. I love my own, but I especially love celebrating other people. Living with Ezgi for six years means we’ve done a lot of birthdays together, and I’ve gotten the hang of how I like to celebrate her. She knows to expect a birthday breakfast; it’s just the theme that changes.

This spring, we’ve been obsessed with eating soft-boiled eggs, so I kept it equally Scandi-themed: soft-boiled eggs, cured hams and soft cheese, sourdough toast, homemade blueberry compote, and whipped butter (which is surprisingly easy to make: just whipping room-temperature butter with milk until it reaches the desired consistency). And a bottle of Veuve, obviously. All the dolls came over before rushing off to work and morning meetings: Astrid, Nafsika, Liadh, and Ines, who was already staying with us, visiting from Dubai.

I also made a cake. A St-Germain elderflower concoction with raspberries on top and little yellow and white flowers tucked in between. I ordered balloons from Balloon Delivery (RIP Party City) to float above the dining table. Then, for her evening dinner at Dr Clarke, Silvia and I photoshopped an H-1B visa onto a birthday-cake-flavored cake from Billy’s Bakery. Honestly, one of our better bits. We ended the night at a ticketed event near Gramercy where some friends were DJing, then made our way to Outerheaven and The Box. The kind of night that doesn’t end so much as it just eventually stops since the sun came out.

Astrid’s party was the following day. It’s worth noting that when I posted for her birthday, people — including a guy I’ve flirted with — assumed it was my birthday. Lolz.

Anyway, after Ezgi’s festivities, I was unwell to say the least. Luckily, Astrid wanted to take matters into her own hands this year, throwing herself a party for the first time. Usually, I take the reins with Ogden, her boyfriend, but she had her own vision, and it turned out beautifully.

Ogden has just moved into a new apartment, which became the venue. Astrid decorated it with wildflowers from the farmers’ market. She even created handmade paper chains that hung from the ceiling, and Ogden topped it all off with a carrot cake courtesy of From Lucie.

My only real job was batching cocktails: Cosmos, Skinny-spicy Margaritas, and Negronis. The Negronis were easiest, just equal parts vermouth, gin, and Campari. The Cosmo was a disaster (way too much Tito’s). The Skinny spicy was perfect, and it was the only batch that actually ran out. We ended the night at Public Records, dancing and celebrating our girl late into the night. Made a new friend or two.

There was also a third birthday, someone I’ve been going on dates with. Didn’t go all out, obviously, but still wanted to show up with some thought and intention. It landed a little flat. Not bad, just... flat.

Called my mom about it, as one does. We came to the conclusion that I have a whole language for celebrating people, built over the years, through rituals and intuition, like knowing whether someone wants the homemade cake, the chaotic night out, or both. That language only works when you truly know someone. Show up fluent in something they haven’t learned yet, and the effort lands sideways.

Something to keep in mind for June.

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It’s a documented phenomenon in which the reality of Paris so dramatically fails to meet tourist expectations that visitors experience genuine psychological distress: disillusionment, anxiety, the whole thing. I understand the risk. As a non-Frenchie, Paris carries so much mythology that showing up in person almost feels like a test you could fail.

So when my mom and I landed for my 25th birthday trip (my actual birthday was in January, but Paris in January felt bleak, so we pushed it to spring), I was taking mental notes and seeing how it held up.

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One morning, I’m standing outside our hotel in the 1st, fresh off an early breakfast at Hôtel Costes, watching water seep into my suede Alaïa flats because the rain is relentless. I have an I ♥ NY umbrella I bought on Canal Street, but a hat would be nice too. I’ve been wearing my hair curly this trip, but even curls have their limits.

My mom said we could retrieve her cute little Maison Michel newsboy cap from our room. I said yes, then felt too lazy to go up with her, and waited on the sidewalk. Some time passes — not enough to worry, but enough that when my phone lights up with her name, I think: ugh, what has she gotten caught up with now. Outfit change? Did dad call?

No. She’s stuck in the elevator.

Before the trip, my mom gave me a choice: stay somewhere bougie and shop less, or stay somewhere less bougie and shop more. Obviously, I chose the latter. What I did not factor in was that “less bougie” might mean “elevator that traps your mother.”

I walked straight up to the concierge and told them that if my mom wasn’t out within 20 minutes, I’d be calling 911. There is obviously no literal 911 emergency number in France, but the look on their faces — and the sudden ability to speak English they hadn’t managed during our check-in — confirmed they understood.

Heated exchanges with the concierge, a handyman who apparently ran through the streets of Paris to save my mother, and twenty-five minutes later, she was out. I hugged her, expecting to do the comforting, but she hugged me back as if nothing had happened. Cool as ever. She put the newsboy cap on my head, and we got on with our day.

This was our first mother-daughter trip. My mom is normally the one with the color-coded itinerary, but she let me run this one completely. My agenda: no museums, no sightseeing. We would shop, dine at sidewalk cafes, and just walk around. Secretly, however, my main mission was Chanel.

Matthieu Blazy’s collections have sent everyone into a frenzy. I even got my nails done in a fresh mint green to match his SS26 color palette, and we were desperate to get our hands on something. Shoes, specifically.

Eight Chanel stores later, including the flagship on Rue Cambon, we had nothing. Not even a close call. There’s a particular absurd irony in flying to Paris and coming up empty-handed at Chanel — especially in the city that’s supposed to have Coco everything. But as it turns out, everyone is kookoo for Coco.

My mom, ever the strategist, suggested one last resort: La Samaritaine, which has a relatively quiet Chanel section on its top floor.

Mommy’s always right.

I found the perfect summer slingback in pastel green with a white cap toe from Blazy’s current collection. A sigh of relief. A dopamine hit. Eight stores and 15,000 steps a day, and there it was, waiting for me like a newly baked pâtisserie.

We also did the vintage rounds. Nuovo, Bobby, the various vendors at Marché Saint-Ouen. And here’s where I’ll say a hot take: Parisian designer vintage has lost its proposition.

The coveted pieces — the Chanel bags, the Hermès scarves, anything pieces worth investing in — are priced at or above retail. Vintage Chanel bags at Les Merveilles de Babellou were running north of €5K-10K. Blazy’s current bags are the same price or (relatively) cheaper, impossible to find, though they are.

Besides the insane flowy Dior by Galliano dresses on display at Babellou, the selection was mainly the same mainstream ones I see online at The RealReal or Vestiaire, sites that are far easier and cheaper to filter than the rows of clothes, bags, and shoes, which felt equally chaotic as TRR rather than curated. So what exactly are we doing here?

The romance of the vintage hunt remains, but the payoff has quietly disappeared. Chanel has no inventory. The hotel elevator breaks. You can’t read the menu. The concierge pretends not to speak English until you threaten them with an emergency number that doesn’t exist.

And yet.

Champagne and an apology note from the hotel manager for the elevator fiasco. Practicing my French with Parisians who respond immediately in English. Americanos outside Le Saint-Gervais in the Marais, eyeing cute boys pretending to read. Ordering something off a menu at La Poule au Pot I couldn’t parse, getting something unexpected, and enjoying it anyway. Walking into an antique decor boutique and realizing I had been missing sterling silver egg cups from my life.

Paris is one of the last places that doesn’t meet you where you are. It doesn’t care about your agenda. It just is. You either greet it with a smile or you leave with a syndrome.

I try to go to Paris twice a year, usually with friends or a boyfriend. But going with just my mom was different. Evenings that went long at Barrone, conversations we’d been meaning to have at Sugaar. And honestly, a rickety elevator in a charming Paris hotel, a handyman sprinting through cobblestone streets. What’s more French than that? We laughed about it over the champagne they left us.

I went in afraid of Paris Syndrome. I came back already texting my mom about our dates for next spring.

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With Jeff and Lauren Sánchez Bezos as the primary donors this cycle (somewhere in the region of $10 million), enthusiasm for the social media frenzy has curdled into something nobody’s bothering to be polite about anymore. My friend Daniel-Yaw Miller put it well in his latest Substack: the “Costume as Art” theme lands flat next to last year’s focus on Black dandyism, and coupled with the Bezos’ backing — in a political moment already saturated with more urgent things to be outraged about — an evening of celebrities playing dress-up for six-figure ticket prices starts to feel tone-deaf.

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That said, the Met needs money. Museums are closing all over New York. The Rubin. Fotografiska. Canceled federal grants, declining museum attendance below pre-pandemic levels… Major institutions don’t sustain themselves on goodwill. So the Bezos millions are doing something, even if the optics aren’t fair or pretty.

With that said, I obviously wasn’t invited to the gala this year lolz, and I’m not the Met’s ethics board. I’m a girl who got invited to a couple of parties surrounding it, and I have a hard time saying no.

The one I look forward to most is United Talent Agency’s (UTA) annual pre-Met party, which happens to fall on the same night as my friend (and mentor) Darnell’s birthday. Let’s say it was his 30th. I went for the first time last year and came back this year with a better idea of what to expect.

I was supposed to bring a date as my +1, but at the last minute, I decided to go solo. It felt like the right call. Nobody to coordinate with, nobody to check in on. Just me, a Sunday night, and a party I had no business being nervous about. Or so I told myself as I tried to quell small waves of doubt.

I had day-three blowout hair and took a quick shower before doing my full almond oil and shea butter situation (thank you, Anok Yai, for this tip and the softest skin I’ve ever had). I still have a nice tan from spending time in Miami last weekend, so I kept my makeup minimal: curled lashes, lip liner and gloss. As for the outfit, I hadn’t had time to order anything new or rent a piece, so I pulled every viable cocktail dress from my closet. But of course I went straight for a little black dress.

When in doubt, and when in a rush, an LBD and Jimmy Choo stilettos is always the answer. This one is from bcbgmaxazria and I thrifted it at Seven Wonder’s Collective on LES. My best assets are confidence and feeling comfortable in my body, and the right dress will complement that mindset. Especially useful when flying solo.

I ordered my Uber at 8:30 pm (the party started at 7 pm, oops), upgraded to Uber Black, and reasoned it was for the occasion rather than my lateness. Hosted at the Ritz-Carlton’s Nubeluz, the event drew paparazzi outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the beautiful people as they arrived. Everyone was dressed to the nines, and I slipped in behind a gorgeous girl in a silver dress — Goldie, I think her name was? — and we rode the elevator up to the 50th floor.

I went straight to the bar and ordered a tall glass of champagne with the NYC skyline as my backdrop. I leaned a stiletto sole against the metal footrail, the way you do when you’re alone at a party and silently hoping someone interesting walks over. Very SATC or 2000s romcom — shoulders back, smizing eyes, sipping and scanning the scene.

Various attractive people whom I recognized from movies and shows made eye contact from across the room, but alas, no actual connection. Instead, I ended up talking with mostly journalists from the Hollywood Reporter and Variety and a few UTA execs. All of them kind and easy-going (and also attractive), all of them asking where I’d be posting up for the Met the next day. The Mark? The Carlyle? I gave them the boring answer: my apartment.

Eventually, I found my way into a group of friends-of-friends and we ended up at the photo booth to pose for pictures. Professional lighting, a fan, an instructor telling us exactly where to place our chins and arms, and someone quietly airbrushing our photos in real time. I loved it and thought: I want this at my wedding.

About an hour in, I spotted Darnell across the room, squeezed through the crowd, and tapped him gently on the shoulder mid-conversation. He turned around, registered that I was there alone, and immediately put me under his wing for the rest of the evening. “I’m going to introduce you to everyone cool you should know,” he said. And he delivered. Janelle Monáe. Jon Batiste. Law Roach, etc., etc. Thank you, Darnell!

Not a bad Sunday. And tonight, on the actual night of the Met Gala, I’ll be at the Metropolitan Opera with Clarke, who’s made me her plus-one for a Perrier-Jouët soirée. I went solo to a party yesterday and got to be someone’s plus-one today. The first Sunday in May, as it seems, keeps on giving.

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My little brother James is a junior at UPenn, and this was finally my turn to visit him without our parents for Spring Fling. He offered to host me at his frat house, but after my parents stopped by last weekend, they said I’d probably be better off sleeping in a hotel.

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This isn’t my first Spring Fling. The last time I was here was 2023, my senior year of college, visiting my best and oldest childhood friend, Yasmin. Spring Fling is UPenn’s version of Columbia’s Bacchanal: a weekend in April when an artist performs for students, and everything else revolves around it. This year, it was Flo Rida playing, with Magic Gardens, Latin Barbeque, and a “boiler room” in the basement of James’ frat, Castle, following in tow.

I had so much fun with James and his friends. I’m three years older, three years out of college, and there’s something genuinely sweet about being “let back in.”

I planned my outfits the way I used to in college: a tight top (a black one from Miaou, a white cutout one from Gimaguas), low-rise jeans, and frat sneakers I didn’t mind getting trashed. I ran into one of James’ girlfriend’s friends wearing the same jeans and a scarily similar top, which confirmed that some things haven’t changed since I was last in the mix.

I was a sociology major in college (yes, it was all the football players and me in class), so I’d been looking forward to this weekend as a small study. A sociologist returning to the field. An outsider looking in, if you will.

Wharton boys still work hard and play hard (jury’s out on which one they do harder). Everyone still wants to be in the city for junior summer internships. Being a campus DJ is still an extremely valid career aspiration. Gen Z college students actually do drink, but they’ve upgraded from Espòlon to 1942. Dirty frat sneakers remain non-negotiable for all the gals.

Safety is a serious campus priority now — ER teams and stretchers were already set up at the party before the gates even opened. Red Bull vodka and pizza are still the best dinner pairing. Film cameras are still the preferred method of documentation, but Meta glasses are quietly taking over (shoutout to James’ beautiful girlfriend, Esra, who started this particular trend by gifting him a pair for his 22nd birthday last week). The best hangover cure remains a makeshift mimosa made with warm prosecco from somebody’s frat room shelf.

I miss college, obviously. But it’s also genuinely different now than it was even three years ago.

The campus protests of 2024 were an earthquake across American universities. The job market is brutal. Does an Ivy League degree — let alone a degree period — still move the needle the way it once did? Is it worth hundreds of thousands of dollars if you can’t find a job to pay it off, let alone save enough to one day send your own kids to the same school?

Columbia’s gates are still closed. You can’t just walk onto campus anymore; you have to be signed in by a student or staff member. AI is making it easier to cheat. iPhones are making it harder to be present. Although the tools have changed, the pressures remain the same, and I don’t know if institutions can keep up with the shifting reality. But maybe that’s a question for a different Amtrak ride.

Still, it was a beautiful weekend of college students just doing what kids do. Laughing. Dancing. Kissing. Scheming. Shotgunning. All the things I still do, frankly, just with slightly elevated footwear. Swapping the dirty frat sneakers for kitten heels.

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The best plans are the ones you didn’t make.

I said yes to Coachella the same week I went. A friend said there was an extra spot for me, and I thought — eff it, why not. I’d placed a Gimaguas order in a fit of optimism the day before flying. Sadly, it did not arrive on time. So I opened the summer storage at the back of my closet, grabbed anything boho, crochet, or vaguely festival-coded, and threw it all into a suitcase, then flew to LAX with no concrete plan but a lot of outfit options.

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I’d been once before, in 2022, with Ezgi and my college crew. First multi-day festival, first time in Palm Springs. Harry Styles, Billie Eilish, and Swedish House Mafia were headlining. We had GA tickets, got there by 2 pm every day, rode the Ferris wheel, took a ton of fit pics, climbed the rainbow structure, and spent a non-trivial amount of energy worrying about whether our fake IDs would hold up at the bar. They did.

This time was très different. New and old friends, VIP passes, and a schedule built around nighttime rather than getting there early to stake out a good spot. I’d half-expected VIP to be full of finance bros with discretionary spending. It was, in fact, packed with celebs. I stood in line for a drink next to Amelia Gray, Gabriette, Damson Idris… Yummy. Oh, and Chase from The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. Starstruck!

Day 1 — Journey to Coachella Valley

I landed in LA late Thursday night, and on Friday, we drove up to Palm Springs. I was the passenger princess, obviously — because no license — and helped blast house music while we hydrated on Erewhon juices. Once we arrived, we rented an SUV and hired a designated driver for the rest of the trip, which turned out to be the best decision of the entire weekend.

For Day 1, I went with a black Skims bikini under an Akoia cover-up, a mini Balenciaga City bag, Chimi sunglasses, and Altuzarra calf boots. I knew it would get cold at night, but Day 1 was supposed to be the warmest of the three, so I was willing to suffer for it. No jacket, no sweater, just a quiet agreement with one of the boys that he’d share his hoodie when the time came.

After a pit stop at In-N-Out, we headed over to the festival. First mission: drinks and a home base. We picked the Aperol stand since it was central and close to the exit, even though I hate Aperol, so my drink of the weekend became a double tequila cranberry. Thirty dollars each, which would have felt criminal if they weren’t so absurdly strong.

The crowd, for reference, was doing its thing fashion-wise too. Isabel Marant boots everywhere, boho-chic layering, daisy flower crowns, fringe for days, and sparkly hair extensions catching the desert light. Also, a lot of booty — or “Yeeks” as I learned the slang term for. Coachella is nothing if not consistent.

The first music stop was Pawsa at Quasar, whose set ran at the same time as headliner Sabrina Carpenter — which, absolutely no offense to her, was an easy call. I’d seen him before in Miami during Art Basel, but what made this set special was how uncrowded it was. We made it to the front, danced, vibed, sang into the ether, and bought Patrón shooters from a guy selling them out of his backpack, because durrrr. When Pawsa played his Dirty Cash remix, I assumed it was over, but that was just halftime.

Afterward, we grabbed tacos, attempted to see Sexy Redd from the manufactured hill situation, and made the long walk back to the car with sand in our eyes and blisters on our toes, #JoeDreamz carrying us through as the midway pick-me-up. We passed tent after tent of people who’d set up camp for all three days, most of them basically lifting off in the wind. The commitment I respect but do not understand.

Day 2 — Bieber fever

In the morning, we did a Ralphs run, made breakfast, and tanned by the pool. I’m very into this Skims bikini cut — same style as Day 1 but in highlighter yellow, which felt like the natural progression. For the festival, I wore what the group immediately and permanently nicknamed my “bikini bottoms” — my old Jaded London crochet shorts from five years ago, same Altuzarra boots, a Skims skin-tight tee, and the Balenciaga City bag again.

Once at the festival, the first stop was, of course, to get my double tequila cranberry. Second stop: Giveon on the main stage at sunset. There was an orchestra, a ballerina, and Kehlani brought out to perform “Folded.” His voice is the kind that makes you close your eyes and sway back and forth — deep, slow, like being lowered into warm water. A good reset before the night got going.

One thing I noticed by Day 2 was the quiet fashion competition at every turn: the Isabel Marant boot crowd versus the rave-girls in those faux-Miu-Miu Steve Madden knockoffs everywhere. And the Justin Bieber merch, the “it’s not clocking to you” shirts. I’m so mad I didn’t get one smh.

We posted up at the Do LaB, one of the outdoor house-and-techno stages, with rainbow flags overhead, dancing through sets by DJs we’d never heard of and having an amazing time. There was one girl in particular who absolutely slayed her set — full techno, not usually my thing, but the energy was magnetic.

Then word got around that David Guetta was next door at Quasar, so we went to check it out. But it was an immediate hard pass. Insanely packed, and it really does sound like he’s playing off Spotify. He brought out J.Lo, though. Random. She looked incredible.

So we went back to the Do LaB for a few more songs, and then we found our pocket in GA about a minute before Justin Bieber went on.

He opened with songs from Swag and Swag II: “Speed Demon,” “Go Baby,” and “Everything Hallelujah.” Then he went into an acoustic, sermon-like stretch that lasted maybe ten minutes and completely stilled the crowd. No jumping, no screaming, everyone just listening. “Devotion” was my surprise standout of the night.

I wrestle with my own relationship with God and divinity, feeling like I only reach for prayer when things are hard rather than when things just are. Bieber’s belief — devoted, unashamed — was extraordinary to witness. The lighting/stage design gave him a halo around his head. His angel wing tattoos were visible at the back of his neck. I felt like I was in the House of Bieber, all of us his disciples, and he was translating something from somewhere else through Swag. Writing that out sounds absurd lol, but I stand by it.

Then came all the old bangers. What appeared to be Bieber screen-sharing his MacBook and typing the setlist in real time has since become a debate. Was it staged or actually live? I choose to believe it was real. We got “Sorry,” “Confident,” “Beauty and a Beat,” “Baby,” “All That Matters,” “Never Say Never.” The crowd lost it. I lost it.

More surprise guests rounded out his set: Tems, The Kid LAROI, MK.gee. Toward the end, he shed the oversized pink hoodie and sunnies and returned to Swag with “Yukon” and “Daisies.”

I need to say something about “Yukon.” I knew the song and liked it, but hearing it live was a completely different experience. I don’t think there is a sexier song on this planet. Everyone was making out, holding hands, grinding — steamy like a sauna in GA, even though we were outside, but I wasn’t complaining one bit.

Then the night kept going, as the best nights do. I changed into low-rise pants and a jacket. We made a pit stop at Neon Carnival for Ty Dolla $ign, went back to the house for afters, and somehow, Shaboozey was there? We drank red wine and beers in the heat and went to bed at noon.

Day 3 – Function over fashion

We woke up at 3 pm. Did a coffee-and-matcha run with the girls. Clearly, the day for function over fashion: low-rise bootcut jeans, same Altuzarra boots, a Maria Nilsdotter pearl necklace, a big brown Fendi fur bag that was my mom’s in the 90s, a With Jean top I’d thrifted at Buffalo Exchange, and my favorite & Other Stories cropped leather jacket. The girls in daisy-crown booty shorts on Day 3 had my respect, though.

We walked in on the final day to Major Lazer playing all their 2016-coded classics, with Diplo bringing out M.I.A. for “Paper Planes” — the perfect pregame before heading straight to the Do LaB. Then churros, paella, a pit stop at Yuma, and then back to our GA pocket from the Bieber night to watch Young Thug. I don’t listen to much rap, but I knew more songs than I expected — a win.

The weekend gave me new friends, new music, new inside jokes, and a firm reminder that the best version of any trip is the one you almost didn’t take. A friend texts, you say yes, you pack too much, and you end up with beautiful memories. I want to hold this weekend as my north star for the rest of the year. Not the Coachella part specifically, but the saying yes before you’ve thought it through. The eff it part! And I’ll start leaving the summer storage box out, just in case.

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For my fifteenth birthday in 2016, my mom got me a black Hervé Léger dress. It was a fit-and-flare, with little squiggly details across the bodice. I took my braces off that same day, put the dress on, stepped into her Saint Laurent heels, and had one of those rare moments where you catch yourself in the mirror and think: oh, there she is.

I threw myself a co-ed coming-out party in the truest sense. Out with little Yazzy with the braces and the pre-teen angst. In with straight teeth and something that felt like womanhood.

Then there was my middle school prom. My mom and I flew to New York specifically to find a dress. We visited Saks, Bergdorf’s, various outlet malls, the full pilgrimage, before landing at the Hervé Léger boutique on Madison Ave, where a long golden shimmery dress beckoned me from across the room. I tried it on, and we both knew immediately it was the one. I ended up kissing my middle school crush at the prom after-party, and in my memory, this dress and that kiss are inextricably linked.

I was in Stockholm last week, and I left feeling something I don’t usually feel: homesick. That feeling sent me back through old drawers, old desires, old reference points, and at the bottom of my childhood closet, the black Hervé Léger dress. Still there. Still mine.

So when I got back to New York and needed something to wear to Elle’s 25th birthday at Pearl Box — dress code “fun, sexy, dress and heels” — the answer arrived before I’d finished reading the invitation. I went to The RealReal first, looking for vintage Hervé Léger, didn’t find anything I loved, and ended up on the brand’s website, where I discovered they’re doing a full relaunch. New line, strong social presence, clearly a 2000s-2010 comeback, which tracks since 2016 trends are having their moment again.

A purple-and-gray-striped mini was calling my name in the way things only do when you’re already soft with nostalgia, a re-edition of the bandage dress Victoria Beckham wore in 2007. I remembered that Hervé Léger dresses stretch, so I sized down, express-ordered it, and when it arrived Saturday morning, it fit like a glove.

Elle’s birthday was a hit. She went all out, cocktails and grilled cheese with caviar, gourmet chicken nuggets, and a cake almost as breathtaking as her two outfit changes. My dress was a hit too (in my head). The confidence that comes from a good mini dress and the right heels isn’t delusional. It’s legit girl physics.

The night ended with a rendezvous at Baby Grand, pizza, and a sleepover at Elle’s.

I’m not sure if it was the dress or the company, but I felt fifteen again. Trends are cyclical, and I find that’s true of the self too. You keep coming back to the things that knew you first. Hervé Léger knew me at fifteen. And the dress still fits.

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There’s only one direct SAS flight out of Newark to Stockholm each day, which means running into someone from my past is basically a given. But this is a strange time of year to be making the trip. It’s not Midsummer or Christmas, so I’d assumed I was safe.

Then I spotted my first Swedish boyfriend’s sister across the lounge, sitting with their dad. I did a quick scan for him (he lives in New York now), didn’t see him, and figured they were heading back to Stockholm after visiting him.

I hadn’t slept much and was wearing mismatched socks and an old sweater that had no business being in public. I heard my mother’s voice in my ear the second I saw them — I told you so — specifically on the subject of airport fits, which she has been telling me I need to improve on for years.

I went over anyway and gently tapped the sister on her shoulder. She turned around and hugged me exactly the way I remember she always used to. The kind where you hold on tight, pull back for a moment to look at each other and smile, then lean in once more. We stood there talking about life, work, her new boyfriend, their grandparents, and my parents. Four years since I last saw them, and it felt like no time had passed at all.

That’s the thing about Stockholm. You can leave for months, which is what I always do, and come back to find things largely where you left them; certain relationships preserved in amber, still warm when you press your hand against them.

So much has changed, but so much has also just stood there, patient, waiting to be the same again. I find it comforting, mostly. Sometimes I find it eerie. Sometimes I dread coming back because I feel like I’m 17 again, the same intrigues and unresolved dynamics still hanging there, open.

But then there are all the friends I love, sleeping in my own bed, wandering into my mom’s closet to watch her get ready for a luncheon, taking a boat ride with my dad, and annoying my brother. It balances out. It more than balances out.

And then there’s the reason I’m actually on this flight. A friend of mine, Sam, passed away suddenly, and I’m going home for his funeral. Grieving someone from home while not being home has been stranger and harder than I expected. In a place where things tend to stay the same, a young death rattles everything. It leaves a hole where something was. And people keep finding each other at its edges, friend groups overlapping, age groups collapsing, and pulling everyone into the same room.

We’ve boarded now, a couple of hours delayed. The sister and dad are in the row ahead of me, and the cabin is already going quiet. I began by journaling my thoughts about today, but decided to share them as a Substack article instead. Sam was lively, hilarious, genuinely kind, handsome, en solstråle, the best at telling stories, so easy to connect with, and truly memorable.

I’m tired in the way that only a red-eye can make you, but for the first time since he passed, I’m not grieving from a distance. I’m going home. And so is everyone else whose lives Sam touched.

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Clarke, who’s invited eight of us girls out here to celebrate her 25th Birthday, is deep in negotiation over an embroidered purse with a long chain. Elle is on the hunt for a kaftan like mine. We go into every kaftan store that catches our eye, which turns out to be all of them.

One store in particular has these reconstructed kaftans that look promising — and then I see it: a coat hanging on the wall, rainbow stripes, long, thick, almost carpet-like, made from what looks like leftover scraps of a Moroccan rug. I try it on. I immediately love it. Elle loves it too, which says a lot because Elle isn’t always drawn to loud colors and prints (she tolerates mine though).

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The salesman wants 3500 dirham, roughly $350. I try to bargain, but he’s stubborn. Upon leaving, he asks what I’m willing to pay. I say I need to think about it, which is true, but what I really mean is that I need all the girls to come back with me for second opinions — specifically Demi, who is a bargaining/shopping prodigy and has been the secret weapon of this trip.

We get it down to 2000 dirham, about $200. I think about how I have been looking for a coat like this, Christopher John Rogers-esque. Zankov-esque (I’ve always loved this look on Vogue Director Naomi Elizée Blue). I walk out wearing it, pleased I found something I have been looking for, but also with a small unease I couldn’t quite name at first.

Before the trip, a friend had warned me she’d bought things from the souk and gotten home to find tags that said “Made in China.” (Not that it should automatically matter. Half of everything I own is “Made in China,” including this laptop and probably the Dolce tank top, let’s be real). But what I was specifically buying was the dream version: a local artisan, a coat with a story, something nobody else has. The vision of myself in New York in the spring, wearing it, feeling singular.

There’s also this thing that happens when you buy something abroad. It’s beautiful where you bought it. It makes sense there. And then you bring it home and sometimes it’s still beautiful and sometimes it’s just a coat that doesn’t translate. It doesn’t convey the souvenir of a feeling.

I’ll know in April, when I’m back in New York and this coat is either the first thing I reach for or the thing I keep moving to the back of mine and Ezgi’s coat rack. I’m betting on the former. Because the coat really is beautiful. I saw it and I wanted it and I bought it in Marrakech with my girlfriends while Clarke turned 25, which is already enough of a story.

And if I’m lucky, one day it’ll be hanging in someone else’s closet. My future daughter getting dressed for a trip somewhere, borrowing something of mine the way I borrowed my mom’s kaftan.

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I love an active date. Not because I’m soooooooo sporty in some fundamental way, but because if you’re going to spend $50+ on a situation, it might as well be one where you’re moving your body and have something to talk about other than what you do for work.

Moreover, I find that active dates compress time. You learn things about someone’s character in tennis/padel (like how they handle losing a point, whether they encourage you or retreat, and whether they’re gracious or competitive) that a drinks/dinner date wouldn’t reveal until the third, second, or fourth encounter. Movement strips a layer away even as it adds another. It’s more honest.

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Ezgi and I are trying to find time to go beforehand — just us 2 — to knock a few volleys before the boys show up. Which is preparation, yes, but simply what we do because it functions as both charm and armour.

The look is already decided. Ezgi has a Skims playsuit that makes you want to both be on her team and watch her play. I’m wearing a Free People sports bra with a lace shawl on top, which I’m aware sounds funny, but it’s actually really functional. The goal is athletic mobility, body confidence, and effort in that order.

Which brings me to Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, as most things eventually do. Everyone has been talking about Love Story… The fashion, the 90s minimalism. But what struck me most wasn’t the aesthetic. It was the effort underneath the effortlessness.

JFK Jr. chased her, sending rose bouquets to her Calvin Klein office after their first date, but Carolyn was doing her own quiet, rigorous work. The restraint. The updated look, from messy, carefree blonde to precision-straight hair and narrow sunglasses.

That’s the thing about effortlessness: it’s the most labour-intensive aesthetic there is. The no-makeup-makeup-look. The warm-up before the boys arrive is our rehearsal. The ease that you get in the moment of the date is real because it’s been prepared and practiced.

In an age when “let’s grab a drink” is the main expression of romantic imagination, offering up padel as a meet-up option does more.

Ezgi and I have had more than enough double padel dates to know our positions by now. She hits hard, I’m more consistent. She owns the volley, I run the baseline. We’ve rehearsed. We have the fits. All I gotta say is that the boys better be good.

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Alix Earle had Bravo star Stassi Schroeder on her GRWM podcast, and Alix discussed how Dancing with the Stars had restructured her whole life. The physicality of it made her want to drink less, go out less, and nourish her body because it suddenly became essential to the work. And I found myself genuinely curious what Alix — who has built an entire brand, literally, around college parties, Sip Margs and just always looking like she’s having a fun time — is going to do with that. How do you outgrow something you monetized? How do you evolve the bit when the bit is your personality?

I ask because I’m in the middle of reconfiguring what fun means to me, on the other side of something hard.

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My ex doesn’t drink (heyyyyyy I’m getting better at using the “e” word). He never made me feel like I had to be anything different, but proximity to someone who doesn’t drink will make you look at your own glass of Sancerre longer than usual.

Two years ago, Elsa and I did 75 Hard, which, for us, mostly meant no drinking and attempting to exercise every day. We broke our alc fast on Midsummer, which felt correct, almost ceremonial. And I waited for the transformation. The glass skin. The deeper sleep. The slimmer, tighter version of myself who had simply made better choices.

Nothing physically changed. What I got instead was information. Half the places I was going to in New York, half the people I was sitting across from, were genuinely not that interesting without a drink in my hand. Which isn’t an indictment of them so much as it is data about me, about what I actually needed from a night out vs. what I’d been settling for because the alcohol made it lit anyway.

So now I think about fun differently. I think it requires options, or at least the feeling of options, a loose itinerary, a sense that if this thing flops, there’s somewhere else to be, someone else to call.

Ezgi sent me a meme yesterday about how “clogged” is the new way to describe a jam-packed weekend, and it’s just so accurate. Thursdays are the new Fridays. Wednesdays are when the weekend starts. In Sweden, we call Wednesdays lill lördag – little Saturday – an excuse to go out midweek because you’re already halfway to the real thing.

This week is clogged in the best way. Bday drinks at Casa Cip yesterday, party plans every day, maybe a date or two folded in somewhere (one of whom suggested coffee at noon for this Saturday… I’m sorry, is this a date or a job interview?).

Two of my IB girlfriends are quitting their jobs and texted me yesterday that at least a month of their spring and summer is wide open for planning trips. They want grass and sand under their toes. The Hamptons for MDW. Miami sunshine. London calling.

The spring-ish weather in New York at the start of this week (after months of Arctic temps and snowstorms) did something genuinely needed to everyone’s nervous systems. I don’t even like Aperol Spritzes and I wanted one. I want to sit outside at Fanelli’s or Time Again or Spring Bar and have a drink I don’t usually drink.

And I’m not alone in this. Fashion is also fun and joyful again. Chloe Malle’s first issue as American Vogue editor landed with Rosalía on the cover and the words FASHION GETS FUN in big letters, which felt like a declaration. Everyone wanted to hate on Ryan Murphy’s Love Story, but people can’t help but watch it and love it and want to emulate it. On snow days, people are skiing down Delancy Street. Instagram is casual and flirty again. There are lookalike contests in Washington Square Park every weekend, with men who do not look like Harry Styles or JFK Jr. showing up anyway, fully committed and delusional. People are gleefully making fun of Timothée Chalamet for making fun of ballet and opera. Something has collectively loosened.

And then Matthieu Blazy closed his FW26 show with Lady Gaga’s Just Dance and it was just so tea. In the front row, Teyana Taylor, Margot Robbie, and even Anna Wintour’s bob couldn’t help but sway back ‘n’ forth. That song is an anthem to wanting to stay out until the sun comes up, of dancing like nobody’s keeping score. It made me want to spin in a circle in my apartment, which I did with Ezgi, blasting it five times on our speaker.

The fun is back. In pockets, between the weird and hard and awful parts of this year — not just mine, but everywhere all over the world. The bad things don’t stop happening because you’re dancing. But I’ve found it does help. Lady Gaga told us in 2008, and she reminded us again at exactly the right time.

If you need me this week, I’ll be outside, dancing shoes on, with a spritz I don’t like in hand, grooving to a song I’ve heard a thousand times. Oh, and don’t text me for coffee before noon.

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It’s early morning on Sunday, March 8th, International Women’s Day, and I’m nestled in the center of a bed between two of my favorite girls. Ezgi can sleep standing up, but she’s not feeling well. Joelle is sneezing every two minutes. They both need tissues, tea, and distance from each other, so I’ve been relegated to the middle, which is fine. I feel like I don’t really sleep much anymore anyway.

I should tell you: I’m not an early bird this morning. I’m a person who hasn’t gone to bed yet.

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For context, I’m technically on an extended work trip in CDMX, and the original plan was for my boyfriend to join me. But then I became single at the beginning of this year, which you might be able to tell from the “rock n roll” energy in my recent posts, or from the fact that I just referred to him as “my boyfriend” and then immediately corrected nothing. It’s a strange thing to be a single adult for the first time. This last relationship started the month I graduated from college, so I haven’t really figured out what I want when the wanting is just mine.

But as it turns out, I just wanted a girls’ trip.

Ezgi had PTO to burn. Joelle recently became single, too, with her birthday falling perfectly over these dates. The first couple of days in CDMX were surprisingly chilly. Like technically warm (25ºC, UV 11), but the high altitude (2200 meters above sea level) gives the city a constant, light mountain-town breeze.

Yesterday started with a solo walk from my hotel in Condesa to Soho House, which has the largest art collection of any of the houses and only four bedrooms (twenty-seven more rooms are being added next door, which I mention only because the manager told me, and it felt important). It might be the most beautiful House I’ve been to, tied neck-and-neck with Istanbul.

When Joelle and Ezgi arrived an hour or so later, we posted up by the pool immediately. A couple of margs deep, tan lines incoming, a rotating cascade of men in linen shirts and printed swim trunks kept circling our table asking for WhatsApp numbers, Instagram handles, and evening plans. We ate aguachile and a lot of chips and let them orbit.

We walked and shopped until the UV dropped — Xinu, Casa Ananda Vintage, Maison Celeste, Montserrat Messeguer, Lengua, Vera Colectivo. We stopped at Entremar for mussels, then I ran to put our names down for the last seating at Expendio de Maíz. We’d eaten there the night before and liked it so much we wanted to come back. We went home to get ready, all of us landing on mini skirts, cute going-out tops, and comfortable shoes. We knew we wanted to have a night.

At Expendio de Maíz, there’s no menu, no orders; the chefs decide and it just rolls out (Ezgi called it a taco omakase, so cute tbh). Each dish arrives with a story presented by one of the waiters: marinated pastor tacos prepared the way rural families in Mexico preserve pork or chicken so it lasts; chicken over beans and rice to give you a sense of what taqueria staff eat between shifts. No modern twists, no elevation per se, just the dish as it’s supposed to be, served with the context it deserves. The intimacy of being fed that way at a communal table, with what you’re eating and why explained, is something I keep turning over. We drank hibiscus mezcalitas, deep fuchsia with chamoy on the rim, and left full of ourselves, literally and otherwise.

After dinner, we went to San Luis, a salsa spot about 10 minutes away that my friend Sarah recommended. You pay a cover, get a table, and sit around a dance floor with a live band working through classics. Between songs, everyone returns to their seats and waits to hear the next one, deciding whether it’s worth getting back up. (The answer is always yes, but the ritual of deliberating is half of it.)

My favorite Rio girl, Joelle, taught me the footwork, dips, and turns. My eyes were on my feet most of the night, careful not to step on her toes. Eventually, two fifteen-year-olds came over to show us how it’s done. We giggled the whole way through like we were the teenagers being asked to dance for the first time.

The last song was Bad Bunny’s “Baile Inolvidable,” and the whole room lit up. Somewhere in there, I stopped counting steps and tried to sing along to a song I know so well, even though I don’t speak Spanish.

After dancing, we went to a bar called FoMa Bar that wasn’t my favorite, but our bartender kept us entertained, and when you’re with the right people, the venue barely registers. Then we set our sights on M.N. Roy.

I’d gotten the recommendation from a little birdie and then randomly stumbled upon it in Apple Music’s Nightlife guide for CDMX, which is surprisingly soooo accurate (I know, I too was shocked). They described it as a members’ club, technically once home to the founder of the Mexican Communist Party, with an interior of timber beams forming a pyramid around the DJ booth. Don’t bother going before 2:00 am, the guide said. We went at 1:00 am lol.

Walking down the street, we couldn’t find it until a man materialized out of thin air and said, “Are you looking for M.N. Roy?” We said yes. He walked us across the street to a bouncer at a very unassuming door, who asked who we knew.

Joelle, without blinking: “Tortu.”

I have no idea why she said this name. Ezgi and I just nodded. There was no Tortu inside, the bouncer informed us. Obviously. Did we know who owned the club, he asked? We did not. But after enough lash-batting and tourist energy, he let us in.

It was completely empty. Just us and the DJ, who was playing the kind of music that makes you put on auto Shazam. We ordered carajillos, and somehow Ezgi also ended up with a Red Bull Jägerbomb, which tells you everything about where the night was going. We found the smoke room, then the upstairs lounge with two mischievous swings, then the VIP room with velvet couches and a stripper pole that we immediately backed away from. We went back downstairs and let the DJ’s music have its way with us.

Slowly, the place filled up. It felt like a vortex, where somehow seven hours passed, and it was bright and warm out by the time we left. We all agreed it was one of the best clubs we’d ever been to, and it wasn’t even a peak night. My formula for a good night is simple: good outfits, good music, good girlfriends, and one fake name at the door. Tortu would be proud.

Honorable CDMX mentions:

Patrick Miller — only open on Fridays, italo disco and 80s music, only serves water and beer, probably our favorite going out spot

Contramar — the classic seafood joint; servers in white tuxedos, impeccable service, the more famous Hermano restaurant to Entremar

Casa 1900 — bakery and delicatessen of your dreams, get the cappuccino and dip all the pastries in it, celebrated Joelle’s birthday morning here

Condesa dF gift shop — beautiful artisanal Mexican trinkets, notebooks, jewelry, and clothes

Camila Banzo — where Ezgi and I splurged the most; independent woman fashion designer, beautiful structured clothing for any occasion, surprisingly fair prices, feels genuinely one of a kind, half the store is a vintage boutique

Maximo Bistro — I only had drinks while the others ate, but the food looked incredible; farm-to-table, serious meats, our friend Fernando got the tab, which was the cherry on top

Cometa Disco — two floors, upstairs is for dancing, disco and house music, beautiful bar and light installation, lava lamps by the dj booth (hadn’t seen those in a while)

Roca Hi-fi — bar and lounge, indoor-outdoor vibes, vinyl only; men will always get you free drinks here, nice smoking area

Escalina — interior design store of your dreams

Georgina Pounds Gallery — recommended by my friend Sarah; the space itself is almost the showstopper. I’d also add Lago Algo for the James Turrell installation, I missed it for work, but Joelle and Ezgi went and said it was fabulous, and I take their word for it

Loo Loo/Essex — had heard a lot of good things, Damian Lazurus was djign the night we were there, but felt very 1 Oak/Marquee coded, so it wasn’t really our jam; wish we tried YuYu or Fünk instead

Casa Margarita — incredible matcha foam, the margs live up to the name, chrome interiors throughout

Sunday Sunday — a day party that happens in Centro only on Sundays, kinda similar to Nowadays/Mister Sunday in BK, great view of the city and notoriously the best place to party on a Sunday in CDMX; go at 6 pm to catch the sunset from the top and don’t be scared of the really scary entryway and elevator

Salon Palomilla — head on upstairs into a bar that feels like a large open dome, plays R&B, works for big or small groups; ran into half the men who worked at Georgina Pounds Gallery here

Walk everywhere — this is a general tip, CDMX is extremely walkable, and when you’re subsisting entirely on tacos and margaritas are flowing through your veins, the movement becomes less optional and more medical

When Malique tells you something’s worth watching, you watch it. So I went home and binged all three episodes. Yes, I was up until 3:00 am.

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I grew up watching ANTM from Sweden, begging my dad to download each new season on my iPad. I loved the runway-diva-coach-extraordinaire Jay Alexander. I saw myself in so many of the girls. I dreamt of moving to NYC, and I vividly remember having a serious conversation with my dad about wanting to be on the show. He politely said no.

Practically, what I took with me most was the smize: smiling with your eyes, the power of presence, whether you’re posing for a photo or holding someone’s gaze in a job interview. And the more radical idea underneath it, that you could not only be beautiful, but actually believe you were, and revel in that confidence.

I was watching ANTM at its peak from a bedroom in Sweden, young enough to take it all at face value. I don’t even remember many of the problematic challenges that get dissected on TikTok now, twenty years later. What I remember are the Jays, the beautiful Black and brown girls Tyra would cast, the tears and hard moments I interpreted as proof that the modeling industry was brutal – not as signs of what the show itself was doing behind the scenes.

Ebony Haith and Giselle Samson were ANTM’s first Black and Latina contestants, respectively. Haith was also the show’s first openly queer cast member. Both were young women who believed in what the show promised: a new career, a chance to be chosen, and entry into a world that otherwise seemed completely out of reach.

Samson speaks with joy, pride, and happy tears about being selected; she made small paper clippings with her face on them and mailed them to friends and family so they’d know when and where to watch. Haith recalls seeing her face on a huge billboard in LA and how electric that moment felt.

And then the show went into production. Samson endured relentless body-shaming from the judges. Haith was mocked for her queerness and her “ashy” skin, and was edited to be the season’s “aggressive” contestant. The show took (what was supposed to be) the best moment of their lives and built something ugly around it.

Watching the documentary, I had actual tears running down my cheeks. For the girls who were verbally and physically abused (especially Shandi Sullivan and Keenyah Hill), gaslit, pushed toward eating disorders, pressured to alter their appearances, or asked to present as something they weren’t entirely. A girl forced to close her gap tooth. Contestants whose races were switched for a challenge, as if identity were a costume.

In the documentary, Tyra, along with executive producer Ken Mok, barely shows remorse. They claim they don’t remember. They redirect blame toward production, despite the fact that they were also producers, creators–people with real say in the editing room. Tyra blames “different times,” which might land differently if she hadn’t, in those same times, gone on live TV to tell tabloids to “kiss her fat ass” when they came for her body.

Tyra knew how to fight for herself. She just didn’t extend that same fight to the girls on her show.

I met Tyra in 2014 on a Christmas vacation in the Caribbean. My mom encouraged my best friend Yasmin and me to go up and ask for a photo. She was dismissive, almost cold about it, but I suppose I was too young to read much into it. I still considered her my role model. I got my picture and filed the interaction away.

The dissonance is hard to sit with. Because Tyra’s authority as a role model always felt earned. She was a Black woman who had survived an industry that spent years trying to shrink her, and she turned that survival into a platform, a show, a whole vocabulary of self-worth. You are beautiful. You could be a cover girl. That language landed because it seemed to come from someone who understood the cost of not believing it.

Which is exactly what makes the documentary so painful. She used the language of empowerment while the cameras were rolling, but the message and the machinery were running in opposite directions. And for a long time, the message was loud enough to drown everything else out.

I feel lost between the Tyra I grew up with and the one presenting herself now. They don’t match. I’ve had to come to terms with that this morning, coffee in hand, a little sadder than I expected to be.

But I keep coming back to Samson and Haith. The paper clippings. The billboard. That specific moment just before everything went sideways, when they still believed in it completely. I think about what they carried with them anyway, what the show couldn’t undo, even after everything it put them through.

Tyra is no longer my role model. Simple as that. She hasn’t asked for forgiveness, hasn’t reached out to the contestants she hurt, and hasn’t done anything that would make me reconsider. You can’t extend grace that was never requested.

The smize, the confidence, the cover girl energy – I’m still keeping all of that. I built it. It’s mine. I’m just done crediting the source.

Onward to better role models. They’re definitely out there.

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I skipped last week’s posts because I wanted to actually experience my first New York Fashion Week before writing about it. To make up for it, this post is a little extra long. Now that I’m a few shows deep, I have reflections.

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My week began with some industry events on behalf of work. To start, I didn’t have any shows on my agenda, but I learned quickly that many of these invitations come at the last minute. I assumed things like attendance were locked in weeks ahead of time (if you’re for realz famous, that’s definitely true), but for the rest of us normies, it’s about two days out.

Personally, I got into shows in three different ways: an email from a PR contact the day before, snagging someone’s ticket when they couldn’t attend (or using their name at the door), and meeting someone at a party who just happened to be a designer on the official CFDA Fashion Week schedule.

That last one is how I ended up at PatBO. Patricia Bonaldi, the designer, invited me to her show after we met at a party earlier this week and even offered to dress me for it. I stopped by their Flatiron showroom and chose from a rack of colorful, beautifully textured, quintessentially Brazilian pieces. I went with a midi dress with cutouts at the waist in more neutral tones, since it’s February, and I didn’t want to freeze. Nevertheless, everyone in the front row was dressed as if it were peak summer in Ipanema.

Jessel Taank from Real Housewives of New York was sitting front row. I interviewed her at a party during Fashion Week last September, so I went up to say hello. A year ago, I would’ve been too nervous, worried it would be awkward or she wouldn’t remember me. But I’ve learned people actually love this; they love talking, getting their photo taken, being recognized, and remembered. Given that I was going to most of these shows solo, striking up conversations became a necessity, not just something to do while waiting.

Speaking of showing up solo, I quickly discovered that half the invites are standing room only. I didn’t know this was a thing. I always assumed an invitation automatically meant a seat, but it turns out it can also just mean you’re allowed in and escorted to a standing area along the wall or near the photographers.

For the shows where I was standing, I wasn’t tall enough to see over people’s heads, so I tried to edge my way toward the front — craning my neck, lifting my phone above the crowd, hoping for the best shots. Yet it was clear that these brands want bodies in the room, eyes on the collection, posts on the grid. Standing, seated, whatever, as long as you show up and talk about it afterward. And honestly, I’m just happy to be there.

Another thing I’ve learned is that nothing starts on time, and that fashion week is truly where the saying “fashionably late” comes from. Every show I attended ran 30-40 minutes behind schedule. Marc Jacobs is apparently the exception, but I wasn’t on that guest list, so I can neither confirm nor deny... Some of the more established brands send Uber vouchers to get you to and from the show, which is a thoughtful touch when you’re running around all afternoon.

All this waiting meant I spent real time thinking about what to wear to each show. For Jane Wade, I went with something asymmetrical and a little preppy, with office-siren bits of skin showing to match her aesthetic. Then I arrived and realized the senior journalists and critics I recognized were wearing their most practical outfits, no heels or frills or fluff. They were also the last to arrive and the first to leave, already thinking about the next show on their schedule. Unless a brand is dressing you directly, no one really cares what you’re wearing. The people who matter most are moving way too fast to notice.

This entire experience has been such a shift from where I was just a year ago. When I worked at The Times, fashion week was something I watched from the ad side. I helped book full-page invitations in the paper, cover wraps that would end up on runways in Paris and Milan. I was amplifying the experience, but never really in it. However, I love photography, so as a side gig, I’d reach out to brands and ask to shoot their shows, documenting models backstage getting ready or following influencers between appointments.

Last year, I met Kim Shui at the Alo gym during pilates (naturally), and she let me photograph her spring show. This year, I went to her show again, but this time through work, as an attendee. The looks were stunning, very opulent, mobwife-coded, with 70s hair flair and modern, sexy takes on classic Chinese silhouettes. The beauty here was just as significant as the clothes: light blue eyeshadow with Barbie-pink lips, exaggerated nails, and intentional updos suited to the very diverse models walking down the runway. Oh, and the show was on a boat. An actual ferry, swaying back and forth. I’m not entirely sure what the significance was beyond spectacle, but it was a vibe. Extra effort to get there for sure, but definitely worth it.

Two other shows I went into pretty blind were Private Policy and Advisory. I’ve fallen a bit out of the New York streetwear scene and don’t keep up with it as much as I should, but let me just say, wow. Advisory’s show in particular completely reinvigorated that fashion genre for me.

The show opened with an incredible tap dancer, tapping away to Momo Ready’s “If I’m In Love” and Minnie Riperton’s “Les Fleurs.” It really made me quite emotional. And when the clothes started coming down the runway, I kept forgetting to take photos because I was so caught up in the world creative director Keith Herron had built. Oversized hats shaped like devil’s ears, beaded tuxedo jackets, structured balloon skirts in tweed, gorgeous models, and a killer soundtrack. It really did it for me.

This afternoon I have my last shows: Leblanc Studios, Jovana Louis, and Pipenco. Over the past couple of days, I’ve discovered designers and aesthetics I’d never encountered before, which feels like the real point of all this.

It’s easy to associate American fashion week with established names like Ralph Lauren, Coach, Carolina Herrera, Altuzarra, Calvin Klein, LaQuan Smith, Tôteme, Michael Kors, Tibi, Khaite, Diotima (speaking of, I need this top)… There’s a rhythm to it, too. Many conversations begin with the same pattern: “What show were you at before this?” “Where are you going next?” But fashion week is also about discovery. Rather than feeling FOMO about where the insiders were headed, I found people going to the same shows I was, carpooled with them, and made quick friends for the afternoon.

I’m definitely experiencing a level of access that I haven’t had before. It feels like proof that if you stay curious and keep showing up, eventually the room opens. And sometimes what’s inside surprises you. This week I got emo watching a tap dancer usher in a streetwear show. I was dressed by a designer and made my way to the front of the standing-room-only crowd. I can’t help but wonder what September — the true kick-off of the global fashion month — might look like. What access will feel normal by then? What will feel special? Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to find out. But if I end up freezing in a dress or swaying on a ferry in heels again, I’ll be just fine with that.

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We’ve been seeing this pub all over Instagram, and the vibes are exactly what we hoped for. Notoriously, this is where the girlies come to meet hot Australian guys, so we’re banking on solid eye candy. Everyone who works here is also Australian, so we’re hearing lots of “G’day!” and “Hey, mate!”

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The fella sitting next to us just gave us free t-shirts and beer snugs for his brand, Hard Yakka — apparently an Australian-born clothing brand similar to Carhartt. They sponsor the pub and dress all the hosts and hostesses. I mean, how cute! The pub sorta transports you, and it’s homey and welcoming, which tracks with every impression I’ve ever had of Australians.

Neither of us are huge football fans. The game is Patriots vs… I’m not even sure who. I just know the second team is the underdog, since that’s what my brother told me on the phone earlier this week. Elsa and I are skimming Football for Dummies to understand what we’re about to watch, but I honestly think we’re dummy deluxe because we still don’t get it.

Normally I watch the Super Bowl with a big group of friends in someone’s apartment. That’s the best way to take in the ads and the halftime show — everyone yelling at the TV, someone’s yummy dip situation... But I was feeling something different this year.

Elsa is only here for another month before she heads back to Copenhagen (devastating), so we’re trying to hit everything she wants to see and do before she goes. Experiencing the Super Bowl together was on the list. Also on the list: attend a hockey game, go on a double date, hit some nightclubs she hasn’t been to yet, eat at JG Melon, and — this one’s my favorite — accompany Elsa to her first lip flip appointment. Her laser place has a deal where the first lip flip is free (compared to the usual $100), so we made the appointment for next week. Only in New York, obviously.

I’ve been out every day this week, mostly revisiting old spots with fresh eyes. I went to dinner at Comal on Friday, which as soon as I walked in I realized was the old Gem Wine spot. And now I’m experiencing the Super Bowl, which I’ve done many times before, but this time at a bar. An Australian one, no less.

I think it’s important to stay a tourist in your own city. Even after seven years in New York, getting to do very New York things with a hometown friend is so special. Seeing familiar things through someone else’s eyes refreshes your own.

It’s kind of on theme with my last post about being indulgent — not being scared to try new things or re-try old things in a different way. Revisiting a restaurant you loved years ago. A friend you’ve known forever re-enters your life in a way that deepens your relationship. Styling a top you’ve had in your closet in a completely new way. Sometimes new things are just old things seen differently.

The pub is filling up now with influencer girlies and boy squads. Ezgi just arrived too — yay. The bartender’s accent is getting thicker as the crowd gets louder. Elsa’s tequila soda is almost gone. The Super Bowl hasn’t started yet, but we’re already having the best time, doing something we’ve done before, just not like this.

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