Welcome to France!

I used to say this all the live-long day when I lived here. It was my snarky little refrain, delivered with a heavy dose of eye roll and usually a ten-pound sigh whenever French inefficiencies (inevitably) entered the chat. So, when I found myself lining up for customs two weeks ago, the phrase came up like a case of the spins ready to spew.

A queue which is usually pretty reliable anywhere else on Earth. But here, en France? The speed of continental drift comes to mind. Apparently, all 16 planes that had just landed at Charles de Gaulle had arrived at, would you even believe it, the very same moment every worker decided to take… a break. Leaving ONE French officer manning ONE booth. Welcome to France!

But this time, after being away for a year and some change, I thought: Yes. Welcome to France. C’est la vie. Maybe while I wait I’ll read my magazine. Which I did. Maybe I’ll strike up a conversation with a fellow traveler and learn their story. Which you know, I did. Maybe I’ll turn down the volume on my very American need for everything to happen immediately. Still working on that.

And before I knew it, Welcome to France was being said to me by the ONE officer as she stamped my little blue passport.

I realized the phrase didn’t have to be a complaint anymore. At least, not every time. Maybe it could be an invitation to slow the hell down and enjoy the French way of doing things. So that’s what I did. Well. Mostly. I mean, I’m not a saint.

I wasn’t suddenly serene while the entire country moved at the speed of an escargot. Believe you me, the old feelings of irritation still rose every time six people would casually decide to come to an abrupt and complete stop in the MIDDLE of the sidewalk to convene what appeared to be a municipal hearing. But this time, at least I started to settle in. To smell, not the roses, but the croissants. To look up. To flâner instead of speed-walk. I convinced myself there’s no prize for arriving early… unless the prize is a chausson aux pommes à Le Boulanger de la Tour, in which case, by all means, panic, bolt, push people out of your way, do what you have to do. They sell out by noon. I would know. Greatest heartbreak of the trip. But I digress…

So, Welcome to France. And welcome to the lists below: a carefully curated collection of places worthy of slowing down for. Some of which may or may not have required several hours of my own very French patience to get to and from.

NOURRITURE + BOISSONS

Cosi — If you’re craving Florence, Italy … and when exactly are we not?… and dreaming of eating a pan’ino from Ino, but finding yourself sweating through your clothes in the heat of Pareeee, go to Cosi. It’ll transport you. And consider this a tip... get it to go, then meander over to Jardin du Luxembourg with friends (preferably who answer to the names of Leah and Ariel), find some shade under a tree, and picnic while gushing about all the new relationships, trips, and general life developments. Basically, best of both worlds. Italy without the airfare avec Parisian chicness.

L’Etna — Craving a funky glass of vin orange? A classic Sancerre? Or perhaps a champagne-induced hiccup fit? They’ve got you covered. The menu of small plates is small enough to order one of everything. Which, if you’re curious, we did.

Arbane Cocktail Bar — Basically, the rare Parisian experience that makes you stop mid-cocktail and think, Welcome to America! rather than Welcome to France! Mostly because Blink 182 is bopping loudly on the speakers. The cocktails are so inventive you start questioning why you’ve wasted so much of your life ordering only wine in France. Oh! And they have working AC. Which, in Paris these days, is GOLD!

Le Buci Café Brasserie — If you find yourself in desperate need of a croque monsieur, a demi-bière, (another) bottle of Sancerre, possibly a roast chicken, fish and chips, and whatever else might be required at 1 a.m. to absorb the previous cocktails you and your friends sucked down hours before at Arbane that got you into this starving fit in the first place… this is the spot. And if you’re lucky, you’ll be surrounded by new and old ex-pat American friends (I’m looking at you Vivian, Tati, Paige, Ariel, Leah and Hassan).

Le Boulanger de la Tour — This place is dangerous for anyone with a pastry problem, which is to say, most of us. We Americans might look at their star of the show… and call it an apple turnover, but the French have given it a much more elegant name: a chausson aux pommes. Whatever you call it, I have eaten enough of them here over the years to know that one is never enough. And Lord, if you don’t get there before the bells of Notre Dame strike noon, you’re merde out of luck. They’ve sold out for the day! Plain croissants only. (Which let’s be real… are everything as well!). Make sure this place is on your list! Best patisserie in my book!

Forêt Forêt — Go here if you’re craving Hōjicha, which I always am ever since Recto Verso introduced me to it when I lived on their block in Le Marais many moons ago. (However, sigh. Naturally, Recto Verso is now closed, along with nearly every other place I loved on this trip, because apparently the French have decided August is an excellent month to abandon their businesses and leave me to fend for myself. Excuse my rant...)

But! Forêt Forêt remains, and walking in feels a bit like taking a wrong turn and landing in The Jungle Book. There are so many plants practically slapping you in the face that, despite being a stone’s throw from Place des Vosges, you start wondering whether you should have brought binoculars, malaria tablets, or someone who knows what to do in the event of a gorilla encounter. Bonus… the staff could not have been kinder. Welcome to France! Go here.

Le Mary Celeste — I have yet to meet an American who doesn’t beeline here the second they touch down in Le Marais. And try to convince me it isn’t because it’s the one restaurant Americans can all pronounce right off the bat. I’ll wait.

Who cares why we come? We just know it’s gooooood. It’s the perfect place for an afternoon of sardines, pickles, deviled eggs (I know! That’s saying something coming from a deep Southerner who grew up popping these like candy on Sundays), and a cidre or une bière pression (draft beer) to revive whatever dignity the night before managed to leave behind.

Bistrot Des Tournelles — Book your reservation months in advance. Or take note of Vivian and my move. Deploy your “I’m American” card by eating dinner early… while the Europeans are still licking their lips from lunch. They open at 7 p.m., so arrive at 6:45 p.m. and start the queue. Walk-ins only at the bar and every other table (rest assured) is booked.

Keep it to two people. Let’s not get carried away with the plan. There are four seats…five if the barback is feeling generous (which he wasn’t on the night we went). It’s worth it! A limited menu, Calvados poured as though tomorrow has been canceled, and dessert that after taking the final bite will have you looking at your dining companion and asking, “Should we just restart the whole meal over again right now?” The boeuf au poivre and stew is the best. If you can… go here in the cooler months for piping hot dishes without being piping hot from the températures extérieures.

Bon Dimanche — If you’ve ever wanted to revisit the particular joy of eating apricot Gerber straight from the jar.. only colder and significantly more sophisticated.. you need to go here.

Wait… what?? You mean your mom DIDN’T let you pick out a jar of baby food for dessert every week until adolescents?! If not, honestly, that’s probably… normal. But it does make me feel very lucky to have been raised by a woman who considered the baby food aisle a dessert counter and made a boring trip to the grocery store so much more quirky.

So, if you want to taste my childhood... or, for those of you raised on ice cream, get a little taste of yours... Bon Dimanche is where it’s at. This tiny shop on tiny Île Saint-Louis serves a frozen apricot concoction that somehow tastes like both.

Café Courtial la Crêpe — When you want a crêpe without the tourist-trap theatrics. This is your place. Bonus: they have cushioned seating, outdoor tables, and the whole place is turned to channel... charming. The crêpes are exactly what you want. Thin, buttery, crisp around the edges, and generously filled with the works (especially formage!). Dangerously easy to eat.

La Petite Manis — Looking for an accordion-like, impossibly flaky viennoiserie (pain au chocolat is the move) or a warm, toasty salt bun with enough butter to make you momentarily forget the D word: diet. And instead remember the only two Ds that count in this scenario… drool and decadence. Search no more. This is your place! And if you order just right, they’ll even offer to serve them hot for you.

Carré Pain de Mie — As someone who doesn’t eat a ton of bread, okay! I hear you. All of my reviews so far have been yeast-heavy, but this vehicle is what they’re famous for over here. And what are we even doing if we’re not letting the bread drive?

The order is their Tonkatsu Sandwich. Period. They cut the sandwich into six little pieces, presumably to make you feel like you’re eating something dainty. Yet after two, you may find yourself wondering (as I did) if you’d actually just eaten an entire loaf. You’ll leave full!

(I met my French muse, Fanny, here for a “quick” three-hour lunch. She owns La Bonbonnet bar á vin, which should also never be missed when you’re in Paris.)

Bar des Prés — Cyril Lignac’s Franco-Japanese fever dream is the kind of place where everything feels a little too chic to be this delicious. The menu is full of raw fish, punchy sauces, and things you’ll immediately motion to the waiter almost immediately after your first taste to “bring another.”

Get a sake and let the menu make the decisions for you, sit at the bar, and spend 90 minutes pretending you live in Saint Germain des Prés and that this is just what you do on a Wednesday. No one needs to know otherwise.

La Fontaine de Mars — Here the meal is bookended by pools of decadence. You begin with escargots drowning (quite happily, I imagine) in a pool of garlic and butter. Then come the leeks, steamed and topped with toasted bits and a sauce so good you begin to wonder if the French have somehow figured out how to bottle sunshine and pour it over vegetables. Next, tartare de bœuf, accompanied by capers and a tiny tub of mustard with its own little wooden spoon. A civilized arrangement that suggests you may want to exercise some restraint… which of course you immediately ignore. Then comes the duck confit, with the mushiest, cooked-to-perfection potatoes imaginable. You know they’re filling you up. You know you should stop. And yet they taste almost like salty air, so you inhale them. And finally, dessert… an island of meringue floating in a pool of sweet custard.

If you’re lucky enough to go with a bestie, you leave floating in your own little pool of happiness .. mostly a coma of butter, wine, and the sort of joie that makes you briefly forget you’ll have to eat salad tomorrow.

DES JARDIN + DSE ACTIVITÉ

Jardin du Luxembourg — This is where you go when you want to enjoy Paris at its most effortlessly beautiful. You sit in one of those famous green chairs, watch impeccably dressed Parisians glide past, and suddenly understand why everyone here seems to know exactly how to wear a scarf, carry a baguette, and look mildly unimpressed all at once.

I like to come here with a coffee and pretend I’m the sort of person who reads a book in public. While in reality, I spend those 20 minutes watching strangers over my hardback makeout as if they haven’t noticed there are 1,000 people beside them, the next 40 minutes admiring the women’s fashion.. they come here to be seen and, frankly, they know how to put on a show… and the rest of the time wondering how everyone else who isn’t on vacation, comme moi, has three hours to spend for lunch… on a Monday. Welcome to France!

Place des Vosges — It’s one of those Parisian squares that seems almost suspiciously perfect. You walk in and suddenly find yourself surrounded by red brick, elegant arches, manicured lawns, and people sitting around as if they’ve been casually posing here since the 17th century. It’s the sort of place where you can sit with a friend and watch Paris happen without having to participate. Children run around, dogs conduct important business, and couples lounge on the grass looking effortlessly French… usually somewhere between a passionate embrace and what appears to be the opening argument in a very aggressive divorce.

Domaine National du Palais Royal — The striped columns are, of course, impossible to resist. They were created in the 1980s by artist Daniel Buren as part of a controversial public-art installation, which feels very Parisian. Take a historic royal courtyard, wait a few centuries, fill it with candy-striped columns, and then let everyone argue about whether it’s genius or an architectural crime. (History repeats itself, am I right? Hello? Have we all forgotten the Eiffel Tower saga?)

The funny thing is that they were never really meant to be decorative in the traditional sense. They were designed to play with the architecture of the courtyard… height, perspective, light, and those endless black-and-white stripes. Today, of course, their main civic duty appears to be providing the perfect backdrop for Instagram (see mine later as proof). Where people come to document their “effortless Parisian afternoon” from approximately 17 different angles before finally leaving to find somewhere “with better lighting.”

Jardin des Tuileries — Paris’s version of a front-row seat to the city. Grab another one of those infamous green chairs, sit by the fountain, and watch the city parade past you.. tourists taking approximately 900 photos of the same statue, impeccably dressed Parisians walking as though they’re late to something important, and children sailing those little boats in the fountain. It’s grand, beautifully manicured, and wonderfully central. Right between the Louvre and Place de la Concorde. And somehow, despite all the people, it never feels too busy. You can sit there for an hour, people-watch, and convince yourself you’re not sightseeing at all. You’re simply living à Paris.

FAIRE DU SHOPPING et PLUS ENCORE

Brocante — All of them. You’ll pick up a little antique, ask “C’est combien?,” make a face, counter with something lower, and then… through a series of negotiations that I’m fairly certain neither party fully understands.. you somehow agree to pay more than the price they originally asked. Welcome to France! And the funniest part? You leave feeling like you won.

Merci — It’s part shop, part café, part design fantasy, and part very effective way to spend money you had no intention of spending. Chairs you suddenly need, bowls you’re convinced will change your life, clothes that look simple until you notice the price tag, and approximately 400 objects you didn’t know existed five minutes ago but now somehow cannot live without. Come for the browsing, stay for the coffee, and leave wondering how you managed to turn “just looking” into a small financial endeavor.

Oh My Cream! — More like... Oh My Lord! I visit this shop every single time I’m in town, and every single time I leave convinced that this new product will change my life.. At least my face. This time, it may! I bought a facelift. Okay, okay. Let’s not get crazy. Calm down. I’m still carded at R rated movies thank you very much (and as a reminder and basically a massive bragggg.. you have to be 17 for those, sooooo…). But I did finally buy the thing I’d been coveting since I arrived… Cecily Braden’s lymphatic brush duo. And Oh My. I love her!

Monoprix — Americans have Target. The French have Monoprix. Both are dangerous places to enter with (or let’s be real... without) a list. It’s the kind of store where you can buy your groceries, your underwear, your dinner, and if things have gone particularly well… a very strong opinion about French mustard (most have an entire aisle for this).

Taxis — Welcome to France, where apparently there is a tax for not having exact change. You hand over €50 in one of these yellow cabs for a €43 fare and, somehow, you’ve just made a small charitable donation to your driver. No receipt, no explanation, just a quiet little merci as your €7 disappears into the French economy. Consider it your first souvenir.

When I lived here, making this place a home felt so important that every linguistic mistake … which was always and forever, amen… somehow became a referendum on whether I belonged. This time, though, the pressure valve felt like it had finally released. Now that France doesn’t have to be my home, I could simply enjoy her.

I mean, let’s keep it cute and classy. I did still begin nearly every interaction with my foolproof disclaimer that I’m a student and would like to thank them in advance for their patience as I attempt to make sense: “Je suis étudiante en français. Je pratique tous les jours. Et merci d’avance pour votre patience avec moi.”... It’s my linguistic equivalent of walking into a job interview wearing a sandwich board that says …I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, but I’m delightful.

And every time, without fail, that sentence was followed by the biggest, warmest grin from the person I was absolutely certain, approximately four seconds earlier, was the meanest, grumpiest Frenchman alive. So, Welcome to France. Where things are slow, they’re chic, they’re délicieux, and, more often than not, they’re kind... especially when you hand someone the rope to hang you with and then politely thank them in advance for their grace as you butcher their langue maternelle.

She poured down rain and her temperatures dropped finally on the last two days of my trip. I’ve always said that it’s way easier to leave a place when the weather turns.. But Welcome to France! Here, à Paris, somehow, she’s even more beautiful in the rain and clouds.

I’m off to Morocco in a few hours. Until that dispatch.. Bisous bisous from my precious Marguax … et moi!

Xx ac

Somewhere over the American Southwest last Thursday, I pulled out my computer to write. My flight to LA had already become more plot than transportation and I felt it mandatory to document. Here we go…

Our lead flight attendant was one of those people who, before takeoff, wins you over immediately. During the safety demonstration she had us cackling. ‘If this plane suddenly becomes a cruise ship’ and ‘If you don’t like us, there are six exits on this aircraft.’ You know, the kind of start to a flight when you think, Oh good. One of the fun ones.

Then, at cruising altitude, she pivoted from stand-up comedian to middle school vice principal. “No gathering in the galley.” Fair enough. Four minutes later... “NO gathering in the galley.” Interesting. Another few minutes... “NO GATHERING IN THE GALLEY!!” Ok ok already.

The fascinating part was that no one had actually gathered. One man stretched his legs. Another wandered toward the restroom. And one was just adjusting his airflow. If this was a gathering, then I host dinner parties every time I check my mailbox.

The irony came a couple of hours later when she reminded us that all electronic devices must be used with headphones. A noble rule. Yet apparently the rule only applied to the passengers. Because she and another flight attendant were, at that very moment, watching what sounded like either hurricane footage or an especially dramatic bear encounter at full volume beside all of us who were desperate for some shuteye.

I made a mental note. If I ever write a book on airplane etiquette, and I suspect I will, the first chapter won’t be called Children or Carry-ons (but believe me … I already have full outlines ready for submission). It’ll simply be titled: Let’s Pretend It’s a Plane. Because really, that’s the only rule we should abide by.

Let’s pretend there are 180 other people here. Let’s pretend your tray table is attached to the back of my chair. Let’s pretend shouting across the aisle can wait until baggage claim. Let’s pretend your child screaming to the top of their lungs isn’t kids just being kids with a side smile and eye roll. And if, by some miracle, every single person around you has finally fallen asleep... Let’s pretend you’ve noticed.

Despite all of that (and believe me there were lots more details but let’s pretend you get it), I landed in sunny California… ridiculously sleep deprived … but wildly excited to see my new home for the next three days and nights. This was my first time in Los Angeles. (I know. Can’t you even handle it?) And I have declared it should only go by La La Land from here on out. I loved it!

SERVED & PLAYED AL FRESCO IN THE CITY OF ANGELS

Word to the wise: if you want to step onto the set of Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood, do yourself a favor and either have the luck (as moi) to have a home chef prepare a daily feast worthy of the occasion (think Negronis, bruschetta, homemade pasta (not pictured because self-control wasn’t invited to dinner. We inhaled it!), and the sort of spread that convinces you that you've accidentally become someone's favorite houseguest) or, at the very least, make your way to a local tacoria for the yummiest Mexican. The only rule? Whatever you eat, eat it al fresco.

I was taken to Mariscos Za Za Zá as my official welcome to Los Angeles and greeted with exactly what I’d hoped California would deliver: tacos, sunshine, and the realization that people really do eat outside here without needing a fan.

Next activity. When you deplane, under absolutely no circumstances should you accidentally take a nap. This is how people remain on East Coast time for a week and then spend the remainder of their vacation wondering why they’re starving at 3:45 p.m. As someone who’s spent a good chunk of adulthood hopping time zones, I’ve learned there is only one cure. Move.

A hike to the Griffith Observatory was exactly the prescription. The trail was golden, dusty in that glowing California way, and packed with enough uphill to convince my body it had bigger things to worry about than what time zone I just entered.

Water breaks became mandatory. Huffed. Puffed. Negotiated with my calves. And then, at the top, rewarded with cool air conditioning and one of my favorite discoveries of the trip: the Foucault Pendulum.

This giant pendulum marks the progress of the Earth’s rotation as the swinging heavy bob knocks little wooden pegs over one by one when the floor beneath it turns. It’s astonishing how quickly a room full of adults becomes emotionally invested in a block of wood. Everyone would stand silently, staring. Waiting. Waiting. Then... clack. The peg would topple. The room collectively smiled and looked around at one another as if we’d personally willed the Earth to rotate and cause that to happen. It was magic!

On the way down the other side of the mountain a baby fox sashayed over. She looked so friendly I briefly considered petting her before remembering I was, in fact, the visitor in this arrangement. So just like that, my California welcome committee had checked off wildlife.

Next up: the food portion of the program.

Off to my first LA dinner at All Time. Which, forgive me for the obvious play on words that is begging for attention and about to come up right this very minute without control, was one of my all-time favorite meals! The melon salad? I’ve thought about it daily since. And the way the wine arrived nestled inside a sculptural marble cooler … it took on a look more like a modern art installation than something intended to chill a bottle. But the setting? That was everything. The lighting was low enough to make everyone look attractive and optimistic … the kind of place where even your worst stories probably sound charming. A restaurant designed exclusively for successful first dates, I’d say.

The next few days were spent exactly as they should be: outside. Al Fresco!

Playing tennis at the public courts in Vermont Canyon, tucked into a bowl between the mountains. I’d never seen anything quite like it. It was unreal. A place where I learned “set, game, match” has far more meanings than I’d previously appreciated.

The set was successfully convincing the woman running the courts that we really had reserved one. The game was showing up early enough to negotiate for a new time slot and therefore new court. And the match was me discovering a new variation where the point doesn’t actually begin until the server successfully returns the first shot. Who knew? Even with this advantage… (covering my High School Tennis Captain eyes as I type this)… I lost. Twice. But only barely, ok?! She’s rusty, but my smily coach that day insisted there’s a strong player hiding somewhere in there. I liked the way he saw things.

Everything feels just a little bigger in California. The roads. The sky. The Pacific.

Santa Barbara … here I am!

Santa Barbara itself may be the sweetest little town I’ve ever visited. Making an obligatory stop at Pavilions, a local grocer, for beach snacks before driving into town where, for a brief moment, I forgot I was in California altogether. The whitewashed buildings, cedar-shingled roofs, and easy pace felt more like Nantucket or one of those idyllic New England beach towns where everyone owns a golden retriever and somehow knows how to sail. It was perfect!

And then her majesty, Mother Pacific Ocean…

There is no easing yourself into this particular body of water. She’ll lull you into thinking she’s calm, then casually send a wave the size of a small office building barreling towards shore. So you wait. You watch. You time her. Then, the second she gives you permission, you sprint into waist-deep water like you’re being chased by a lion (which isn’t too far off since the Santa Barbara Zoo lies just in eyeshot of her shoreline.)

The water was brisk. Perfectly salty. A very respectable second place to my beloved Atlantic.

After drying off (and warming up - shockingly I shivered and turned a few shades of blue and purple before thawing out from the swim), I cheered for the nearest volleyball match (yes, I have no photo proof but the beaches were lined with sandy courts just like I’d imagined), then settled in with a glass of orange wine on the front porch of Corks n’ Crowns for golden hour to question all the things… especially how long the majority of the patrons next to had been guzzling their vino like water.

From there, a short drive down to the harbor to eat at Brophy Bros. Where, if I were to have closed my eyes and been spun around twice, I would’ve sworn I was at The Dock in Montauk. It’s the perfect end of day setting. Everyone seemed impossibly relaxed. Some barefoot. Some fully dressed. All sun-kissed. And all happy.

At some point mid-dinner I think I’d started saying “man...” at the beginning of every sentence, followed immediately by a fit of giggles. I’d been in California less than 48 hours and was already showing symptom of what is contagious here… joy. Doc, skip the cure. I’ll happily take a lifetime prescription. Please and thank you!

The following day bopping down to Hermosa Beach to visit friends and continue my tennis education. This time I traded my racket for a wooden paddle, hard courts for sand, and, much to my delight, actually won a few points. I must say… it’s hard to beat a true beach baby in her element … She’s (c’est moi) had loads of practice in the dunes.

Just beyond the game, a school of dolphins darted through the surf as if they’d been hired by the California tourism board to wow me (which they did!). Between this Flipper moment, squinting to see the giraffes at the beachside zoo the day before in Santa Barbra (never actually spotting them.. pun alert), and the baby fox that just happened to meander in my path. I came to one conclusion: California is less a state and more an exceptionally well-funded wildlife preserve.

Before heading to LAX for wheels up on Sunday, Oaks Gourmet served up piping hot Americanos that kept good company as a final pilgrimage was made to the Daily Planet Book Store in search of the beloved Financial Times HTSI edition. (Standing for How To Spend It. And usually standing as the best glossy bit sandwiched between her pink printed pages over the weekend). But to no avail. They didn’t have her… so the FT pink lady became my flight home companion. I devoured her every word. Did you know that a pied-à-terre (second home) in London and NY are basically being taxed so high that it’s discouraging people to load up on these cute little city gems … and crashing what used to be a booming market? Oh, who cares!!!! Now that I’m basically a Californian… we only want second homes seaside.

LA was perfect. Best trip. And may I say… Worth every hour of jet lag. (Although, if anyone has invented a cure for waking up at 4:17 every morning convinced it’s lunchtime... call me. I need your remedy.)

Tomorrow I’m I-85 bound direct to Charlotte (which will take on a different view than these palm tree lined roads that called my name while in Cali) where I plan to lock lips with two beloved boodles, Smith (2) and Marshall (6 months), and their mommy Sarah, before hopping over to Lake Keowee where my sister, Miller, and my favorite niece, Belle Miller, will be waiting for me to have a proper girls’ slumber party just before our cousin Liz arrives the following morning with her crew for a long weekend of LAUGHTER.

California, you were a delight. And whether you meant to or not… You won me over. I’ll be back. You can count on it!

Xx ac

I can never remember which is supposed to be which, and honestly, I’m not sure I agree with assigning precious metals to people I love. Gold? Silver? It feels like the Olympics, no?

Pour moi… It’s more like a ballet. Some friends have been in the production since opening night. Others make a dramatic entrance halfway through Act II wearing enough sequins to distract everyone from the plot. And every now and then someone reappears from the wings after years away, somehow remembering every step while I’m still trying to find my mark.

This past week reminded me just how lucky I am to have these ballerinas in formation.. avec moi.

ACT ONE - THE PAST

Meredith, one of my tiniest and best friends from 5th to 12th grade, and who I haven’t laid eyes on in …wait for it… 10 years + … texted me on Friday to say she was in town and wanted to get together. Eeeeep. She was visiting another friend of ours, Auburn, who I also hadn’t seen in at least a decade and who I learned JUST moved to Richmond too! We shared our newbie stories of RVA, and I found out that she too is falling in line, and in love, with this place. Comme moi.

I met them at Fire & Hops for lunch with their children in tow. It was one of those lunches where you fully expect to spend the first 20 mins reacquainting yourselves, but instead you pick up the conversation somewhere around 2014 as if you had been in touch just the day before about your grocery list. We caught up on everything Conway (our hometown) and everything since. Husbands. Boyfriends. Fiancés. Children. Careers. Mortgages. Countries. The kinds of things that would have sounded impossibly grown-up back when we were skipping class just to ride around and belt N-SYNC and Brit (while possibly smoking a cig) in my 1989 car that I named Goldie, after her shine.

We had a ball and her girls could not have been more unbelievably precious and wise. We gabbed for nearly two hours and wrapped up at the game shop, One Eyed Jacques, in Carytown where thankfully they wanted to find Pokemons … because ummmmm, I was on the hunt for CodeNames. (Which Auburn’s son spotted for me immediately! Boodle!) The game I mastered the night before with my newest club (up next).

SIDEBAR: Moments before this En Route went to press, I received this text from Meredith “After our lunch, Margo (her youngest daughter) said ‘mom, I want a friend exactly like that.’ She loves you!” Swoon! Well, Margo baby.. Guess what? I host open auditions everyday for this friendship ballet of mine. And you just casted a Feature Role!

ACT TWO - NEWBIE ON THE BLOCK AND IN THE CLUB

Last Friday, I attended my inaugural neighborhood game night. I was the newbie, yet somehow it felt like I’d been showing up for years. These people are incredible. I also arrived first. Which, according to my personal life philosophy, if you’re on time, you’re late, is exactly the point. Showing up a few minutes early earned me the greatest VIP upgrade: five uninterrupted minutes to gab with Liz and William, our hosts and the stars of my Act Two this week, before the rest of the cast arrived.

We met through a mutual friend almost six months ago, then kept running into each other since we live on one another’s block. Before leaving town one weekend back in April, for my sacred mother-sister-annual-getaway that we call The Invitational (wish I had restarted En Route back then when we went to Raleigh for this year’s trip. I have so much to say about this precious town. Stay tuned… I may En Route it soon), I tucked a handwritten note on their porch with my phone number. A bold move. I know. But if I want this friendship ballet to end in an encore, someone’s got to recruit the cast, am I right?

For the next few weeks... Nothing. Zip. Nada. Silence. I became convinced I’d crossed the line from “friendly new neighbor” into “lunatic who trespasses to leave notes unannounced on porches.” I couldn’t have had it more wrong. In June I got to run into this duo again with our same mutual friend and that sealed the deal. That very night I got a text from my two precious neighbors inviting me to their game night club. Turns out, they had loved the note.

We played Codenames for hours, and I was completely hooked. Watching people try to cram four wildly unrelated words into one clue is a fascinating window into the human brain. Some people think in straight lines. Others in abstract art. By the end of the night I’d already decided someone in my family will be unwrapping this game at Christmas. “Cows. Four cards.” I’ll let them figure it out.

Helpfully cued by Closing Time blaring on the speaker, everyone gathered their things at the end of night. I thanked them all (Belle, Eric, bébé William, homme William, Liz, Kylie, and Dan) for letting me into their club.

And speaking of house neighbors. As you may remember, exactly one month ago I had learned from another house neighbor (not in the club) that there had been a murder in my house. Not near my house. Not on my street. Not in the apartment upstairs.

IN. My. House.

Naturally, this prompted Becky and Nicole, my favorite mother-daughter-duo in my Museum District Club, to connect me with Nick, their woo woo tarot card reader from their annual Halloween party. When we did, I told him that, truthfully, I hadn’t felt much of anything odd in the house since learning the news. At least not until bedtime, when my imagination likes to clock in for the night shift and play out scenarios of what could happen to a single woman living solo in this big place while her sound machine pumps level-10 white noise and her ear plugs are nestled deep in her canal to drown out the middle of the night zoomies from the 15 cats that seem to be living above her... I derailed! Sorry about that. Now back to it…

The previous tenants had been musicians from Los Angeles, so Nick and I agreed they’d probably spent the year after the murder, and year before I moved in, vibrating the terrifying vibe right outta here with their instruments. Still, he, owner of Aquarian, prescribed a little energetic insurance. It went something like: two bars of selenite, one nugget of shungite, a bundle of sage, and a stick of palo santo. I consumed the entire prescription over the course of a 2hr private séance on Sunday. I threw open every window (that wasn’t painted shut), opened both doors of my shotgun house (there’s an inappropriate pun in that somewhere) and cranked the fans to level high. Then, lit a match to the sage and started walking around my home like a witch.

Three laps around the house. Slowly. Intentionally. Blowing on the sage every few steps like I was keeping a birthday candle alive during a hurricane. I was so committed to cleansing every last nook and cranny that I failed to notice my living room beginning to resemble North America earlier in the week during the Canadian wildfires. Visibility: low. Air quality: questionable. And smoggy as all get out!

Eventually the smoke alarm noticed and sounded the alarms. For those who had been wondering what was going on in my apartment all of a sudden were very much involved. The sound brought onlookers from everywhere. It eventually died down (another inappropriate pun in there somewhere) as did the haze. The scent though. That’s still lingering like a hippie shop selling experiences to Burning Man.

A few days earlier, at game night, I was telling Kylie ..dare I say, my newest friend ... about the murder while we played Codenames. She squeezed my hand just before giving the clue, “Platypus. Two cards.” Then sentimentally locked eyes with me and shared that she and her husband, Dan, had also lived through a murder recently. During covid. Only theirs was worse. They heard it. The shot that took their neighbor’s life and then all the aftermath for days to follow. Can you imagine?! She commiserated and let me know how traumatizing it was for them too. She understood my discomfort.

I still haven’t asked Angel or Jessica (my upstairs neighbors with the brood of felines) if they know what happened here some 3ish years ago. Part of me hopes they don’t. Like me, just a month ago. Blissfully unaware... until our neighborhood Gladys Kravitz simply had to fill me in without my consent.

Because, ummmmm... who opts into information that personal and disruptive?

For the record, next time I’ll be over here with my head buried deep in the sand. If I don’t come up for air, that’s not a cry for help. It’s a boundary.

At any rate. I do know now. And, I can’t imagine the fear the man who died must have felt in his final moments in his (and now my) home. I found myself wanting to offer a kindness to someone I’ll never know, but who looked at the same walls I’m looking at now. A prayer. A blessing. A release for him of the terror that had to have been in him when he saw the gun being pulled.

And, if I’m being honest, I was offering that same blessing to myself as the new tenant in the space. Every place I’ve lived as an adult has come with some sort of cleansing ritual. In New York, they repaint every apartment stark white from top to bottom before a new tenant moves in. It gives the place all the warmth and charm of an insane asylum. I always assumed that was because we’re all slightly unhinged for paying that much rent. Turns out, no. It’s simply to give everyone a clean slate.

In Paris... well, actually... Welcome to France. They don’t exactly subscribe to that philosophy. AT ALL. God help me, I’m still mentally recovering from the apartment I moved into in Le Marais. Spoiled hot meat in the unplugged freezer. I can’t.

Richmond called for something different. Yes, there was the murder. But there were also a few chapters of my own in the house already that I was ready to clear out. Like a Zamboni.

That’s the analogy Courtney uses … in dare I say, Act III, coming up right now!...

ACT THREE - 100 DAYS OF MY ZAMBONI

When Courtney talks about Transcendental Meditation, she says our minds are like an ice rink after public skate. Covered in tracks going every direction. Memories. Grocery lists. Work deadlines. Conversations you should’ve handled differently. Conversations that haven’t even happened yet but that you’re rehearsing on a loop. Etc.

It’s astonishing we accomplish anything at all with that much traffic upstairs. Then meditation comes through like a Zamboni. Not erasing the rink. Just smoothing it enough to skate again. Cleansing the space.

Funny enough, both Courtney and I had our 100 day Transcendental Meditation anniversary this past week. 20 mins, twice a day. When we saw each other, I reminded her that every new president gets judged by their first 100 days in office. Those are the days we’re told will set the tone for the next four years …the preview, the forecast, the “this is what you’re in for” stretch. Eeeeep. We had done it! And in my case, I’m happy to report that if these 100 days are a preview… then the rest of my life term will be calling for a slight chance of not giving a F about anything that used to cause aggravation, a high likelihood of more patience and fewer unnecessary executive orders issued by my nervous system. We groovin!

To celebrate, we marched around the Museum District on what had to have been the hottest day in recorded history before ducking into the VMFA’s cafe for a kombucha where Courtney unleashed some wisdom that had me wanting to speed dial Mel Robbins and pitch her as her next podcast guest.

Courtney.. Is definitely starring in my Richmond Ballet Company of Friends.

And after this scorching date.. came Act Four.

ACT FOUR - COLLEGE TURN LIFETIME

I practically swam home through the humidity (what are we even doing here, Richmond? Other than getting free facials with all this damn perspiration), stood in front of my freezer until my organs regained consciousness, and changed into my chicest getup. Mama was being taken to the club.

Ashley texted Katie, Jane, Kelly, and me (college roommates turned lifelong co-conspirators) to meet at Ollie’s for dinner at Country Club of Virginia (CCV).

SIDEBAR: The first time I was invited to this place, back in September during my first month in town, I did what any reasonable newcomer would do: I Google Mapped it. Ummmmm, six Ollie’s popped up. Proud of myself for being proactive, I sent the screenshot to the group chat asking which location we were to meet. The response was immediate. Hysterical laughter. Knee slaps probably. And the unmistakable undertone of, “Oh... bless her sweet little heart.” I’d sent them the list of Ollie’s Bargain Outlet locations. Eeeeek. I didn’t know this shop. Let’s just say I learned quickly that Ollie’s restaurant, although spelled the exact same as the outlet, couldn’t be more different. Just think fewer folding lawn chairs. More linen napkins. And, judging by the Thursday night crowd that the restaurant Ollie’s pulled in, it was the place to see and be seen!!

Before we’d even made it through our drink orders with our waitress, an endless parade of women, husbands, and children floated over to our table to hug Kelly, laugh with Jane, share a memory with Katie and compare workout classes with Ashley. It was so sweet. Richmond… is like every other place in the world. Once you live there momentarily, it shrinks by the minute and everyone is connected. Dare I say, in their own ballet?

The only person missing was Sara, Jane’s sister in law, who undoubtedly would’ve had us all crying with laughter. Fortunately, I’d already gotten my Sara fix the day before at The Shed. My recent watering hole. I walked into my favorite teacher Aimee’s class and there she was. Sitting on the reformer already about to make a joke.

Aimee is the perfect instructor: one part drill sergeant, one part therapist. She’ll absolutely kick your you know what, then hand it back to you with a hug if she senses you’re about to unravel. Normally, around the 35th repetition of “serving the tray”... a movement involving springs, straps, and what feels like an unreasonable expectation that shoulders should continue existing… I secretly lower my spring resistance and pretend it was always set there. Not this day. This day, Sara was on my left. Katie was on her left. I had an audience. There would be no lowering of springs (weights in pilate language).

Pride is an incredibly effective performance enhancer right up until …it’s not.

The next morning, the three of us on a joint text confessed that we had all been thinking the exact same thing. We’d all left our springs heavier than usual because our friends were watching. And that’s how 3 reasonably intelligent, fit, women spent the following 48 hours walking around Richmond like retired cowboys, wondering why sitting down had suddenly become a group activity. Still in the ballet… but let’s just say, not the Swan Lake version.

FINAL ACT - T.B.C. AT C.C.V.

Last night was The Book Club. Or, as we dramatically insist on calling ourselves, TBC. Hosted at the almighty CCV. Yes. I am becoming a regular at the country clurrrrb. It was bliss. For the first time in TBC history, every single one of us arrived exactly on time. Funny what the promise of an afternoon pruning in a pool will do.

I, personally, can’t stop. Won’t stop saying yes to the offer. Which, eeeek, I learned can occasionally get me into trouble. At least at CCV. Because, as it turns out, I could be stopped. And I would have to stop.

The rule reads something to the tune of: the same guest is only permitted once per month. And since I’d accepted the same pool invitation the week before (to meet my precious godbaby at his mommy and daddy’s country club) I had already exhausted my monthly quota.

Fortunately, I have enough versions of my godforsaken double name to populate a small village (and pull one over on the guard check-in): Anne Caroline, AC, Anne, Caroline, Annie, Annie Crannie... but Carly, our gracious host, landed on this alias… Carmen Sandiego. Perfection! (Especially considering that, in less than 48 hours, I’ll be headed to the West Coast, about 120 miles north of my new… namesake.)

As Carmen, I was waved through the gates without incident. Where we spent hours turning into prunes in the “adult pool,” cackling over all the questionable decisions Natalie Heller Mills made in Yesteryear. (PSA: If you haven’t read it yet, rectify that immediately. I gulped it down in a single weekend. Unreal. Disturbing. Impossible to put down.)

As we left one another (for the summer basically... since all of us are pretending to be Europeans galavanting about during the full month of August), I realized TBC has quietly wandered into another act of my friendship ballet. Different costumes (bathing suits this time). Different stages (or pool). Same standing ovation (pageturners). Another group of women who somehow make ordinary Monday nights feel worthy of a curtain call.

So, in conclusion, this past week reminded me that my friendship ballet has an extraordinarily talented cast. There are friends who live here and friends who don’t. Friends I’ve known for decades and friends who have only recently stepped onto the stage. There are friends who I get calls from since we live so far away (just this week alone I got to gab with: Miranda, Sheyda, Blaise, Fiona, Erika, and Laura P), but they’re still breakout characters in this production.

Maybe I can’t rank my friends like precious metals. But I can say this: this cast is spectacular. Some bring the gold. Some bring the silver. Some bring the sequins. And somehow, together, they make the whole performance magical.

Xx ac

As you may remember, I moved to France about 3.5 years ago and, in the process of paving my very own yellow brick road fairytale life à Pareeee, I (sigh) let go of my beautiful Charleston pied-à-terre. (Which overlooked the historic Aiken Rhett House and had ceilings so high they practically deserved their own ZIP code.) Spoiler alert if you’re my new reader: after betting alllllll my chips on France... I folded… and came back. The only problem? I didn’t come home. I had let her go. I had to build a new one.

The whole adventure taught me many, many things. (Jump to Volumes 9–6700 of the En Route archives if you’re interested in allllllll the teachings.) But the one that stood out most? Always have a home to return to. A place that waits patiently while you disappear in pursuit of yet another grand adventure, then welcomes you back exactly as you left it… looking, smelling, and feeling unmistakably like yours.

I finally have one again. She may not be my forever home, but she’s mine for now. And boy, do I love returning to this pink lady.

Coming back from Montauk, sunsoaked and exhausted in the best way possible, I took this last week to nestled in my pink house and take it easy breezy beautiful CoverGirl all the livelong days. Moving slow… even in the moment of my… wait for it… near arrest!

Ok, ok. Calm down! It wasn’t an arrest at all. But when those lights started flashing behind me and the sirens were blaring, can you blame a girl for mentally dividing up her belongings, wondering what her booking number would be (a sequence I hope... a 222 or 333 would be nice!) and holding out her hands for the cuffs?! Right.

Let me set the stage. At exactly 1:37 p.m. last Tuesday, en route home from an appointment, my dear Fiona gave me a ring-a-ding-ding. I plugged my earbuds into my phone. Nothing. Then I attempted to connect her through my car’s fancy Bluetooth. Still nothing. So naturally, (I did what I learned the Commonwealth of Virginia frowns upon), I placed the phone up to my ear and carried on with our gabfest.

As I slow-poked down Floyd Avenue I spotted a police car. This was the moment I should have dropped Fiona into my lap like she was radioactive. Instead. I smiled. And waved... at the policewoman. If you’re reading this yelling, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” rest assured, you’re not the only one. I too have asked myself that same question no less than 6,000 times! Within seconds, Officer So-Kind (who, I didn’t know it yet, but was about to become one of my favorite Richmonders) whipped around in a dramatic U-turn and came flying in behind me like she was chasing a hit and run. (For real, though... what’s up with them always making it soooo theatrical anyway?!)

I rolled down my window, shielded my eyes from the sun and blurted out, “Mama... I am so sorry.”

MAMA. I called a police officer “Mama,” the pet name I give all my girlfriends… and waitresses and shop girls and cousins and coworkers and evidently… ummm cops! (Insert hands over face emjoi right about HERE and add a high pitched eeeeeeek sound effect.) She smiled instead of thinking I was a total lunatic. Thank God.

My saving grace was the evidence sitting right in my lap. Earbuds tangled like Christmas lights and my planner wide open. I explained that I’d had a 1:30 call that I couldn’t miss (not totally the truth), couldn’t get anything to connect (totally true), apologized profusely (this too), and admitted that I genuinely had no idea holding the phone itself while driving was illegal (I really didn’t). Then she asked for my license. Handing it over she looked down at it and then at me … “Anne...” she started. I corrected her out of impulse. (Reader, you know I hate to be called just Anne. So,) I turned on my best Blanche Devereaux southern belle accent on volume high and said “We Southerners looooooove a good double name. It’s actually Anne Caroliiiiine.” She laughed again. Thank god!! (again!) Because hummmm I was talking back to a cop now? “WHAT WAS I THINKING?”

“How long have you lived here?” she asked, glaring at my DMV photo on the glossy South Carolina license. I didn’t want to lie so I said the truth proudly, “I moved her in September!” She looked so disappointed in her new bestie. “By law you have to change your license within 6 months of moving to a new state. What have you been doing all this time?!” I thought... isn’t it obvious? Everything else!!

She disappeared back to her office on wheels and then returned with devastating news. “I’m going to have to give you a ticket.” My heart sank. “You’ve been driving without a license...” I thought.. No, I haven’t. You just have it IN your hands, crazy!! But didn’t. Enough back-talk to authorities for one day. She went on, “Here’s what we’ll do. You go get your Virginia license, come to court, show it to the judge, and it’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

“Mama...” I replied for a second time and immediately regretted after locking eyes with her chest camera and realizing that I was being recorded speaking to a queen of authority like she used to pacify me in the cradle. “I travel constantly for work. I’m afraid I’ll miss a court date. Could I just... pay the ticket… now?” Again immediate regret. What in the wild heck was I thinking trying to pay off a police officer?!

“I really am gone a lot. I’m not here at all the whole month of August.” “Ok, then. How about July 23rd?” she asked hopeful and trying to compromise with bozo the clown. “I fly to Los Angeles that morning.” She sighed sympathetically. “Let me see what I can do.” My sweet Officer So-Kind tucked her thumbs into her vest like it was part of her uniform and walked wide-legged back to her black car that flashed blue to sort it out.

When she returned for the third time, she handed me two … warnings. “These aren’t tickets. But if you’re pulled over again before getting that Virginia license, they instantly turn into them, you understand?” “Yes, ma’am.” My SHEro! I thanked her profusely before ending with what I thought was a touching sentiment but now not sure what it was. A mess mostly. “One of my girl cousins is a police officer in Orlando. I’m so proud of her. You lady queens are the bravest… never knowing if there’s a looney-tune inside the car you happen to pull over. It takes real courage!” She thanked me politely, but I could practically see the wheels turning in her head and sounding something like ‘Maybe this woman actually IS a lunatic.’

I haven’t cranked my car since. In fact, I walked to the DMV on Thursday to get my Virginia license. (Take a breath, it’s only 10 blocks from my home.) It should arrive in two weeks.

So, in two weeks, when license is in hand, I’ll officially be locked into Virginia state taxes. Yep! Along with taking it easy breezy beautiful... you know the rest... this week, I also had a completely random surge of productivity and finally (nothing like waiting until the VERY last minute) finished my taxes. Good gawd!

Word to the wise: if you’re going to move... be sure. Because untangling taxes after living in multiple states (and countries), taking on contract work (and now full time) is a special kind of punishment. And sadly, the joke’s mainly on my sweet CPA, Elmo. Because I’m still not entirely convinced Richmond is my forever home, this means we (excuse me, he) may get to do this little tax tango all over again next year. Bless him.

I’d like to say I celebrated completing my taxes with something sophisticated, like a glass of wine or a scholarly museum visit. Instead, I disappeared into a dark movie theater to rot my brain. For the next 90 minutes, W-2s and 1099s be damned! And as if on cue, The Byrd Cinema delivered my all time favorite… a double feature!

I used to pull this off all the time when I lived in New York City. It requires equal parts commitment and strategy. Commitment because you’re agreeing to spend the better part of a day surviving on buttered popcorn, Milk Duds, and whatever fluorescent concoction bubbles out of a machine labeled Slurpee. And strategy because...

A.) You have to figure out exactly where the theaters are located within the cinema. You’ll need to do this immediately once you check into your first movie. Scout it out. Pretend to be lost if you have to! Just clock where your second film is playing so you have a direct path without getting… CAUGHT!

B.) Timing. This should 100% be planned out ahead of time so you can link strategy C (coming next). And thanks to the almighty world wide web, it can be. The first movie needs to end roughly 15 mins before the next one begins. Don’t worry. Think credits and trailers. Those will eat up those buffer minutes. That gives you just enough time to hustle from one auditorium to the next without lingering long enough for the 16-year-old stoner employee with a nametag to suddenly remember he has authority… to kick you out!

C.) Genres. Consider this KEY. This is a mandatory mix and match situation. Trust me. Under no circumstance should you ever marry two mysteries, two comedies or... Lord help us... two thrillers together. You need balance. Something light followed by something heavy. Or heavy followed by light. The emotional seesaw is entirely up to you. What? I didn’t make up the rules! Well... in this case, I absolutely did. But you would’ve too if you’d seen Revolutionary Road followed immediately by Doubt circa 2008. Scarring. I practically stumbled out of the theater looking for a grief counselor and a prescription for... anything.

Now, I was having my first double feature here in Richmond. Well, sort of. Since this theater only shows one adult movie per day (a concept I’m still processing), I had to spread it out over back-to-back nights.

First up. Jaws. While I was in Montauk I developed an undeniable craving to rewatch Jaws. So on the first extra cozy night back home, I hopped onto the Byrd Theatre website. And lo and behold...There she was. No joke. I had absolutely no idea it was the film’s 50th anniversary and so it was being streamed again in a cinema near you.

Watching Jaws with a crowd is a completely different experience. The screams at the first glimpse of Bruce (that’s the mechanical shark’s name. Spielberg himself shared that little nugget during the anniversary interview before the film) spread through the theater like a wave (pun alert). And when Roy Scheider delivered, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” the audience erupted. It was the kind of collective joyful applause that left you with a permanent grin... at least until the next time Bruce appeared.

Aside from squirming in my seat and peering through the slits between my fingers from my hands cemented to my face (most of the film), I also spent the entire movie mentally cataloging every single thing the characters wore. Matt Hopper, in particular. Marking them officially my male summa-time muses. Don’t be alarmed when I show up the next time we visit with one of these exact outfits on and possibly a cigarette dangling from my lips (just to get the look)…

When my mother, Harriette, and step father, Joe, came in for a visit this past week, en route to upstate New York for a holiday with Joe’s family, my mama told me that she went to Jaws the first night it opened in Myrtle Beach, 1975. The same day she was allowed to get her ears pierced … for her …18th birthday. BIG DAY! Oh! And she said it was also the first movie ever produced with surround sound. (I’m still scratching my head at this one. Wouldn’t the cinema have to be the thing that offers surround sound? Since they’d have to install the… sound …to surround us? Still stumped. We don’t care! We love that she went on opening day and that I got to go again 50 years later.) How cool!

Second film you’re wondering? That was the clever Hunt for the Wilderpeople. One of my all time favorites. A movie that I watched in 2016 when it first came out at the Angelika Theater in SoHo with Steven, the only other member of our Exclusive Movie (made up) Club. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to see it again some ten years later in my new hometown Angelika esque Theater… The Byrd.

Sadly, as this En Route was going to press I read that Sir Nigel John Dermot “Sam” Neill, the star of the film, died the morning after I watched his dare I say… final performance. RIP, “Uncle.”

Both films were served with a mini bag of popcorn and possibly a Montauk IPA that somehow found its way into my purse. Ooops. And perhaps my favorite part of both features was The Byrd’s organist who majestically rose from beneath the stage to play tunes before queuing up the film. If you’ve never been here, this probably sounds completely made up. I assure you, it isn’t. The man is Richmond royalty. And the tradition has carried on since the doors first opened in 1928.

I also got to see several of my favorites this week: Christina, Faith, Mariah, and Trisha (the newest recruit) for dinner at Christina’s; my main squeeze, Jim, for coffee at Idle Hands. (PSA: It is not pronounced Ideel hunds!! Evidently one of his pals says it this way which to us sounds more like a dog salon in Amsterdam. We laughed so hard we nearly spewed our cold brew onto the table next to us. I’m still laughing.); Lucy, my cousin Jen’s precious daughter; Felicia, my French American queen; and of course my baby boodle godson who lit up like a firecracker when he saw me surprising him and his mama at the pool… Jimmy!

Then, as I mentioned above, I hosted my sweet mama and stepfather overnight en route to New York. We strolled through the grounds at the VMFA and dined at The Stables (don’t walk… RUN there. It’s so so so good!), and the next morning we gabbed over coffee and peaches from another bushel (that they arrived with) of South Carolina’s finest stone fruit. The next day they hit the road and before long traffic too. They had confidently predicted a 6 hr drive the night before. Yet somehow that timing ballooned into nearly eleven. Eleven hours!!!!! They’re there now and being cute bopping around NY visiting precious folks like… one of my besties, Erica! At her farm close to Chatham.

If you’re wondering what I did with those few other easy breezy beautiful nights.. I continued the rot. I spent those ummmm glued to my tele. Something I rarely ever do. Like never. But I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. I inhaled the Should I Marry a Murderer? docuseries and slurped down in one gulp the Trust Me: The False Prophet. Both disturbing and un-turn-away-able (don’t think this is a thing. But you get it). I felt like a total reborn American after these shows. Like I could finally add to the conversation (that I’ve usually have to sit out of) when inevitably someone says to the group … “what is everyone watching?” FILTH! I’ll have to reply… but still… I’ll get to finally.

And on the horizon? I’ll be attending a game night this Friday. I’ve never been to one, but I’m feeling wildly confident that I’ll be the ace in the hole, the poker face, the dark horse... okay, that’s all I’ve got. These new friends who invited me over to take the crown (can’t stop, won’t stop) for their game night, William and Liz, live on my block. I’m sooooo excited to hang with them.

And this is precious. But the day before I left for Montauk, William called to ask me if I needed any vegetables. He and his wife were heading to New Hampshire and had more than they could eat before leaving. I meannnnnn... is that not the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard? Neighbors offering to feed neighbors? What are we even doing here?! Presh!

As always, just when I think I’ve got one foot out the door, Richmond cranks the Mayberry dial up another notch and makes me question this whole “maybe I’ll move” business.

Until the next En Route… xx ac

Happy reading!

NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

There she is. Gleaming. Looking like a million bucks and begging for either a cab ride or a dirty water hot dog. My girl. New York City!!

I drove into Manhattan around 8 p.m. last Monday night. Before I’d even tossed my keys to a man named Juan at the 55th Street Garage, I had already witnessed a riot (still unclear whether we were for or against it), been waved through the intersection of 42nd St and 6th Ave by a lady boss traffic cop queen whose fit and mood deserved a standing ovation (red pout and a fierce shake of the hip while directing traffic like she was headlining Broadway), and received no fewer than a dozen aggressive arm gestures from every yellow cabbie who made the mistake of filing in behind this slowpoke Virginian.

I was staying with Luis and Lori in their gorgeous Midtown East apartment. Where, if you crane your neck just right after dinner … and add a ‘someone quick bring me a pair of binoculars!!!’… you can spot a man in the neighboring building wandering around in his birthday suit. What??!!!! I didn’t say we did it … I’m just saying it’s possible. And the view was great!

The real luxury, though, wasn’t their apartment (although... yes, it was). It was their balcony. To most New Yorkers, a balcony ranks somewhere between inherited wealth and a functioning dishwasher. I wasted no time taking full advantage of it. The next morning, high above Lexington Avenue, I enjoyed one of Luis’s famously fussy coffees. There was bean weighing, grounds combing, precise tamping, temperature monitoring... all in the noble pursuit of the perfect cup. We sipped our coffee while an endless parade of yellow cabs streamed below, racing toward Harlem, Union Square, and wherever else New Yorkers insist they absolutely must be five minutes ago. Then I headed off to work with my colleague, Sydney, a block away at my all time favorite We Work (575 Lexington Avenue).

Early that evening, just before traffic reached the kind of crawl that says, “Don’t even think about it,” Juan came screeching around the corner with my car on what looked like two wheels. I exhaled. She was in one piece. I paid, loaded up, swung around the corner to pick up my two boos in my brief stint as their Uber driver, and we hit the road. HOV lane all the way, baby. Life. Changing. Turns out the fastest way out of Manhattan is simply to have (at least two) friends in the car with you. We breezed right past miles of brake lights of those poor solo drivers and somehow shaved 45 mins off the drive. Cruisin!

We rolled in just as the sun was setting. Made a pitstop by Erika and Bryan’s for a quick smooch and visit with Tavo, their son, had an even quicker wardrobe change, and brushed our pearly whites to erase three hours of car snacks and tunnel air. Next… over to Crow’s Nest.

SIDEBAR: On the drive out, Luis had filled up my gas tank as a thank you for sparing them the annual Hamptons pilgrimage aboard the Jitney, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with every other New Yorker fleeing Manhattan’s heat. As a firm believer in equal opportunity generosity, I proudly announced, “The first round of wine is on me!”

After my order of “3 glasses of rosé, please.” Came, “That’ll be 85 dollars.” I almost slapped the waiter. Instead, I handed over my credit card and said, “Well... that just took all the fun out of it.”

I’m not cheap. I love spending money on things worth spending money on. But there is something deeply unsettling about dropping nearly $100 (after tip… but that’s a Substack for another day) before anyone’s even said, “You know what I’ve never told you...”

I used to say Welcome to France as a verbal eyeroll when anything ridiculous (like this) happened in that country while living there. So allow me to present its American cousin… Welcome to the Hamptons! Where the sunsets are free and everything else requires a brief conversation with your financial advisor. C’est la vie! We love it anyway!

Dinner was EVERYTHING. So thankfully the night was back on track. I had the lobster tagliatelle, Lori ordered the catch of the day, and Luis somehow found himself in the custody of a glorious pile of truffled twirly noodles. And then there was the whipped ricotta. If you ever find yourself in Montauk… and you should… order it. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me. It arrives wearing a generous puddle of lavender honey, scattered with pink peppercorns and, because this is the Hamptons, a dusting of bee pollen. Bee pollen! The kind of ingredient that makes you immediately wonder if Gwyneth Paltrow is back there running the kitchen. (She wasn’t.)

Afterward, we wandered over to Bar Lalo, the newest Mexican restaurant, to watch Mexico take on Ecuador in the World Cup. Halfway up the walk, who do I spy? The Dutches of Ditch herself… Pamela Melet sitting with her bestie, Helen. Pam and I locked eyes. And then out came… “Oh. My. GAAAAAWWWWWD. Anne Caroliiiiiiine!” It never gets old. Some people greet you as though they’d expected to see you all along. Especially when they know you’re coming to town. But Pammy? Pam greets you (even if she knows you’re coming to town - like she did with me) with the kind of joy most people reserve for a winning lottery ticket or spotting their long lost puppy on the side of the road. When she does this, for the next five minutes you get to believe … you’ve just made her week. It’s such an UPGRADE!

We stood there laughing and catching up until I finally wandered inside, where Lori and Luis hadn’t moved an inch. They were completely locked into the match, absentmindedly brushing cinnamon sugar off their shirts while making quick work of the best churros in Montauk. We made it back home to Erika’s just before the final whistle blew and we celebrated Mexico’s win with our favorite Mexican-American mamacita. The night was perfecto!

THE SUMMER THAT REFUSES TO END

The gang was back. We all fell in love with one another during the summer of 2012.. a year that has grown increasingly mythical every time we tell stories about it. Erika and Bryan had just bought their house, the crown jewel of Hither Hills. Luis was running La Brisa, the Tacombi outpost. Vivian was the lady boss queen of Crow’s Nest. Domingo had Montaco humming. And I was slowly morphing into what I imagined was an American version of Jane Birkin while running the Melet Mercantile on Navy Road. We were younger, tanner, and absolutely convinced we’d stumbled onto the greatest summer anyone had ever had. Honestly... we still think this.

And now, some 14 years later (to borrow a phrase from Pam… Oh. My. GAAAAAWWWWWD. Can’t get over how long ago it was and how much life we’ve lived in between), on our first night back out east all together felt like no time had passed at all. The only things that we were missing (aside from our youth) were Franchi, Coni, the other Luis (every good friend group should have duplicate Luises - they’re the best), Veronique and Fiona. We toasted them anyway... With the red white and glue glasses I found weeks ago at a thrift shop in Richmond. Ranks as one of my top finds!

Luis did what Luis has always done best: fed us. He grilled dinner and introduced us to his newest venture, Prism... a Raicilla (pronounced ry-SEE-ya), a smoky Mexican spirit that’s first cousins twice removed from Mezcal. You’ll be able to find it at a location near you by Fall. But for now, it’s being poured in most of Manhattan’s fanciest Mexican restaurants and (biased alert!) tasting best in a backyard surrounded by old friends.

Vivian arrived with a flourless chocolate cake from Carissa’s (And a newly approved French visa! So this was her bon voyage dinner as well!). I contributed my greatest purchase ever: the red, white, and blue glasses that became the official mascot of our trip and South Carolina peaches (of course!). Domingo supplied Montauk Brewery’s Juicy IPA, which I drank with the same restraint most people reserve for lemonade after mowing the lawn. Erika and Bryan gave us their house, their playlists, and the kind of hospitality that makes everyone feel like family. And finally, Lori, Luis’s ladybird and newest to the crew, as always, brought up the rear with her jokes.

Between dinner, dessert and another U.S.A. World Cup victory that night, I looked around and realized that while we’d all changed jobs, cities, and hairstyles umpteen times since 2012, we’d somehow remained exactly the same. Best of friends! Having one of the greatest nights of the summer. Hell! Of 2026.

ADDING TO MY COLLECTION OF TREASURED PEOPLE

One thing about Montauk: it refuses to let me mind my own business. Every trip, I run into someone I know, meet new people (and then can’t stop running into them), or accidentally find myself in the middle of a story I didn’t realize I was a part of. This trip out east was no exception. This next part is WILD.

Last Wednesday I stopped by for a visit with my original Boog… Sunny, at her shop. Somewhere between catching up and attempting to play shop girl, talking to every customer with the kind of familiarity that they ended up thinking I had come shopping with them, she casually mentioned she’d rented some of her vintage inventory out to a tennis brand called Spence. “Hummmmmmmmm, Spence?!” Wait for it...

Amanda, founder of Spence, was a dear friend of mine in Charleston many moons ago. You dear reader may remember her from THIS En Route when she visited me in Paris while she was there for a textile show for her new business… Spence. In fact, she was my very last dinner date before I packed up and moved to France the first time in Spring of 2023. Fast forward a couple of years, and now her tennis brand is taking offfffff. The world had officially become the size of ... well, Montauk. Neither Sunny nor Amanda had any idea about the triangle that existed between the three of us.

The next evening I was supposed to meet Pam (Sunny’s mom) for dinner. She texted this around 4pm “Ben invited me to a wrap party at Surf Lodge but I can’t make it. You should go in my place and I’ll meet you after for dinner. They used my car in the campaign shoot. You’ll love the brand... It’s Spence.” Now my brain was short circuiting. The Spence campaign had been photographed by Ben Watts, a friend of mine back in that magical 2012 summer, when all of us out east were rapidly becoming barefoot hippies and confidently pretending we were locals. Ben included.

In the end, I skipped the Surf Lodge scene. Instead of hobnobbing with the rich and famous and eating Popeyes Chicken with the spray tan brigade, I met my girls - Pam and Sunny - at Marram. Enter the BEST night yet...

(But before I deep dive into that, I’ll conclude my full circle with Spence. The next morning, I wandered down to the beach from Erika and Bryan’s house in Hither Hills… a beach where all of us had agreed you almost never run into anyone you know because everyone’s at Ditch (a more popular beach closer to the end and packed with surfers). So this next part made it even more wild! Who do I spot fluffing her beach towel in the dunes? Amanda. Best mini spontaneous reunion of two Charlestonians on the very tip of Long Island ever. Erika (my girlfriend and a big time producer of all chic malique experiences) is already plotting in her mind a Spence event in Montauk next summer, and has appointed me the official connector of dots. Introductions to come. Game. Set. Match)

Ok! Here we go… on stage left, we have Erika, Tony and Nino.

As I was carrying our drinks from the bar back to our precious little outdoor beach living room setup.. plush couches, driftwood tables and just enough sand in the cushions to remind you where you were... I spotted something that stopped me in my tracks. Rummikub. I’ve recently been playing this a LOT with my family. And LOVE it. I must’ve made an enthusiastic face because before I could even sit down on the world’s most stylish sandpaper couch (what?! we’re at the beach! and even though they were chic, they ummmmm scratched), the mom/wife, Erika, (note, this is not my friend Erika who I’ve been talking about. This is a new Erika - spelled the same way) smiled and said, “Our set has six boards, do you three want to join?” That’s all we needed to hear. Pam, Sunny and I immediately abandoned our little nest to join theirs. We played for hours. And.. I learned on nearly the fifteenth “go” that my little Sunny “Boog” Melet was quite the mastermind. She dismantled people’s strategies like it was her job. But Erika prevailed. Won in a matter of minutes… every time.

Nearing the end of our evening, Tony looked over at me and asked, completely out of the blue, “You’re a ‘yes, and’ person, aren’t you?” Pam gasped and let out one of her infamous “Oh. My. GAAAAAWWWWWDs.” The two of us looked at each other like we had just found $20 in an old coat pocket. “Yes,” I said. “I try not to use the word ‘but.’” (most everyone in my life knows this about me - hence Pam’s reaction.) Tony lit up like a Christmas tree. “I knew it! You’ve got good energy, girrrrrl. I do the same!” It’s funny the things strangers notice about you, am I right? What I noticed about him... he was getting hungry!

At almost 10 p.m. Tony casually mentioned they hadn’t eaten dinner yet. This activated something deep within me. Without consulting anyone, or a signed contract, I slipped into full on producer mode. I called Alimentari, the closest restaurant, and explained that we had three very important guests staying at Marram who were hoping to grab a late dinner. Now, I never actually said I was the general manager. But the convincing tone and choice of words might have suggested otherwise. I said might?!!! I gave my name, asked ever so politely over the bustling background noise of their full restaurant if they could hold a table, and thanked them as if I would repay the favor soon by comping a night stay at my property, the Marram Hotel.

Then, we ran to my car, I loaded that sweet family in and tore through town at the blistering speed of … five miles an hour. Montauk traffic had us fighting for every inch. We reached the front door within one minute of closing. Before I could cut the line outside making it to the hostess stand to smooth over whatever mess I’d potentially created, Tony said they were greeted with, “Tony? We’ve been waiting for you. Would this table work?”

Reader, I nearly promoted myself. They skipped the line, settled in for dinner, I said my goodbyes, we exchanged contacts, and I went to pick up Pam for one last nightcap at Rooted.

One of my favorite hobbies is collecting people. Not in a creepy way. In the “tell me your story, and let’s see who we both know/what we share in common” kind of way. Montauk is particularly good for this.

Over this trip I collected many! I met Brad Ford, a famed interior designer and a fellow true-crime fanatic. (He spoke to me initially because he thought I was famous, thank you very much. Don’t mind me… just over here signing autographs!) Within minutes we were swapping podcast recommendations like 10 year old boys and their baseball cards. I immediately sent him my latest obsession, Camp Swamp Road (about a stand your ground murder case from my own home county.) If you haven’t listened to it yet. You’re welcome! It’ll change your life. Dare I say… it’s as good as Serial was circa Covid days? He returned the favor with a TV show that’s already waiting patiently in my queue. Should I Marry a Murderer? He’s standing by for review.

Then there was Billie, a chic Frenchwoman, her husband, Ofer… friends of Flo (another chic Frenchwoman… remember her from THIS previous Montauk En Route?) and her husband Andy. Somewhere in conversation Ofer casually mentioned he’s close friends with Richmond photographer and gallerist Justin James Reed. Naturally, I texted Jim, my king of RVA, for verification. Yep. Turns out Jim and Brent have one of Justin’s photographs hanging in their house. Need I remind us again?

Montauk = Small. World! My two colliding!

I met two Janes. One was Tavo’s friends’ mom who we couldn’t stop wouldn’t stop running into throughout the week after visiting her at her gorgina home on East Lake! The other, Jane Lauder, and her sidekicks... Scout and her four-legged pooch, Thaddeus. Then there was Todd from Los Angeles who enthusiastically planned half my upcoming California trip before we’d even finished introducing ourselves. Next, Esha and her best friend Jess who welcomed us into Esha’s East Lake home for a Fourth of July bbq (where Bryan manned the grill and produced burgers that tasted like he’d swapped his South African citizenship to bleed red white and blue as an American). I met Stevie from Ditch Plains, who, judging by the stories and his leathery skin, had personally taught approximately 94% of Montauk how to surf. And finally I met Ashley Himmel and Laura Brown. Those two deserve stories of their own. Which are peppered in below in my not to miss lists…

MONTAUK’S NOT TO MISS LIST

Gosman’s Market | Come hungry. Leave with snacks you didn’t know existed. The market is just about the sweetest thing you’ll ever wander into and right on the dock. Before leaving, somehow you’ll convince yourself you need several pounds of flounder (which we did), kettle chips (yep, those too), a can of chantilly cream (throw it in!), and a passion fruit soda for the road (ah, oui!).

Marram | Where as you’ve read, I spent several mornings and nights. Drive an extra block or two from town and linger here over coffees in one of their outside living rooms. The best, is to stretch one cup into an entire morning until it feels socially acceptable to order lunch. Because you’ll want to do that too!

The Farmers Market | Equal parts produce stand and reunion tour. If you’re lucky, Fiamma Hot Sauce will be there keeping things spicy, and you’ll run into no fewer than 6 people you haven’t seen in anywhere from yesterday to six years ago. Miraculously, they’ll all remember your name.

Joni’s | Remember sweet Joni from my May En Route (linked above beside Flo’s name)? This time the line was wrapped around her building. People Galore! No time for a proper double air kiss with this juicing queen. Just a frantic wave while waiting for my Mucha Maca to be called out. Yummmmmmy.

Montauk General Store | Kate, the newest lady boss owner on the block, has the kind of hustle that makes everyone else reconsider how they’ve been spending their mornings. Her brand is taking off! Erika had already told me all about her and her maple matcha (that I never got to slurp down but hear it) is worth the hype. Also, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to snuggle down Franklin, the shop puppy.

7-Eleven | Montauk’s location is the highest grossing convenience store in America during July. Selling up to 800 Slurpees a day. Read that again. Somewhere, a gas station in Nebraska is furious and almost 25,000 people have cavities.

Montauk Library | If you’re forced to work while visiting paradise (comme moi!), this is exactly what the doctor orders. Head upstairs, steal a seat on the balcony, connect to the Wi-Fi, and pretend you’re listening during your Zoom meeting instead of staring out at nearly 65% protected maritime forest wondering whether Littlefoot still lives out there. BLISS!

Preloved | Sunny’s vintage shop where it’s impossible to leave empty handed or in less than 3 hours due to gabbbbbing. She collects all the good pieces from all the good corners of the globe throughout the Fall and Winter just to offer us the opportunity to buy it up come summa time.

Utilitaria | White walls. White floors. Beautiful clothes. Beautiful people. Somehow, within 15 mins, every shopper is picking out outfits for everyone else, and everyone’s trying them on. Erika introduced me to the owner, Ingrid, who is lovely! And we both got to meet Laura Brown and Ashley Himmel, the designer behind AH sweaters. In conversation we discovered we’d all attended Polo University (worked for Ralph Lauren at one point… or knew someone who had). And… this is a place where your best friend inevitably yells your name from across the store while waving a swimsuit and insisting, “This is your color!” I still don’t officially know my color-season (yes, this is a thing). But bronze may, in fact, be my new black. I bought the suit.

Epic Yard Sale | The vintage event of the summer. Every year… or every few years, depending on life… Bob, Pam, and Sunny empty years’ worth of collected treasures onto their Lovage lawn. Props, vintage inventory, forgotten gems... everything. My prize this year? A red and white striped blazer that made me feel like Bert from Mary Poppins spent a gap year in Montauk. AND… As fate, or Montauk, would have it, Laura Brown (my newest friend who I met the day before at Utilitaria) and her daughter, Summer, were there!

WORTH THE DETOUR TO AMAGANSETT

Galerie Sardine | Walk in. Wander slowly. And go with Erika!! She led me and her friend, Dougy Fresh (another South African, like Erika’s husband Bryan, whom we happened to run into on the street), through the space like she was the docent on duty. Dropping into Galerie Sardine signals that you know the current East End art scene. Fortunately my girl… always does! So by association… I do too! We chic!

French Presse | Come for the coffee.. Although they have none. (The name fools you.) And stay for the story about founder, Sarah, building a business around hauling linens out from Manhattan to press in Amagansett some 50+ years ago. Some businesses start with venture capital. Hers started with linen. The store is beautiful and thoughtfully curated.

Love Adorned | Just a great shop! Erika bought her perfume while I browsed around and made a mental note that this Bruce Weber book needs to live in my home.

Love Eats | More accurately for me, Love Face. We walked in for snacks and left with half the skincare routine Erika insisted I needed to keep looking (in the words of Paris Hilton) “21 forever.” Ring it up!

Il Buco Vita Café & Alimentari | Just go. Everything here is DREAMY. And the bops streaming from the speakers are worth the trip alone! We practically danced the whole time we shopped with our eyes.

THE END

And just like that, my time at The End had come to an end. It was time to pack.

Before pointing my car south at 4:30 a.m. (you read that correctly), I made one last stop at Pam’s to retrieve the bathing suit I’d left behind the night before when I took a rinse at her home after one final plunge into the almighty Atlantic (ice bath) Ocean with Sunny Boog Melet and her beautiful friend, Laura.

I pulled into Richmond at 3pm - 10 hours later. I unloaded my car in record speed and immediately stepped into the shower before nappppping. Shame! As the water ran I clocked that I was no longer in Montauk. This shower wasn’t outside. There wasn’t music drifting over from the pool where Bryan was playing DJ. There was no salty breeze to accompany my face cleansing routine. And, worst of all, there wasn’t a cold beer waiting on the ledge beside the Pantene Pro-V bottle. I briefly considered carrying a lawn chair into the backyard, cracking a beer, and turning the water hose on high. But didn’t. Vacation over. I was home.

Until the next En Route… xx ac

The week began, as many of my best weeks do, gabbing with one of my dearest friends, Miranda. She’s a chic Francophile American who, cue La Marseillaise s’il vous plaît, officially became a French Citizen just a few weeks ago. The ink had barely dried before she launched straight back into running l’agence... her own art auction consulting agency... where she spends her days rubbing elbows with Paris’s who’s who and persuading millionaires to part with their bags of diamonds for charitable causes.

As she filled me in on the latest gala she’s considering working on, she paused mid-story and said, “One of the women I met was the coolest person, AC. She reminded me of you.” (Is that not the sweetest thing you ever did read! I meannnnnnn. And then. Ha. It wasn’t because the woman was chic. It was because...) “She has the gift of the gab.”

The gift of the gab, eh?? J’obsessed!

Now, some people, (ahem, I’m looking at you almost everyone in my personal life, anyone who’s ever asked me a simple yes-or-no question, and more than one gas station attendant yesterday in New Jersey who had to pump my gas by law but was also held conversationally hostage while filling my tank … to name a few) have used very different terminology for my “gift.” Only through their facial expressions can I sound out lines that must go something like… “Will she ever get to the point?,” “Can this story find a conclusion before my lunch break ends?,” “Wait, I thought we were talking about X… how are we going back to Q?”

But now I see, they simply don’t appreciate the gift that I and evidently this marvelous woman share in common. If you ask Miranda, it’s an art form really the way I can loop de loop for hours in conversation (peppering any chat with umpteen “yes, ands,” several servings of “not to interrupt, but to add on...,” and at least one completely unnecessary sidebar until I conclude my thought, and then look at said person dead in their eye, and bring it back to them, “Now... what were you saying about your kid’s rash?”). Somehow, against all odds, I bring it all the way back into one complete full circle gab every time.

I took Miranda’s observation as the highest compliment. And one that I inherited from my very dear southern grandmotha who used to tell me, “Why use five words? When 25 will do!” (To pronounce that properly you’ll need just a hint of bourbon on your breath and a fresh pink pout on your lips). Unknowingly cementing my personal ethos in life! Just like her… twenty five has always just felt like a … warm-up.

ENTER SAM

Before I cannonball into this story, let me rewind for a second and properly set the scene. Every good meet cute deserves one. And this one definitely qualifies. I need to tell it in a way that would make Truman Capote proud. Oops… Well, I suppose I just spoiled where we’re headed.

Several weeks ago, on what might’ve been one of Richmond’s finest moody coffee mornings, I was meeting a friend at Paix (best coffee in the Museum District by the freakin way). It was one of those misty mornings that practically screamed, Anne Caroline... today’s the day. Unleash those new (but very very very old) vintage duck boots with your 1940s light-weight (but forever unbreathably hot) rain duster! And quick!

Now. Was it 90°? Absolutely. Did I look seasonally confused? Without question. But when Mother Nature begs you to wear vintage, your only responsibility is to obey. So there I was, sweating with conviction, rounding the corner of Stuart and Cleveland when I spotted...

...myself.

Not literally. No. It was a man standing half a block away wearing the kind of outfit that makes you involuntarily slow your walking speed. The kind where your brain immediately says, Hold on... Ima need to take a mental snapshot so I can rinse and repeat that look ummmmm weekly. The white on white fit has been living rent-free in my mental fashion inspiration folder ever since.

Then he waved. I waved back. I wasn’t about to let this poor well dressed man enthusiastically greet the wrong person in front of an entire café full of coffee drinkers pretending not to judge. “I’m not who you think I am,” I laughed as we got closer. He blinked. Looked me up and down. Then laughed too. “You’re right...but THAT FIT.“

Reader... I fear it was love at first vintage. We spent the next several minutes flirting over oat milk and espresso, discussing clothing like two elderly women at an estate sale, and before he left, and I met my friend, he handed me his card. He received an email later that day setting a date for a rendezvous avec moi.

Fast forward to this past Wednesday. I’d just returned from the beach with my family and was in that awkward transition period where you have to remind yourself that a bathing suit isn’t actually considered business casual. So, after tucking on my best Annie Hall, I met Sam for coffee.

Within approximately 90 seconds he confessed that just a few nights earlier he’d gone out for a solo dinner, ordered himself a cocktail, and instead of scrolling Instagram... he queued up my She’s Back dispatch on Richmond’s finest. (For your convenience, it’s HERE in case you too find yourself posted up at a bar and in a desperate need for an entertaining cackle).

My very own fan! He proceeded to tell me how much he loves my absurdly loooong stories in En Route... dare I say, my gift of the gab?!... which I appreciated with the utmost. Since starting this brain dump Substack some 24+ months ago, some of you have suggested that I “tighten it up,” “not make it sooooo wordy,” “maybe try editing it,” and other lame pointers. No. The board has spoken. Sam and Miranda love it! The ruling is final. The (nonfiction and unbelievably wordy) novellas stay.

He told me that I reminded him of a “female Truman Capote.” Embarrassingly, I didn’t know exactly who he was talking about. Sam explained that Truman was a Southern storyteller (comme moi). A collector of fabulous people (double comme moi). Someone who never met an anecdote he couldn’t lovingly over-tell (commmmmmeee moiiii). Love him! Someone, like me, who’s physically incapable of saying “long story short” and who clearly has also been blessed with that almighty gift of the gab!

The rest of our coffee turned into one of those conversations where every story uncovered another invisible thread. He mentioned Chicago, where he’d lived the last two years, which immediately sent me down memory lane… or shall I say the Gold Coast as I believe Sam called it, when I went to Chi Town to visit my girlfriend, Katie, at her family’s apartment just a stone’s throw from the Drake Hotel. Then he told me about his work, and I did what I always do… Mentally opened my Rolodex.

Carly? Immediate introduction. Katie? Absolutely. Christina? Without question. He cocked his head after I explained that Christina was a singer song writer. “Wait... Is she German?” “Hmmmm… Ja“ I said with my best German accent. Are you ready?? He followed with “I live directly below her.” OF COURSE YOU DO, I thought. Full circle.

Apparently, once the universe decided this would be a week of full circles, it refused to stop. Just you wait…

Before we parted he asked me for a night out with me and “my gays.” Sammy! Can I call you that? Say less. Consider me already arranging an aggressively theatrical Broadway sing along in our very very near future.

DO I SPY “GOD” IN GODFREY’S?

My friend Courtney invited me to a drag brunch at Godfrey’s weeks ago and encouraged me to invite a fun friend. Without question... Carly was it!!

Walking into this “Richmond Establishment” I now understood why “God” is in the name. It was a religious experience, if your religion involves sequins, men pretending to be women and lip syncing Celine Dion with a perfected pointed chin and shaky lip, and a man named Mr. Godfrey who made my entire side of my table (raising my hand high for this) turn all different shades of bush and bashful pink (to steal a line from Shelby of Steel Magnolias).

As I strutted to my seat that morning attempting to match the sashays of the Drag Queens a memory flooded in. Several days earlier I’d received a text from a friend that read, “Grove has never been so fancy! I honked at you while you were strutting but you were groovin’ to some tunes.” I do tend to strut (more on this next) almost everywhere I walk. Guilty as charged.

I found myself seated next to Sally once we got settled. You’ll remember her from the She’s Back dispatch too. She’s the queen responsible for Richmond’s Fan Arts Stroll (who Jim introduced me to) and possessed the kind of running commentary during our drag show that made me laugh so hard I was grateful that mascara was waterproof nowadays.

During a brief intermission from watching RuPaul’s cousins treat dropping into splits like an Olympic qualifying event.. I confessed to her my neighborhood identity crisis when she asked where I live. “I’m in the Fan.. but somehow I’ve been adopted by the Museum District. And, I love it!” “The Museum District is where my husband Greg grew up,” she said. That was all the ammunition I needed. I launched into a love letter about Becky and Nicole (you can read about them too in She’s Back) and mentioned that I’m plotting a little soirée in August during one of the few windows of time I’ll actually be in town. Just so that I can merge my two loves together... both neighborhoods.

I told her where Becky lived and her eyes got so wide that, for a second, I thought Mr. Godfrey had reappeared without his shirt on. Turns out Greg, her husband, grew up on that exact block. Not nearby. Not a few streets over. The exact block. Right behind Becky and David’s house. Then Sally casually mentioned the secret garden tucked into the center of the block. I nearly spit out my Frozen Pink _(expletive here)_ Drink that one of the drag queens had delivered to me just a few minutes before. “I know that garden,” I interrupted. “I’ve heard about the yoga classes!” Sally smiled. “Oh... that’s us.” Excuse me? As it turns out, Sally and Greg own the garden. And if you’re wanting another full full circle... just you wait... Their daughter is the yoga teacher!

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

YOU’RE A PEACOCK

As it turns out, my strut evidently has been under observation longer than I realized.

During coffee the week before with Carly she declared “You’re a peacock, AC.” Blew my mind! She had absolutely no way of knowing that peacocks have long been one of my spirit animals. They’ve shown up at some of the strangest, most pivotal moments of my life.. usually when I need reminding that life is far more magical than I’ve been giving it credit for. Or that my colors need to fan out be on display!!

Carly wasn’t talking about feathers though, of course. Or my strut (though I couldn’t help but make that connection here.) She was using this gorgeous bird to describe how she sees me (And her mama!! Who she too boasted is one!). “There’s something refined about a peacock,” she went on... “they can be met with a situation where they need to bring it in close and protect. And then, when they are groovin, they strut confidently and spread their tail feathers... That’s when everyone takes notice. Wants to wander over, stare, pull up a chair and stay a while. They’re magnetic. They’re radiant. You’re a peacock.”

What an incredible compliment to tell someone. UPGRADE! In fact, someone used to call me “Miss Peacock.” Full circle. So I guess my colors have been fanning out for ages. Dare I say.. even when I’m not strutting into an epic Drag Show.

VINYL WILLIAMS AND THE HOT MOUNTAINS

One of my coolest new friends, Faith, invited Mariah, Christina and me to see Vinyl Williams at the Get Tight lounge. She’s known this musician since she was around 12. He was 14ish and already famous. They met at a Christian music festival where he was a performer and she was camping with her parents. The story is unbelievably cute! An absolute Made for TV PG Rom Com that would have my niece begging to restart it the second the credits hit.

Living states away, Vinyl and Faith soon graduated into pen pals and have now remained somewhat in touch. This however was the first night in years that they’d laid eyes on one another. Mariah, Christina and I secretly spent the evening rooting for a Hallmark ending. Faith, however, was simply there to peacock and fluff those gorgina colorful feathers of hers and dannnnnce...

Before Vinyl took the stage, HOTT MT (which hysterically is not an abbreviation for Hot Mountains as we all thought) had us dancing so close to the stage we were basically honorary members. Then something wild happened. The lead singer, Ashleigh, looked directly at ME, pointed, thanked me for dancing, and said, “I think you’ll understand this. Has anyone ever cried wolf to you?” before she played All Alone. Hummmm excuse me? Full. Circle. Alert!

Just hours earlier I’d been explaining to my boss how fake deadlines are slowly training me to ignore urgency. If everything is a five-alarm fire, eventually nothing is. I’d literally used the phrase “it sometimes feels like the boy who cries wolf.” Then... on stage later than night... enter that wild full circle moment.

After the show the band mentioned they’re absolutely j’obsessed (ok ok but we love this made up French word, remember?!) with UFOs, so I introduced them to my friend Jesse’s American Alchemy podcast. Jesse and I met years ago at Soho House in Paris (coincidentally at another music meet cute with another famous person. Read on HERE if you’d like to see how one of the best days of my life went down!) and have stayed friends ever since. Their response?.. “Oh! We’ve followed Jesse’s work for years. We love him!” I’d completely forgotten how famous he was in that world.

Dare I say? Full circle.

MEET AND GREETS

When I came back into town last week... I’m talking literally turning the engine off in front of the house to unload seashells, sandy towels and enough luggage to suggest I’d been exiled rather than vacationing. Before I’d even opened the trunk, I was greeted by Denise, the mayor and social director of our street.

“You’re back just in time!” she beamed. “The block party starts in an hour!” She announced this with the enthusiasm of someone who had not woken up at 5 a.m. to catch one last beach sunrise, celebrated her pops’ 69th birthday for two hours, and then drove 5.5 hours home while mentally playing speed chess with every Nissan Altima weaving through I-95. I needed a nap in the worst way. I had a phone date with LA at 9pm that night that I needed to look alive for it. The thought of 20 uninterrupted minutes lying horizontally felt less like self-care and more like necessity. Alas... thankfully, or regrettably, depending on how you define self-care and how you react to the next few sentences below, my body refused to fall asleep. FOMO won. Delirium be damned.

Off to the soirée I went, where I requested a little John Prine from the band to wake my toosh up. Somewhere between introductions and keg beer, I learned that my house is apparently... the murder house of the neighborhood. Hummmmm. What in the wild &*%$??!!!! I’ll give you a second to digest that (I’m still working on it myself)…

And, I’ll save that story for a future En Route. Preferably after I’ve booked a séance. Which is being arranged as I type by my witches here à Richmond.

The evening redeemed itself almost immediately though with... “AC! You’re here!” one neighbor shouted. “We thought you’d moved away!” another announced. Reader... It made my entire week. These are the same neighbors I met by essentially turning myself into porch décor during my first few weeks in Richmond, sitting outside for hours and memorizing everyone’s names with alarming determination. Every time I start fantasizing about some shiny new city, Richmond pulls a stunt like this and reminds me why I fell for her in the first place.

And then... the cherry on top. I met my newest friend, Addy. Ya’ll are going to L.O.V.E. love her! She’s wonderful. A Virginian-turned-New-Yorker-turned-sometimes-goes-to-Arizona-for-the-Winters-turn-reVirginian with her boyfriend, Vic, who’s coming from San Diego and Arizona. By day she’s a movie trailer editor… (the kind of lady boss who could convince you to spend $22 on popcorn after watching 90 seconds of explosions and one well timed piano note. Think Cameron Diaz’s character in The Holiday - only without all the emotional roadblocks.) And by night.. She’s my plus one to a Rum Party!

Addy and Vic had been invited to the block party by their realtor who lives a few doors down from me. He was searching for them a house in … wait for it.. The Museum District. Bingo! In come the Becky and Nicole intro!

I invited Addy almost instantly to the Rum Party Becky was hosting on Thursday. Exactly as I’d suspected, the two of them (plus my sweet Elaine (who made a cameo in She’s Back) and Sue (floral pattern dress in the photo of us all with precious Addy in the dead center)) hit it off instantly. Excuse me while I brush my shoulders off! Another successful recruitment for our Museum District club. My (made up but very official) position as Social Chair of a neighborhood I technically don’t even live in remains secure, thank you very much!

HOSTESS WITH THE MOSTESS

And finally, earlier this week I received one of my favorite texts in the English language by two of my favorite New Yorkers (who together, happen to speak about six languages), Luis and Lori: “We’re coming to town.”

The squealing promptly began. I replied, “Consider the guest duvet fluffed” as I frantically buzzed around cleaning all the nooks and crannies. I wanted to impress. So I did what any reasonable Richmonder would do and snagged a reservation at Lafayette Tavern.. the newest, most glamorous, hardest table to get in town. The hostess had exactly one opening on Friday at an early bird time of… 5:15 p.m. “We’ll take it!”

Luis, is from Uruguay, has spent years and years in New York’s restaurant world, and his hilarious girlfriend, Lori, has long since become a bestie too. (Need proof? Check out nearly every En Route around the times of Spring and Fall Fashion Weeks à Paris… when she’d hop the pound and I’d benefit from her visits with a dinner out in hysteric knee slaps). In my mind, this meant I had exactly one chance to convince bona fide New York restaurant people that Richmond belongs in the conversation.

We had a hard stop at 7:45 (hence my enthusiasm in taking the very early resie) to get home in time for the 8pm Uruguay vs. Spain World Cup match. Rooting for Uruguay, in Luis’s case, looks less like watching soccer and more like rearranging furniture while huffing and puffing and looking away from the screen just to whip his head back to see if the score had changed in the 0.5 seconds.

Somewhere, though, between fluffing imaginary duvets and greeting my guests... we missed the reservation. Thankfully, the hostess remembered me. And while she worked her magic, we wandered next door to Stella’s Market to guzzle a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc as though that had been the plan all along. Soon enough we were perched at the bar, ordering roughly 75% of the menu before racing home to yell at the television.

Uruguay lost.

The next morning I introduced them to Lamplighter (the finest coffee in the Fan by the freakin way), sent them on their way, and promptly got dolled up in my finest dandy attire for the Dancing Queens.

This coming week I’m trading Virginia humidity for salty Montauk air. I’ll swing through New York City first to bunk with Luis and Lori before we all drive out to meet our mutual best friends, Erika and Bryan at their house. I cannot wait!

Cold, coarse sand under my feet. The famous Fourth of July Epic Yard Sale that will happen in the front lawn of Loveage (Click HERE if you need a refresh of what / where this magical place is). Seafood. Friends. And Sunny!! Somehow I neglected to mention until now that she was featured in New York Magazine last week. Yes! My little Boog... all grown up and looking like a star! If you click on THIS link, you’ll spot her looking like a bombshell standing in front of her surfboard. I couldn’t be prouder if I’d taught her to paddle out myself.

Until next week. Happy 250th to all my fellow Americans! Here's hoping this is our best storytelling year yet… one where we bring it strong with some full circles thanks to our collective and almighty gift of the gab.

Xx ac

Yes. That was a TRUE quote from the shelling heiress herself, my dear mother, Harriette “Rarrie” Louis. Who, like her father, doesn’t throw back a shell she spots! And she’s not wrong! This year, thanks to a beach restoration project happening between around 21st and 48th Avenues North, this was our best haul yet. I’d go hungry for them too!

And if you’re wondering what we’ll do with all these treasures, the answer is: not much. At least not right away. Most that my mother took will likely be tucked into a shoebox and slid beneath an upstairs guest bed, where they’ll spend the next decade making friends with dust mites and the precarious stacks of printed photographs that also live there… (keepsakes from a time when people developed film and then felt obligated to keep every blurry picture …of a thumb). But after they’ve been forgotten for months… truly, maybe years… all of a sudden they will have a rebirth. She’ll craft the sweetest Christmas Tree ornaments of of them, oyster shell angels and redo her glass lamps for a seaside / bedside table display.

Mine? I’ve placed a sandy cluster beside my bed and spend an embarrassing amount of time staring at it each night, captivated by the fact that nature… without a blueprint, committee, or a budget meeting… could create something soooooo patterned, intelligent, intentional and gorg!

Miller, however, has grander ambitions than shoebox storage and an amateur natural history type nightstand display. She’s designing an oyster shell chandelier (!!!) for her and Boggs’s new chic malique porch/outside living room. Masterpiece awaits!

Shells be damned though for my 14 year old nephew. He has his eyes on one thing and one thing only… shark teeth. He started collecting them at the ripe old age of … three? Photo proof below. And now every coastline to him is essentially a treasure hunt. This 4 day trip alone he found no less than 658 pearly-blacks (is that even something I can say? I mean, you get it. Right?) shark teeth.

Bragging alert. He went to Edisto Island a few years ago and ummmmmm collected 1,100. He’s a master! Watching him search reminds us all so much of my grandfather, Papa (my mother’s father - and shell aficionado). Who would spend countless summer hours on the beach, skinny (like my nephew), standing shirtless upright but somehow bent nearly horizontal at the waist (like my nephew), scanning the sand with unwavering focus (like my nephew). As the season progressed, so did his back tan… it would go from shades of pink, to bronze, to brown, and eventually to black… while the rest of him remained startlingly white. Shark teeth, keyhole limpets, coral fragments, sea glass... he was always searching for the prize in the sand. Hands held behind his back (like my nephew) and slowly pacing over a “good pile” (like my nephew). Boggs Jr caught and now lives out Papa’s shell contagion.

Now, thoroughly sun kissed and still finding sand in places that defy explanation, I am writing En Route. This time however, instead of sharing the funniest stories of say… a man of the cloth preaching the word of god to my brother in law mid sunscreen application at a, wait for it, water park (yes, this really happened!!!)... I have decided to share my favorite spots below in case you ever find yourself in Dirty Myrtle and looking to spend some of that shell currency… in its less romantic dollar form.

WHAT’S YOUR ORDER, HUN?

Peaches. If you’re going to spend a week at a South Carolina beach. It’s essential, imperative, down right rude not to sink your teeth into a bushel of our locally grown stone fruits. And if you’re coming from the north east, you couldn’t be more lucky! Exit 164 off of I-95 holds the mecca at the Pee Dee State Farmers Market. Here, on the far right side when you drive in, you’ll find the McLeod Farm outpost. Do yourself a favor and park in the rear of their “store” then go for the blue boxes. It will change your life!!!

Georgia may have “Peach State” branding, but those who know, know. South Carolina grows the fuzzier, plumpier, juicer, scrumptious-er, better peaches. Always and forever! (Not biased at alllllll. Can you tell?)

Frequent buyer tip: the blue boxes hold the beauty queens. The green boxes contain the slightly misshapen rejects that, frankly, are just as delicious and somehow seem to drip down your chin even more enthusiastically. But have spots, bruises and deformities. Perfect for the blender! (Actually… Someone, quick! Pass me a red and white striped straw … I feel a daiquiri coming on!)

Boiled Peanuts. It is also not a beach week without these briny delicious treats. My mother made ample ziplock bags full of these boiled to perfection concoctions. Recipe goes something like this: 1 “handful of salt” for every 2 cups of raw green peanuts. (I KNOW I KNOW! But drink some water, you’ll be fine.) The taste and slurps as you open them with your teeth in the sand, is perfection.

Beers. Grand Strand Brewery is the absolute best place to have a pint (Airbrush IPA is my all time favorite) and exchange your white elephant gifts (more on that next). Miller, Boggs and I went to college with the owner, Clayton, and his wife, Anna, so each time we’re on the Grand Strand, you can bet that for at least a solid 2 hours or 3 drafts later (whatever comes first) you can find us there.

Seafood. The best show in town is The Sea Captain’s House. We’ve been coming here since I was a boodle, back when I thought I was pulling one over on my parents every time they let me order something called a shrimp cocktail. I felt impossibly sophisticated. Practically a tiny regular at a seaside bar. It wasn’t until years later that I realized there was, in fact, no alcohol involved in my food.

The view, the drinks, the sunroom, the outside patio, the seafoooood. It’s nonplus as my fancy grandmother would always refer to it.

Low Country Boil. Mr. Fish. Enough said. DO THIS!

Breakfast. And what’s a beach week breakfast without one visit to Krispy Kreme for their “HOT” glazed doughnuts. In my family, it’s not optional, it’s mandatory. It’s tradition.

HOW TO PLAY TOURIST WHEN YOU’RE A LOCAL

White Trash Turn White Elephant Gold. For the best collection of oddities, treasures, gifts, jewelry, toys, and things nobody technically needs but everyone suddenly has to have… go to the Gay Dolphin. You’re welcome.

Need an alligator claw back scratcher? They’ve got one. Need a beaver statue that has solar powered light bulb eyes giving you the bird? They’ve got that too. Need a six foot wooden carved pelican? Probably. Need absolutely nothing and somehow leave with three bags? Guaranteed.

And best of all. The only shop you’ll find that has an in-house shark tooth expert. You’ll spot him by his 5 foot long beard and canny ability to sell you a custom tooth necklace, tooth anklet, tooth bracelet, tooth belly button ring, tooth nail charm. (What are we even doing?!)

Parasail, Jet Ski, Banana Boat, Oh My! My sister, Miller, and I spent most of our high school and college summers playing… ooop, I mean… working at Downwind Sails. So this recommendation comes with strong biases.

If you’d like to spend an afternoon laughing so hard you temporarily lose control of your limbs while being dragged across the Atlantic on an inflatable raft, book the banana boat ride. There is a very real possibility you’ll be launched into the ocean during a particularly ambitious wave jump. Or at least slip and slide your way right into the middle of the raft where you’re instructed to do the over-under hand hold to keep from being sharkfood but can’t stop laughing long enough to make the switch, so flop about like a flounder caught on the line.

If you’d like to tether yourself to what appears to be the world’s thinnest rope and trust it to suspend you hundreds of feet above the Atlantic, go parasailing. (Against all odds, it works.)

From up there, the ocean stretches endlessly in every direction. You might even spot the occasional patch of gnarly seaweed or a lone seagull bobbing on the whitecaps. What? Did you think I was going to say you’d see turtles, dolphins, sharks, stingrays? Did you forget momentarily that I said I was in (let me crank up the volume real quick) MYRTLE BEACH!? This isn’t the tropics where water is the color of turquoise and schools of fish are spotted playing Marco Polo underwater.

And if you’re the sort of person who rides mechanical bulls for fun, jet skis are probably right up your alley. This was a hard pass for moi. Something about straddling what is essentially a water powered bucking bronco while skipping across the Atlantic at questionable speeds does not scream “vacation” to my nervous system. But Miller, Boggs, Belle Miller, and Boggs Jr. had an absolute ball… doughnut-ing, spraying each other, and looking like extras in Puff Daddy’s “Been Around the World” video circa 1997… minus the yachts, champagne, and eventual federal indictments.

Instead, my pops and I watched comfortably from a distance, where the chances of being launched into open water were considerably lower.

Go karts and arcade. It helps that we happen to know the owner of The Track. It also helps since we do, and that he answers to the name, Dad, that our swipe cards are packed with unlimited points to compete with one another for HOURS. Move over stranger kid .. let me show you how a skee-ball professional (ahem, you’re lookin at her) throws a wrist twirl to sink the 500pt cup, ok?!

We rode every kart, won every game, and basically scored all the points! My godson, Jimmy, inherited much of my prize haul (I opted for candy that he loves). Between us, I secured enough Dum-Dums to last him well into … adulthood.

Rides. The beloved Pavilion (RIP) may be gone, but Family Kingdom remains. It’s a place where carnival workers from all corners of the earth appear to congregate here and convince you that this throw of the ring will win you the large stuffy your niece has been eyeing since arrival, where roller coaster photos cost roughly the same as a semester of community college, and where every ride seems to have been designed by someone who began a sentence with, “You know what would be fun?”

And honestly? It was perfect.

We rode the Swamp Fox… the oldest wooden roller coaster in the country, thank you very much… no fewer than four times. (First time for Joe, my step father. And my mother’s umpteenth. Being a true Myrtle Beacher, she rode it on the very first day it was ever built and said that sawdust caked her, her father and her brother’s eyes as they flung about.)

Meanwhile, my niece and nephew successfully convinced their parents to join them in hurling themselves from a bungee seats, going on all the twirly, tipsy-turvy, strap yourself in so tight because this one is going to fling you from one side of the amusement park to the other rides… where they spent considerably more time upside down than right side up. And walked with a disheveled stagger the following day. Oh wait! That was me!

My final ride of the night was TERRIFYING! It slammed us against our chest bars while the mechanical voice repeated in a robotic tone “you have to scream if you want to go faster” while we were twisting us upside down … so I kept my mouth glued shut in an attempt to signal slow down by god! In an attempt to make me cackle, my family started complementing my loafers mid-air while we slung about like loose luggage. It worked. And… Didn’t work. I was green when I got off.

Water park. Do yourself a favor and run, don’t walk to Myrtle Waves. Well, maybe make sure a lifeguard isn’t watching first. Because if they catch you running, I meannnn, it’s on! You’ve been warned.

It’s SO. MUCH. FUN!

This year we arrived at opening and became those people.. the ones sprinting toward the slides with alarming determination, moving in tandem, hopping over children just to race family members and see who can go down silently, even though you don’t. You scream bloody murder. Because some of them are SCARY! And then, by the time you splash out, you realize your bathing suit has ridden so far up your toosh that your wedgie has effectively become a permanent thong. Again, It’s SO. MUCH. FUN!

The beach. How didn’t I start with this??! This is the ONLY thing worth doing when you go to Myrtle. Ok, all the other things too!! But THIS! Nothing, and I do mean nothing, is better than a day week on a South Carolina beach.

Not a spa (and that’s coming from an actual season professional of this sport). Not a yacht (who am I kidding? I really just mean not Puff Daddy’s). Not enlightenment. (Ok, maybe this. Because you’ll find it AT the beach).

Just a towel, a chair, a bucket for shells, a cooler full of beer, the newest Town & Country or gossip magazine describing Britney’s rehab plan, a brother-in-law’s speaker with Sturgill Simpson radio queued up and the inevitable discovery that despite applying SPF 1,000 every forty-five minutes, you’ve somehow managed to burn the exact half-inch strip of skin beneath your bathing suit elastic where you “totally got sunscreen.”

Oh! And boiled peanuts! As you read above, those are mandatory. I don’t make the rules.

I recently re-read this quote and it made me think of my trip… “Every day you are as young as you’ll ever be and older than you’ve ever been, so seize this moment.”

We did, and I can’t wait to do it again next year!!

Until the next En Route… xx ac

P.S. Each morning, my brother-in-law was up with the sun and ended up chatting with a painter he spotted doing the same thing. Only she was carrying an easel, canvas and her palette of paints. She was in the middle of a 30-day sunrise challenge. Returning to the same spot every morning to capture the sun as she rose. On the second to last morning of our trip, she asked if she could include him in one of her paintings. Unreal! If you look closely, you’ll spy him fishing on the canvas. We all got to meet Debanjana on the last day of our vacation. A pretty remarkable way to end the week. Her work can be found here. But for now…

Coming back from New York City earlier this week, Richmond greeted me with a cool 55° morning, which gave me the perfect excuse to wear my brand new old cashmere jacket, recently acquired at the treasure trove, Housing Works. (I adore secondhand stores, where the cost of someone else’s expensive original decision is … my delightfully discounted gem!)

I was strolling down Grove Avenue, taking in the early hours of the day sloooowly, when a woman walking toward me suddenly stopped. “You look as if Paris is your backdrop,” she said. “The loafers, the white shirt, your flowing cashmere jacket.”

“Well,” I responded, “as a matter of fact, I just moved from there.” Her face lit up like I’d told her I had Catherine Deneuve waiting around the corner. She was thrilled! Without missing a beat, Felicia, my new friend, switched it into highgear French. (I’ve since been inspired to crack my studies open again and practice daily. Which goes something like.. Bonjour. Comment allez-vous? Je m’appelle Anne Caroline. J’aime les croissants.)

It turns out she is a retired English teacher who lived in France for years and years. And who, like me right now, calls Richmond home. She was a French major in college so speaks with such ease and eloquence. It’s delicious to hear her in flow. Now, a full-time wanderluster, she has started a company called In My Travels, where she takes small groups of women to France and shows them the joy of French culture… buttery croissants, the pleasure of relaxing all day and then doing absolutely nothing after, and hidden gems in the outskirts of places like Provence (her newest regional obsession). She too, 8 hours per week, teaches executives all across the world French. She is a lady boss queen!!!! I’m so grateful I met her. We stood on the sidewalk talking for no less than 45 minutes while people passed and she would mistakenly say bonjour as opposed to hi to them forgetting momentarily that we were in Richmond and not Pareeeeee.

Since then, we’ve met for coffee at Lamplighter, which, in my entirely unbiased neighborhood groupie opinion, serves the best coffee in the Fan. Over her cortado and my fancy lavender latte, we discovered that the world is in fact itty bitty. We have a mutual acquaintance in common who is American, who is not from Richmond, who currently still lives in France and who was wildly entitled when meeting both of us.

Reader, you may remember this character (who I will never name) in this dispatch about 2 years ago. While Felicia was describing a wild event with a very rude American woman in France who she had discovered by way of similar work… it sounded too identical to what I had experienced with someone I too had met over en France. Then, she said her name. Body chills. It was that someone who I was thinking of. Word to the wise. Let’s keep it cute and classy, ladies! It’s so much chicer to join the brigade of supporting queens (bad ass lady boss women). Because when you’re a snob (which is neeeevvvver cute) you’re remembered for it. And how gross is that?

WELCOME TO FRANCE VS WELCOME TO NEW YORK

We all loaded onto the Richmond Airport shuttle bus from Parking Lot B at around 4 a.m. two Fridays ago. A collection of red eyed business travelers, exhausted parents, a 3 year old who had recently discovered complete sentences and sounded remarkably like the Google Maps voice that had guided me there twenty minutes earlier… “The bus is turning right.” “The bus is turning left.” “This bus is full”… The only difference was that there wasn’t a ‘speaker off’ button on this cute little boodle. There was also a woman who had somehow decided that this was the exact appropriate hour to wear… sequins. Queen! Evidently airports are one of the last places in America where you can observe every social class, profession, and drag show level fashion before sunrise. I’m here for it!!

I made my way through security with a man named Mason on my heels. I assumed his rapid fire storytelling had something to do with the massive can of Monster he had been chugging on the shuttle fifteen minutes earlier. Good God.

Since I was trapped in the security line, I was more or less obligated to listen. Mason had been an international basketball player before reinventing himself as an insurance salesman and was in Richmond celebrating his nephew’s graduation. This struck me as exactly the sort of thing people make fun of Americans for doing… spend years doing something epic like playing professional basketball around the world and then one morning waking up and thinking, You know what? Liability coverage.

He was as kind and harmless as could be. And an open book. By the time we reached the TSA scanners, I knew his entire life story, several details about his extended family, and enough information to confidently say that neither of us were attempting to smuggle batteries, anthrax, or any other contraband through airport security. Just let us through already!!!!

At the gate, I called Vivian (because it was 11am her time in Paris), who had just achieved her first great French triumph. Her friends from LA had come to visit her in her new home à Paris. And in what I consider a proper Parisian welcome, her guy friend managed to get himself - and all the luggage - trapped inside one of those elevators designed for a single baguette and perhaps a miniature dog. Nightmare!

Vivian sprang into action finding the nearest fire department. She begged for help and eventually asked them to call the French equivalent of 911. Which they did… reluctantly. Her story brought me right back to my first week I lived in Paris. When Simon and I were on a 9 mile run (yes… he took me on a 9 mile run the day after I took a 12 hour flight. I almost died from muscle cramps and the desperate need to stop immediately so to eat alllllll the buttery pastries I had partly moved there for) and his keys slipped out of his pocket. We retraced the route without avail. Out of pure desperation we made our way over to the fire department and pleaded for help. Asked them to bring a bucket truck over to hoist Simon up to his balcony for entry. But, as you know I say… Welcome to France… They did nothing. To refresh your memory about all the details, continue reading here.

Vivian’s story was comfortingly familiar. First came the initial French reluctance to help. Then the laundry list of excuses they gave of why they couldn’t be bothered. Then the lack of explanation after they did finally end up calling the 911 number in her favor. Yet, no details. No explanation. No timeline. No names. No indication of whether help was really coming or if the fireman who was on the phone with “911” actually just ordered a pizza instead. Literally. Nothing. Welcome to France.

But as I knew she would… she worked it out and her friend ended up getting out of that coffin in enough time for a fancy French dinner. So all is well in love and (French) war.

Vivian called the experience communicating with the French as “nonchalant,” which I thought was generous. I tend to think of it as industrial strength inefficiency. As you, my reader of En Route, know, I spent nearly two years documenting the phenomenon. The people … gorgeous, model-esque, known for being grumpy, but are actually, incredibly kind. The food … unbelievably delicious and decadent. The French process and motivations… magnificently inefficient.

New Yorkers, on the other hand, are anything but nonchalant. They’ll jackhammer through concrete in the middle of your peaceful morning because the sidewalk simply cannot wait until Tuesday at 2pm when you’re not sipping your scalding hot coffee that you spew when startled by the sudden sound. They’ll ride their bikes through Manhattan blasting whatever song has captured their attention that week, singing at full volume with absolutely no concern for pitch or public opinion. They’ll interrupt your deeply emotional conversation with your dinner companion … perhaps the one who’s explaining how his parents heroically survived the Holocaust as children… because they need to ask if you’re done with the ketchup. They’ll pee on the street because, frankly, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. There are no committee meetings. No deliberation. No not figuring it out. A New Yorker sees a problem and decides that everyone within a three block radius is now part of it… be it the solution or the fuel to the fire. Either way … they’re on it.

Paris taught me patience. New York continues to teach me momentum.

I touched down at 7 a.m. and there is nothing… I repeat… nothing better than being one of the first people to land in New York City on a spring weekend morning. When the city hasn’t quite had its coffee yet, but is already full speed ahead and arguing with itself. It’s the absolute … best!!!

GOOD THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE

“I bet you get a lot of things for free.” A colleague said this to me once after she saw a discussion I was having with the Delta check in lady about our upcoming flight. I was likely asking her if she too thought my name should be on the ‘First Class’ list. And after the attendant agreed with me and I was called to board with Zone 1 thank you very much. My colleague made that statement. Because I had gotten an upgraded seat.. For free.

She wasn’t wrong. I do get a lot of things for free. I think because I enjoy talking with people so I ask how the person in charge is doing, give compliments, and because I’m not afraid to ask for what I want. (Like a good guy discount - that 100% is made up by your’s truly - and only all the time works!)

Just this past trip to New York City the freebies came in droves.

Last Friday, when I was headed down to Flatiron to see... wait for it...wait for it… hint… he made his first appearance just last En Route. Yessssss, Bruce! (SIDEBAR: It was his birthday the day I landed. I had sworn to myself that I wasn’t going to tell anyone I was in town except a bestie, Fiona, who I was staying with and there to visit. The whole point of this trip was to disappear into the city and emerge several days later after a sound meditation with Alexandre that effectively resets my human operating system. But when Bruce informed me that it was his big day… I was only so strong. I love a good celebration and the irony that we were both in the city on this particular (birth)day (of his) was wild!)

En route, to meet him at Motek I stopped at my favorite nut shop, Kalustyan’s. Honey roasted pecans. Lemon almonds. Dried strawberries. YES PLEASE! And a mini bag of each for the birthday boy. As I piled sacks of nuts onto the counter, I tossed in one of the little nugget candies that they make in-house. The woman rang me up, looked around conspiratorially, winked, and smile-whispered,“I gave you the candy.” Freebie number 1!

A few days later, after my sound meditation, I wandered into Colbo, a clothing store that moonlights as the chicest wine bar in Lower Manhattan and, by day, serves up piping hot coffee and convo. The woman working there had star-tattooed hands. The tattoos looked exactly like the image below that Alexandre showed the group before we all eye-masked and disappeared into his music for several hours. She loved it!

Then, after ordering and paying for my needed boost of caffeine (when I leave these meditations it takes me several days (this time more like a week) to pick up the pace), I struck up a conversation with the barista because I had an urgent question and felt he’d know what’s up. Where could I find Kettl tea? Kettl has become my favorite tea company since I got hooked last year when they had a pop-up on Bowery and Great Jones. Their buckwheat tea latte… is my obsession. Before the barista could put a lid on my coffee, the tattooed woman who had been listening to our conversation came over. “We don’t make the latte version, but we do have one buckwheat tea bag left,“ she said as she handed it over. “We want to give it to you.” The two of them smiled at me like this was a group project they’d been planning since my arrival. Freebie number 2!

The barista then told me I should visit La Cabra … where they serve Kettl.

Sooooo… fast forward a few days later, I went there and ordered my buckwheat tea, then decided it would be sacrilegious not to get a pastry. What they’re actually known for. (SIDEBAR: A friend of mine who lives in LA just returned from Paris a few days ago (not the same friend as Vivian … but quick thinking!), and I texted him what an adjustment it will be once he realizes that the croissants here stateside are simply trying their best. But La Cabra? They don’t have to try. They nail it!)

Catching myself from drooling.. I decided to talk. “What’s the move?” I asked the shop guy. This guy had clearly internalized The Subtle Art of Not Giving a $#%& (the book I referenced last week and hope by now you’ve already read it cover to cover and have held an intervention with everyone in your life who needs to CALM the $#%& DOWN) because a line was starting to stretch out the door! He launched into a detailed explanation of the cardamom bun and the pain suisse, paying no attention whatsoever to the impatient crowd huffing and puffing building behind me.

I chose the pain suisse. Chocolate vanilla butter croissant-ish decadence. WRAP IT UP!

Several strolling miles later (what the French would call a flâner… walking slowly and mindlessly just for the sake of enjoying), I found myself in the West Village. PSA: Could someone… anyone … pllllllllease sponsor my pied-à-terre there already? Morton Street between Hudson and Bedford would be ideal. Please and thank you!

I was making believe it was already my neighborhood as I wandered toward Three Lives & Company to pick up the newest bestseller (Tata by Valérie Perrin came home with me. I bought James there last year and, if you haven’t read it yet, cancel your plans.) Instead of taking the direct route, I wandered. This is how great things happen. And boy did they!!!

I turned onto West 11th Street off of Bleecker when I saw a yellow cab stop in the middle of the block. Out stepped a petite blonde woman in ballet flats, black leggings, oversized sunglasses, a billowing white shirt, and carrying approximately half of Manhattan in shopping bags. The timing could not have been better!!!! We had just enough time to smile, make eye contact, and give a second for … excuse me as I turn up the volume typing out who I was locking eyes with … SARAH JESSICA PARKER to pay me a compliment!!!!! That’s right. And in case you’re wondering. Yes, my body did go into full on numbness with a permagrin that hasn’t quit since.

She slowed. Turned. Did a double take. And then spoke… “Great blazer.” Hummmmmmmm! What?!! Compliment from the ultimate A lister who is a true (born and reared) New Yorker? I’d say that’s my… Freebie number three!

The blazer, for the record, belonged to my 14 year old nephew, Boggs, who had apparently “outgrown” it back in April. So naturally I asked if I could have it. What?!!! We’re practically the same size. Never mind that the sleeves hit somewhere around mid-forearm and it’s a touch snug across the shoulders. We don’t care. Carrie Bradshaw thought it fit like a glove. So it does!

I immediately texted my mom and sister in a state of absolute glee. They were convinced I must have been wearing something impossibly chic. I hated to shatter the illusion, but I eventually sent photographic evidence of the decidedly un-fashion-forward outfit that had earned Sarah Jessica Parker’s approval. (Upper right photo of moi in the grouping above … running shorts, a tucked in white button down, THE “great blazer,” and a cashmere sweater around the shoulders. Ha. What a look!)

I floated the rest of the way to the bookstore and then off to take a moment in Madison Square Park before I flew out. My happy place. Where the resident jazz trio, a nearby protest (couldn’t ever decide if we were for or against what the yelling was about), and laughing babies provided the afternoon soundtrack. On a bench, finally hungry, I opened my paper bag from La Cabra. There it was. Freebie number four!

The guy had rung me up for only one pastry, but somewhere between our extensive conversation about baked goods, my glacial pace and his kind heart, he’d tucked a cardamom bun into the bag for me to try as well. They were both… scrumptious!!

Oh… and this isn’t free per se, but it counts…

The afternoon after the meditation, I stopped to journal on a stoop overlooking Gramercy Park. One of my favorite block clusters of all of Manhattan. If you’ve never been, imagine a tiny slice of London dropped into the middle of bustling New York City. A private park with a locked gate. Enough exclusivity to make everyone on the outside immediately want to yell “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” As I scribbled down all the downloads (as I call them) from Alexandre’s sound meditation the night before, one thought kept repeating itself. I’ve got to get in that park. Not in a weird trespassing way. In a destiny way. I knew I was getting in.

Rewind, I’d recognized Olivia from the first sound meditation I’d attended last July. And when I entered this one.. There she was! She’s from Alabama and possesses the kind of Southern warmth that makes me feel right at (familiar) home and like I’ve known her my entire life. So, that evening, as Olivia and I texted to coordinate the when and where of our rendezvous to discuss our experiences, she wrote..”What if we meet on the south east corner of Gramercy Park? I have a key to the gate.” No Joke! Freebie!

We met there the following day and held court for hours amongst the blooming roses, then migrated up to her gorgeous apartment, sat on her balcony and then lush couches, snuggled her puppy, Poppy, and discussed everything under the sun until her husband Chris arrived home. It was such an upgrade of a 3hr moment. My inspirational lady boss queen!

AND STILL MORE…

While I was in town this time, I had a fancy salted caramel iced latte from Caffe Paradiso - which I learned is all the rage (and should be because it was ummmm delicious and likely gave me a cavity.) I meditated with Fiona at the Kadampa Meditation Center where the discussion revolved around converting conflict into compassion (SO GOOD). I ate dinner at the bar at Pastis alongside another incredible queen, Kim, who blew my mind with her life story and contagious energy (fun fact… her sister is an actual rocket scientist. Yes, she sends people to the moon!!). I actually ate at Pastis that night before the meditation for a very particular reason. The Steak and Gruyère Sandwich. Every time I do one of Alexandre’s sound meditations, I never know what I’ll emerge with… new understanding, new habits, clearer paths, lots of questions etc. For some reason this time, I was convinced that I’d wake up vegetarian. Therefore, I wanted to eat my final meat sandwich.. just in case. But, I did not. For evidence, please see below the burger I inhaled the day after at Café Cluny…

… I wandered through the Biennial at the Whitney. I walked the High Line. I worked at WeWork and visited with one of my favorite colleagues, Wendy, and her daughter. And, as I just wrote above, I met a new friend, Olivia, who I’ve already decided will be a lifer.

I ended the week with Courtney, my new chic Richmond (fellow TM) queen. We walked to Maymont’s 100th anniversary celebration from my house in 90°ish heat (ouch) with one very specific goal: beer. Only to be met with “you’re five minutes too late” upon arrival. “Beer sales have stopped today.” We pivoted to The Cask… a close by pub. Over pints, I shared with her what my biggest takeaway from the meditation was last week.

Somewhere between the music and the silence, everything made perfect sense. The meditation reminded me that women are, and always have been, extraordinarily powerful. We’re resilient! We’re wildly intuitive. We’re lovingly nurturing and yet somehow beastly strong. And, we don’t really need much … because we already have it all. We are it. We’re Queens.

If you want to learn more... Don’t worry. I’ve already started the rough draft of a massively over-wordy (can you even imagine that?) manuscript. With any luck, given the snails pace I’m still moving at, it should be available by mid to late 2075.

Until next week…

Xx

5 a.m. on May 1st couldn’t have come soon enough, though technically it did arrive three hours after I stopped sleeping. The alarm sounded and by 5:09, I was on the road. I’d packed the car the night before… a large suitcase that suggested low-level evacuation: shoes for every possible climate, three books I did not read, a cooler of all the provisions that I figured would congeal by the time I returned, and of course… winter coats. I know!!! It’s nearly summer!! But this had been prompted by a text I received around 11 p.m, the night before from Pam: “Remember your flannels!” The kind of warning usually reserved for wood chopping or cult retreats. But, she was right. I checked the forecast and discovered that Montauk, during the week I’d chosen to visit, would hover somewhere between brisk seaside cozy and frigid no thank you temperatures. 49° consistently at nightfall. Burrrrrrr! (I’ll have you know, in a burst of optimism bordering on delusion, I did also pack every bathing suit I owned. Unfortunately, like the books… I did not use.)

Days leading up to the long haul, I’d been checking the Google Maps drive time. Hour by hour, refresh by refresh, trying to determine the exact moment I should slip out and attempt to outrun the East Coast. I settled on 5 a.m… giving me a full hour before sunrise to enjoy my coffee on empty roads and before filling up at a gas station where night before hot dogs (disgusto) will have achieved room temperature. Most importantly. I decided this time to beat the D.C. traffic. Or so I thought…

Unbeknownst to moi, the citizens of our nation’s capital apparently report for duty at something closer to 7 a.m., meaning by the time I hit Washington it was already wall-to-wall government issued … aggression. I caught a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial from the highway and gave him a little wave, just like I would do to our Mother Liberty some 6+ hours later down the same 95 straightaway. I blew her, though, a smooch.

Baltimore came next. There wasn’t enough time to swing by their epic aquarium, though there was somehow plenty of time evidently for my GPS to send me through an unnecessary loop-de-loop involving toll roads, existential regret, and at least one lane that appeared to lead directly into the Atlantic Ocean.

Philadelphia arrived after that, where most travelers might stop for a cheesesteak, but not me. I snacked instead on a gallon sized container of carrots that I had packed with peanut butter. A combination that makes me feel both satiated and vaguely … starving. But we don’t care. It kept me movin and groovin so I didn’t have to stop.

And then: the New Jersey Turnpike. A road I genuinely love(d. (note the past tense) before this trip). Peaceful, wooded in part and most importantly wide enough that no one expects emotional outbursts to cross the yellow lines. Until, of course, you find yourself looking in your rearview mirror and mistaking a man’s furious gesturing for friendliness.

I thought we were having a cute little commuter camaraderie. But no. At the exact same moment we locked eyes, he met my smile with a blatant SCREAM_,. My sister, who I happened to be chatting with on the phone, asked (knowing me too well), “You are driving the speed limit, right?” which prompted me to glance down at the speedometer and discover I was going a solid ten miles under. Eeeek. Now, was I technically in the wrong? Yes. However, did that fully justify the bulging neck veins and theatrical rage display from the “gentleman” in the Subaru sedan who was trying to give off chill hippie vibes? I’d argue no.

I gave him a little forgive me wave of apology as he floored it by me. Unfortunately, he interpreted this not as remorse but as an invitation to es.ca.llllllaaaaate the situation… flipping me his you know what (get your heads out of the gutter!) … the bird.

About an hour later, I exhaled as I exited the Turnpike and got a call from Fiona just as the skyline came into view. New York City, my girl: moody, loud, offensively expensive, and somehow still impossible not to love. Fi, my equally impossible to not love New Yorker, was biking through the city while I admired it from afar. Upper Manhattan to the Lower East Side… so close, yet so far away! Meanwhile, I was trapped in a Staten Island backup, crawling past yellow cabbies and monster trucks trying very hard to intimidate this slow poke Virginian. Where was that very angry “chill hippie” when I need him to flip somebody off for me already?! I crept along en route to Long Island, both of us moving through the same city … in entirely different tax brackets of transportation.

Eventually, the chaos loosened its grip. The highways narrowed. The air changed. The chain stores disappeared (for a bit anyway) and were replaced by weathered farm stands selling peaches for $14,000 apiece. I had entered the Hamptons.

I made it to Springs where I swung by to pick up Vivian and finally meet her besties, Charmaine and Mark, in person. (Technically, I’d already met them about umpteen times during Covid when we all practiced yoga together via the almighty (newly learned at the time) Zoom. Each of us freezing occasionally in bizarre poses while someone’s internet lagged mid warrior two.) Viv was about to move to Paris on May 5th (I like to think I was some sort of l'inspiration for this changement de vie), so we’d coordinated seeing each other while we were both out east for those 30ish minutes before she met with other friends and then caught a train back to the city.

I stole her away to do what we do best: thrift. LVIS was closing in 35 minutes, so we made a beeline for East Hampton, found parking on Main Street across from the Palm, and split up like contestants on a game show. I found, of course.. true to form.. all menswear. One being a man’s waistcoat I fully intend to wear this winter as a shirt to some vaguely elegant event where people will pretend not to notice the oversized lapels covering my itty bitty breasts that will hid behind the peek-a-boo fabric by my pure optimism alone. Vivian, on the other hand, found a precious and playful neon cap that read “Union Square”… which felt deeply sentimental somehow as her looming city-life expiration date neared.

After settling up, I spun her back around toward town to meet friends at the playground behind the East Hampton cinema while I went to pick up my fairy godmother, Pam, from work. The second she spotted me turning the corner she lit up like a christmas tree and yelled, “Annnnnnne Caroliiiiiiine!” in her best Southern accent despite being a purebred Northern Montauker. Pam has the contagious happiness of a woman who can always see that double rainbow when everyone else only saw the tornado hit and destroy moments before. We squealed and hugged and waved to her colleagues good bye as we sped off.

I dropped her at the train station and I swiftly changed out of my comfy no for public road trip uniform and into my new oversized striped band collar men’s shirt that I stole… I mean bought at LVIS for a whopping $2 because it was sooooo big. So, in spite of two policemen who just patrolled right past me on Newtown Lane… think Mayberry Main Street and you’ll have the perfect image… I stripped down. Then I took a left on Old Montauk Hwy and followed the road all the way to Amagansett where I met my friend, Laura, at Rosie’s and dissected the past year of our lives for hours and with the intensity of an archaeological dig.

I pulled in late that night to Lovage .. Pam and Sunny’s house in Ditch Plains, Montauk. The downstairs was ready for me: clean, cozy, thoughtfully decorated and crashable. Which I did.

The next morning I wandered upstairs to make coffee, and found Pam already settled on the couch like a queen awaiting counsel. Outside, the sky took turns misting and down pouring all the livelong day. So, we took that as permission to settle in. I mean from about 9 a.m. until, no exaggeration, nearly 5:30 p.m., the two of us barely moved from the couch except to refresh coffee or reposition a blanket. Honestly, it felt like a luxurious upgrade. Not the Hamptons version involving teak lounges and a green juice, but the real kind: being tucked under a blanket while fascinating women tell their stories for eight straight hours.

Pam talks the way some people quilt … every thought stitched to another. Mid-conversation she’d suddenly grab a yellow notepad and jot something down furiously so she wouldn’t forget a single detail she wanted to tell me later. Maybe it was a line from The Birdcage, her favorite movie. A memory from thirty years ago. A book quote. A Sunnism (as we call the precious and funny memories we have of her daughter, Sunny). A person I simply must know about. Conversations with her aren’t linear so much as beautifully tidal. And what else would I expect from someone who self proclaims as the Dutchess of “Ditch” – the name of the beach in Montauk where tides are anything but still.

And through all of it is this completely unbelievable life story of hers that really should be adapted into a television miniseries. Especially when she casually throws in anecdotes like ... “Oh yeah… that was when I lived on Peter Beard’s property…” while she’s pouring milk into her coffee as if that isn’t a HUGE DEAL and should be the pilot episode Because for Pammy, it isn’t. It’s just her unbelievable life story. It’s wild! And such a treat to be told them all in person. (That’s just the tip of the blow your mind who she knows and what she’s done in life iceberg. My SHEro!)

On our beach walk that evening with Shadow… their mini rescue who answers mainly to “Littttttle Maaaaaannnnn” we ran into Janet O’Brien. Fellow surfer of Sunny and Pam’s, the happiest woman, and caterer to nearly every chic event on the South Fork of Long Island. She has a cozy home in Sag Harbor, a condo in Vail where she lets Sunny Boog stay some when they’re doing what beach people do and “wintering” there at the same time, and a trailer in the Montauk Trailer Park. (Note to reader. “Trailer park” in Montauk translates loosely to mini chic bungalow camp where your neighbors may or may not (but 100% do) include the likes of Jimmy Buffett (RIP) and professional surfers.) Only in Montauk can someone casually mention living in a trailer while draped in Egyptian cotton and discussing yellowfin tuna, am I right?! Chic malique!

Afterward we walked the beach as the rain finally cleared. The sky turned that bruised pink and gold color that seems invented specifically for oceanside towns trying to seduce you into never leaving. The temperature was perfect. The light was perfect. Everything smelled like salt and dune grass and damp wood shingles. It was one of those moments where absolutely nothing extraordinary was happening and yet you knew, even as it was unfolding, that you’d remember it forever.

Making a pit stop by Hooked for their famous Kick’n Crab & Corn Chowder for dinner, we drove all the roads while Pammy narrated the real estate like a docent in a museum of other people’s lives… “Ben Watts,” she said, as we passed his gorgeous spread that back in the day I’d get invited to (only because he had a massive crush on one of my besties, Coni), then “Julian Schnabel”, “Bruce Weber”, “Cynthia Rowley”… and the A-list list went on and on…

Sunday, though, was the best day Pam and I have ever had, which is saying something if you know our track record for EPIC days.

Let’s kick it off with the morning… or… early afternoon. Pam is notoriously “running a good 45 minutes to two hours fashionably late.” So, on brand, Pam and I made our way to Springs for her 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. volunteer oyster shell meeting (an earnest, heroic effort to preserve oyster beds in Long Island and serve as a sort of diplomatic bridge between restaurants and bays, ensuring the shells are returned to where they came from). We arrived at 12:01 p.m.

They were already finishing, of course, but we slid in just in time for what can only be described as the “victory lap” portion of the meeting: a one-on-one meet-and-greet with the leading lady, plus croissants, coffee, and a T-shirt supporting the cause.

Next, onward to Gerard Drive. Where now, sadly, the peninsula feels more like an inevitable island… and all the houses are up for sale or under water. The wild part is that the houses for sale are listed for - wait for it… wait for it… something to the tune of 3 MILLION DOLLARS or higher! She grew up summering here in the old cabins with dirt floors and sea air functioning as natural air conditioning. The kind of old Long Island that barely exists except in stories told by people like Pammy who are just sun kissed enough to remember it correctly.

We walked the sound and picked up as many pieces of “dashboard art” (shells that would ultimately live on my car’s dashboard) as we could, then went yard selling. There is nothing, truly nothing, better than a yard sale in the Hamptons.

We pulled up on one in the middle of Springs that appeared at first glance to be mehhh. But lawd… did I have that wrong. I was about to declare it a wrap and leave empty handed, when I spotted Pam knee deep in a pile of unfolded clothes. Yuck I thought… until I saw the gems she was uprooting. Patrick, the young boy manning the lot, had wandered over shortly after and offered a paper bag: “Fill it up for $10.” Hummmmm…. You sure about that, bubba? I thought as I spotted a RRL dress that was likely a good 55 Xs that amount of the fill it up bag would cost. Instead, I said, “I’d love to. Thank you.”

I felt like I was stealing... Because I was. By the time we left, our bag was holding the following (all name brands): a wool grey sweater, chinos, the RRL dress, two wool beanies, an indigo scarf, a tee shirt, a lace top for Sunny, and the crown jewel: an Eddie Bauer peacoat that felt like it had been waiting for me specifically. I briefly considered asking for another bag because did I mention? I felt like we were stealing!! But again, instead, I just handed over my cash and fled to the next Yard Sale down the road… where the day really began.

Enter Bruce.

Seconds after we arrived, the man running the sale announced, “Everything is half off,” which activates something deeply primal in people. Suddenly you’re holding a taxidermied duck lamp thinking, “Honestly… this could work.” So, as I was mid math equation in my head trying to justify the half price cost to make the space of bringing home an oversized Chinese basket, I caught Bruce eyeing it. “Don’t get any ideas,” I said, half joking to this stranger. He laughed and that broke our ice.

As we browsed together and made our casual introductions, we all started sharing our “good find” thrifting stories. After about ninety minutes and seven different groups rotating through the driveway where we’d apparently become the unofficial ‘welcome committee’ later, he told us his favorites….

Years ago, he spotted a painting at a yard sale but didn’t buy it right away. Later that same day, at another yard sale a few miles down the road, he randomly picked up a book for $2 and discovered the exact painting featured inside. He bought the book then raced back, found the paint was still there somehow, and bought it for $75. Stuffed it in his convertible and sped off before they cuffed him for highway robbery. Because ummmmm, turned out, it was worth somewhere around $20,000!!!! He never shared what it was.

He told us about the ruby red Olivetti Valentine typewriter he spotted at an estate sale, which his friends mocked him for buying since he’s not a writer until they discovered it was the same typewriter calling the MoMA… home. (he later showed us in person … but more on that to come.)

Then the story of a photograph of Keanu Reeves that Bruce had lined up to buy for a friend for $5 when a man behind him casually announced, moments before the money changed hands, “You know that’s an Annie Leibovitz, right?” Urrrrg. If you can’t read between the lines, the price immediately went from $5 to $500. Bruce passed, of course, because the thrill of the hunt is finding the deal, not paying retail because some guy suddenly became an expert five seconds too early.

And finally, the lamp that he absolutely had to have. Instead of Bruce negotiating for it though, the bickering couple selling it somehow started undercutting each other... “We could do $200.” “No, no, say $150.” “Honestly, just give it to him for fifty bucks.” Which is what he paid. Again, later he showed us this in person with “it’s actually worth about 3k.”!!

By the end, he was helping me load my haul… a modern coat rack, a brass umbrella stand and the Chinese basket that he didn’t steal from me. As we were leaving, we asked where he lived. “Amagansett.” And as he began to trust us more, we got “the Lanes in Amagansett.” Then, finally, the full address on Hand Lane.

Later, as promised, (after surprising mhy old land lady Anna Moss for a smooch and gab in her beautiful home) we drove by what he had described as “modern, unmistakable, impossible to miss” and honked. Within seconds, truly less than 10, Bruce appeared on the lawn and waved us in. Eeeeep! He wasn’t wrong… the house was like NOTHING I had ever seen.

“Bruce, I told Pam we could only stop if you had a pretzel for us to snack on.” (We were starving. Remember, the last thing we munched on was that croissant at noon… it was nearing 5 p.m. now). Without missing a beat, and as a true Jewish American would, he replied, “I’ll do you one better. How ‘bout a bagel.”

That afternoon we broke bread, Goldberg’s bagels to be exact, together in Bruce’s fantastic home. A moment that somehow felt both entirely spontaneous and completely familiar.

He gave us a tour of his house, which is probably the wrong word for it. “House” implies something you move through in a normal, box/wall way, whereas this felt more like being gently absorbed into a single, continuous idea that had learned how to hold furniture. Everything had been kept exactly the same as the day it had been moved in by the original owners (only one owner before Bruce). It was kept this way intentionally, almost religiously preserved. He mentioned, almost casually, that design enthusiasts knock on his door constantly asking for tours (just to be shooed away. Pinch me! I couldn’t get over that I was in the place that AD had shot many moons ago and all other chic magazines were chomping at the bit for the “scoop”) .. the kind of people who arrive with language like “iconic” and “important” already queued up on their tongues. On the other hand, he said, there’s also the other side who are completely tone deaf to architecture (and some who live in his neighborhood) who say things offering the exact opposite review like: “Wow. What a teardown.” The way he said it wasn’t bitter. More like … what idiots. We agreed 1,000,000%. This was the mecca!

The house was full of intricacies. As an example, at one point, a doorway opened onto a shower … somehow both inside and outside the house at once. An outside shower… inside. What?! Was I dreaming? And… Would it be wildly inappropriate to ask to move in so soon? I mean we had only just met. It was unreal!

And, the sunroom in the center of the house that he told us when his mother first laid eyes on the space, said... “Yes, a place I can finally sunbath… in the nude.” Window treatment be damned! Because, no matter where you stood in the house, no one could really see in. Unless, of course, someone intentionally left that shower door ajar… which would feel less like a design flaw and more like a personal choice. (He mentioned that its happened on occasion and is funny because whoever’s rub-a-dub-dubbing can see the road but the road can’t see them.)

I didn’t dare take photographs inside. It felt like the kind of place that would tolerate memory but not documentation. I was told though, while there, of a book that had covered the house in depth. Sadly, for the life of me… and for my poor bruised fingers from all the googling I’ve done to attempt finding who the architect was… The title is still not surfacing in my mind. I’ve texted Bruce so that I can share with ya’ll. No response yet, stay tuned…

We stayed at Bruce’s house until almost 6:30 p.m., gradually losing any sense that there was anywhere else we needed to be. Because nothing (even our hunger pain…) was more important than this spontaneous moment with our newest friend. We were in love with Bruce. And after receiving a text from him later that night! It was official… he loved us too!

Several of my days at The End (Montauk’s nickname) were also spent with my Erika from America. You guys have met her many times in previous En Routes (but a mini recap for the reader joining us for the first time… she’s my Mexican-American sweetheart who now lives full time in Montauk, but who lived in London before that, who I met in Montauk in 2012, but bopped around with in NYC, and who was born in Mexico but grew up half there and half in the USA in, this is wild, my newest stomping grounds… Richmond.) Her presence makes life feel, if not fully upgraded, at least operating on a better software version 100% of the time. Seeing the world through her eyes is a kind of ongoing disco party that doesn’t abide any slow tunes.

The morning after Tavo’s baseball game (her and, her husband, Bryan’s son) and our late-night conversation (there’s something about the air out there that convinces everyone it’s still early evening, even though the clock reads 1:47 a.m.), I read Joni’s cookbook cover to cover and noted, with genuine delight, the shout-outs to Sunny and Pam in her pages. They’re the mayors indeed!

Next morning: beach. A quick stop at Flo’s house, the coolest French woman who lives around the corner from E and has fully committed to communal garden life in a way that makes the rest of us feel vaguely underachieved. She invited us to the Ranch to see what she’s been planting, cultivating, and creating while the rest of us are deciding what to have for lunch. Then Pilates at New York Pilates, which costs somewhere between “absolutely not” and “why not” … a phrase you think each time your credit card is swiped now that you’re in the Hamptons. After that, Joni’s, where I ordered my usual Mucha Maca smoothie and went back to her house where I logged on and pretended to work full heartedly even though I was itching for more beach time. Tavo, her (by the time this is published) 8 year old who is simply … DELISH… played his little heart out for the Montauk Orange team, which is nothing short of the cutest possible thing in the world to watch.

And finally. Our girl’s arrival home. Waiting for Sunny’s arrival, Helen, Pam’s bestie, escorted us to The Bird, where I somehow got roped into singing with the incredible paid talent, a rendition of Harper Valley P.T.A. Now, I should say I have only ever performed this song in the relative safety of our family’s old beach house porch, typically about five beers deep and operating under what can only be described as a toddler-level delusion of talent. Here, however, there was no liquid courage, just a lot of locals chanting my name in French, which made me feel… well, famous and out of this world (at least out of this continent). We met Sunny back at Lovage around 11 p.m. where we stayed up until 2 a.m., laughing and being debriefed on everything: her new loves (notice that is plural), her favorite towns visited over her past 5 month travels, her time with her dad in LA, the concerts she attended with friends, her general emotional weather report from the West Coast to the East Coast and all the rest in between.

At 10 a.m. the following morning, while everyone else was still snoozing, I threw on some clothes, made myself a piping hot cup of coffee from the French press, and walked down to Ditch, where I sat and did what can only be described as surfer watching. Not unlike people watching, except more ritualized: they share the waves, stretch in unison like they’ve agreed on choreography, and zip themselves into black wetsuits with hoods as if preparing for something far more serious than a hobby.

When Sleeping Beauty finally awoke at.. are you even ready for this?.. 2 p.m… I blame the jet lag and possibly being 23… I made them both speed dress so we could still make it to Calm Bar before it closed at 4 p.m. This had been on the list for days. Today was the last day to make it happen. And wait for it… good gawd did the universe have its hand in why it worked out to go on this day. Just you wait.

We pulled up to find a full camera crew and two striking models arranged under the sun like a scene already in progress. Pam and Sunny, naturally, sent me to crank up my Southern Belle-ism and investigate.

I walked up and offered them my two questions: “Did y’all buy the place out, or can we still eat here? And… what are we shooting?” They laughed, said no, we could sit, and that they were shooting… wait for it… a campaign for SKIMS. Sunny used to be obsessed with the Kardashians when I took her to school in the mornings (sidebar. If you’re new to En Route. This is how I know Sunny Melet. I used to take her, who I called “Boog,” to Rudolph Steiner every morning starting at the age of 6. She’s now (hiding my eyes as I type this in disbelief) 23!! A long precious history we have.) There was even a Halloween once in Tribeca when we passed Kourtney Kardashian pushing a stroller with Scott Disick and their new baby. I, at the gentle insistence of Sunny’s parents, was asked to again crank up that Southern Charm volume and ask for a photo with Sunny and KK. It did not go well. Kourtney’s tone was less than shall we say (keeping the “k” theme going) kind. No photo was taken let’s just say.

We sat in the center of the outdoor restaurant, carefully positioned just outside the frame but very much inside the experience. Within minutes, the camera crew was practically sitting in our laps to get the shot when all of a sudden Kim Schraub… a neighbor of Pam and Sunny’s from Ditch and ummmm Creative Director of SKIMS… made her way over. During our conversation, she hit us with two groundbreaking headlines… one, she was expecting another baby, at 50, and two, she asked Sunny if she’d be down for doing a vintage Pre Loved (Sunny’s shop) pop-up for the upcoming SKIMS Clam Bar takeover in July. I nearly squealed. I, as always, was absurdly proud of Sunny “Boog “Melet. The way opportunities seem to orbit her without explanation, as if she’s simply aligned with a frequency the rest of us are only occasionally able to tune into is UNREAL.

As the crew loaded up and the models scarfed down their solid gulps of air… as they left ummm all of the food untouched. We charmed the staff into packing up the model food for us. No shame. “Well, you were with the crew, right?” they said, with that side wink that suggests a loophole has just been discovered. And so it was packed, and I ate like royalty on the drive home. Peanut butter carrots be gone with you! This ride back would permit lobster roll fancy food .. only!

The rest of the trip unfolded in the most perfect Montauk rhythm where time stopped and everyone came out… Bryan (Erika’s husband and Tavo’s dad) ran into us at Joni’s after his golf game, Erika came to join him .. unbeknownst to her that we were all together, Sunny’s first eyes on her beloved Pre Love vintage shop was captured in the sweetest moment, dinner together at The Dock, where waitresses delivered mounds of whipped cream for Sunny after the peanut butter pie was served (a must-order when there) - “There’s a ratio, you see, Anne Caroline. We have to have the exact same amount of whipped cream as peanut butter pie in every bite.” - drinks at Rooted, being picked up by Pammy who answered our call from her shower (yes, IN the shower.. suds and all) and came to retrieve us in her her robe with hair still in a towel, another baseball game where Tavo was the start and the cutest little 3 year old boy there ever was answered to the name of two chains (because he wears two gold chains around his neck) while sucking down on ring pop sporting a New York Yankees ball cap and Montauk sweat, and our final 2am snuggle down love fest in Lovage with my leading ladies: Duchess, Pam, and the Lady, Boog.

The next morning. More like just 3 hours later… I drove home. And from last week, ya’ll know the rest!

More to come next week. But before I leave you. A few things from RVA…

I left you last week wheeling out with the Bike Monday Bros… where I made friends: Corey (fellow South Carolinian), Bill (beer loving vegetarian who had me in stitches talking about “Black Dog” a urban myth here in RVA), (another) Bruce, and Matt (who’s son just graduated from USC, my alma mater), and made the front post of their Instagram which I would think means I’m officially IN the club.

I rejoined The Shed, where I’ve become embarrassingly motivated by receiving “perfect form” and “way to go, AC” from my Pilates teachers who are half my age and sport frightening core strength. I fell completely in love with TBC, my book club (again). At this particular meeting last week, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for the group. Like the women in the Briar House Club … the book we just finished, which I rated a solid FIVE (outstanding) and now insist everyone add to their list immediately. We are all wildly different people who, without one another, would be missing this delicious sense of belonging and community. There’s something deeply comforting about being known by people you did not grow up with, people you chose now and who chose you back.

And finally, I had a precious night listening to Christina belt out John Prine songs while Mariah, Faith, and I talked all things France, England, and Morocco. Enough future travel on the books for us to keep the stories coming for months.

Richmond continues to keep me double booked and lightly overstimulated. I made a quick appearance at the final Museum District Women’s Club meeting of the year, secured my Instagram proof-of-life for (fingers crossed) continued membership. I’m feeling grateful for this station of life I’m in (more on that word in later posts). So until next En Route…

Xx ac

I’m tempted to give you some grand explanation for my ten month disappearance from Substack, but honestly? Sometimes life just carries you elsewhere for a bit. No retreat. No reinvention. Just a pause. And now I’m back.

Nutshell of life’s happenings during the hiatus …that will likely bloom into multiple over wordy Substacks coming this fall … I lost my precious dog (RIP my sweet Goldie Hawn), moved to a new city (Hi Richmond!), and have been bopping about different places (Sedona, Orlando, Charleston, Amsterdam, Montauk, NYC umpteen times, Raleigh, Greenville, Charlotte, Conway and Myrtle to name a few). Until I write about those, this week features two house tours, one possible murder, several wealthy gays, a Broadway singalong, and the growing realization that Richmond is about the kindest most welcoming city there ever was!

I pulled into town last Saturday afternoon just before I was to report to volunteer duty for the 30th Annual Mother’s Day House Tour. I’d left Lovage, my little borrowed piece of paradise from Pam and Sunny at Ditch Plains in Montauk, at 5 a.m. just to make it back to Richmond for this tour. I’m a proud member of the Museum District Women’s Club (even though I don’t live in the Museum District. More to come on this later.) and had volunteered to be a docent at the 3142 Monument Avenue house.

So 8.5 hours on the long straight line of interstate 95, four rest-stop stretches, one gas fill up, 47,000 tolls (this may be a minor exaggeration, but not too far off), three separate two hour conversations with friends, this Ed Mylett podcast that rearranged my investment brain chemistry, and two venti Starbucks later, I was home. To this cute pink house that looks like she belongs in Miami, but is settled here in the Richmond, Fan.

As I unloaded the car, I noticed what appeared to be a convention of men on my street. Hallelujah. Pam and Sunny had gifted me a beautiful table that had lived in their home, Lovage, forever. They were spring cleaning and Pam squealed, after I gushed over it... “You have to take the table.Oh my GODDDDDD! It’s like you somehow knew you needed to drive, so you could take back furniture!” Everything is a sign or a wow to Pammy and her excitable energy is contagious. So, I put down my hatch and we loaded her in. I had spent the entire drive home not knowing how exactly “she” was going to make it inside. She heavy, she delicate, and did I mention? She HEAVY! I needed men’s strength.

I carried in one more load and when I returned back outside, to recruit one of these burly men to help, I saw exactly no one. It was as if the sheer force of my hopeful thinking had sent out some sort of neighborhood wide male repellent. I walked up and down my block until I spotted a guy. Slim build. Earbuds in. Purposeful stride. He’ll do! I flagged him down and delivered my most convincing Southern damsel-in-distress plea. “Would you please help me move a gorgeous slightly heavy table inside?”

He introduced himself as Chauncey from Hanover Street and immediately said yes… and also gave a strong Armand Goldman vibe. Chauncey loved the table. Gushed over it. Ran his hand along it in the way people do when they understand craftsmanship and possibly own many pairs of linen pants. “I knew you’d get it,” I told him. (The table is sandy, paint chipped and full of character. Some people wouldn’t see its beauty.) After he helped me position her on the bare wall that had been screaming for attention since the day I moved in. I invited him to come visit her anytime he was on my block.

During moments like these, I always think, Oh, of course I’ll see this person again. And then days (almost a week now) pass and regretfully I realize I may not see him again because I don’t know how to. Whaaaaa.

May the Chauncey from Hanover Street quest begin.

To get back to it, I was volunteering at Bill and Bill’s house on Monument Avenue. Nicole, our house captain, had assigned me there because she said, “You are going to love the homeowners.” Translation: they’re fabulous gay men.

I’ve been craving more gays in my life. I know I know that isn’t politically correct to say. But I did ask my favorite gay, Jim (you’ll meet him soon), if I was allowed to say that and he exclaimed “Absolutely!”

Every city I’ve ever lived in has eventually delivered me a small elite council of homosexuals who improve my posture, dance moves, vocabulary, sass, and sense of “you could do better” when they meet said guy and give the look. Richmond, so far, has felt a little gay-adjacent, aside from my main squeeze, Jim, and his partner Brent, but especially after learning that there was a couple who answered to Bill and Bill… I remained hopeful.

I arrive at their house, open the front door, and step into … complete silence. Not just quiet. But I’d call this… rich quiet. The kind where you instinctively lower your voice because somewhere nearby there’s probably a room dedicated solely to stationery.

I start calling out “Hello?” then graduate to a more theatrical “Yoo hooo?” as I wander deeper into the home. Eventually I made my way outside and discovered the volunteers standing around learning the inside house-scoop from one of the Bills.

Oh my god! I know him! I thought.

Rewind. Months earlier, when my mother was visiting, we’d stopped at Stella’s for lunch at the bar. I was mid-conversation when my mother suddenly reached behind me to straighten a crooked candle in a candelabra. She sat back down just as an extremely southern voice nearby announced: “Well thank gawd. I’ve been starin’ at that thang fo-eva wonderin’ if anyone was gonna put me outta my misery and straighten it.” It was (the same) Bill, having a boozy lunch with a friend.

As her daughter, my mother too, has never met a fabulous gay man she didn’t immediately begin mentally co-hosting a brunch with. So, the moment he complimented her candle adjustment, she practically swelled with pride, and added... “If only someone had a lighter to char the wick!” Bill, without missing a beat: “Da-lin’, my grandmotha would be rollin’ ova in her grave if a damn candle was displayed unlit.”

The two of them shared a kind of cackle that can only exist between people who understand southern snobbery to the nth degree and the importance of presentation. Not beauty exactly. But standards.

Then Bill asked to take our picture. Which felt bizarre and oddly significant, like the beginning of a movie where someone dies elegantly in the second act and they go back to the picture to reference that damn candle!

I remember leaving lunch thinking: I’ll definitely see that man again. Like I did with Chauncey. Only in this scenario, I was right!

Five months later, there I was in his backyard while he casually described the “naked pool parties that the previous owners (yeah right) were rumored to have hosted in his swimming pool.” Exactly the sort of historical preservation I support.

I met the group: Alison, Bonnie, Diane, Nicole, Lawrence, and Elaine. Together we had the unmistakable energy of people who could either run a flawless charity event (like this one) or accidentally start a small religion with our convincing narratives (more to come on that). We were, without question, the dream team.

At one point I asked Bill if there was anything actually interesting about the house beyond the usual rich people details… this is made from mahogany, this imported stone was shipped in from Greece, this wallpaper was selected by someone named Sebastian who only communicates through swatches… “Was there a murder here by chance? Did anyone die in the house?”

And right then Lawrence, who until that moment had been giving off the quiet energy of a retired novelist, casually said, “You know… I think there was a murder.” I spun around so fast I nearly inhaled a mosquito. “Indeed there was,” I announced, despite having absolutely no evidence. “I heard it was a hanging. And apparently those massive trees behind the koi pond over there are thriving now due to all the human fertilizer.” No one corrected us, which was all the encouragement we needed. From then on, this became our running house joke. Every overly lush hydrangea, every suspiciously healthy fern, every aggressively vibrant patch of ivy became “the victim working their magic.” Someone would admire the landscaping and one of us would solemnly whisper, “Well… tragedy feeds beauty.”

At the volunteer reception later that evening - which I had sworn I was only going to stop by for a second, the way people say they’re just going to have one drink before waking up with a falafel in their purse. I somehow stayed the entire evening listening to the band, meeting the coolest people from all the other Museum District clubs (dodging the ‘what block do you live on?’ question. Because I don’t live on any block in the Museum District. I’m only pretending to so I can be in this cluuuuub!! Again. More to come on that later.) and systematically worked my way through every IPA in the cooler like a divorced dad at a fishing tournament.

But the best part? The second I walked in, I spotted Suzanne Pollak. I knew her from Charleston. “Suzanne! It’s me. Hart’s friend!” Hart is one of my closest friends from my Charleston years, and she was the once upon a time future daughter-in-law of Suzanne’s. She dated her son. We gabbed for a while about the Charleston Library Society, where I used to work, the Literary Festival, where Suzanne is greatly involved, and Jonathan Green’s infamous Salons that we both attended back when they were word of mouth only.

Suzanne introduced me to her husband, Don, and mentioned they had a home here in Richmond. What somehow failed to occur to me, despite being at a house tour volunteer reception, was that she herself might actually have a house on the tour. This revelation arrived the next day.

The following afternoon, I met up with Christina, one of my newer Richmond friends and an actual resident of the Museum District, so is in the club legitimately, for lunch at Franklin Inn. After, we headed off to tour the houses before taking our volunteer shifts.

We started at the house on Arthur Ashe Boulevard to work our way up the neighborhood. And because we’d been told volunteers could skip the lines, I took this instruction with the confidence and entitlement of a woman boarding first class despite gripping her visible economy ticket. We floated right past a line of sweating civilians while I internally repeated the mantra: I have credentials.

In no time, we were walking through this gorgeous house admiring the trim work, the antiques, the red painted ceiling that, as a volunteer guide explained, “Suzanne chose because that would have been historically accurate for the period” … when suddenly I stopped walking. Suzanne? I thought. Then I said, “Wait… does Suzanne Pollak live here?” At that moment I spotted her cookbook sitting on the coffee table and just like that everything came into focus. She was at the volunteer party because she had volunteered her home, not herself to be on the house tour. Earth to AC!

When we left, I told Christina how I had run into Suzanne the night before, how I knew Suzanne from Charleston, about Hart, and about Suzanne’s tiny pink house on Church Street that looked less like a residence and more like a dollhouse built for a very stylish ex of… wait for it… Daryl Hall from Hall & Oates. Christina nearly choked.

Cutting my adult teeth in New York City - where celebrities pretend they are casual people... so they share the same metro car or reservation time at the same restaurant with you.. and you’re like wait what? and they’re like, yeah, this is normal. But it isn’t - trained me to speak about wildly famous people with the same tone you’d use to discuss your new dentist. “Oh yes, Suzanne. Lovely. Tiny pink house. Formerly dated to a pop icon. Anyway…”

Christina’s reaction felt ironic considering she’s famous in her own right here in Richmond. I mean in just about 10 hours I’m going to her concert at Harry’s.

The tour itself was spectacular, but 3400 Park Avenue absolutely undid me. First of all, the address alone sounds chic malique! Like someone who owns the house also owns monogrammed cocktail napkins and says things like, “We summered briefly in Maine.” It was one of those enormous four-square homes that somehow felt both grand and deeply livable. The kind of place where you immediately begin assigning yourself rooms. This would be my writing library. That would be where I dramatically reread old love letters during thunderstorms to make myself cry. And so on…

Of all the homes on the tour, it was easily my favorite. The kind of house where, if the walls could talk, they’d gently murmur: “No, darlin’, we don’t need a television in this room,” because somewhere else… likely concealed behind a hidden bar panel.. there’s a private cinema with velvet seating and a popcorn machine.

And then I learned the history of the property, which of course made me love it even more. Apparently the home I was touring had originally been built for the … wait for it… groundskeeper. The mansion, however, for the billionaire who built these two homes, Whitmell S. Forbes, sat somewhere far away from this house on their… are you ready??… 37-acre estate. You read that correctly! They had built these homes just before the depression and after, being on the market for years, without a buyer in site, they eventually (ahhh covering my eyes as I type this..) tore the massive mansion (something like 10xs as large as the house I was in) down. In its place came what is now the better part of the Museum District. An entire neighborhood born from one massive estate being sliced apart like a sheet cake for the upper middle class.

There’s something so wonderfully (and disturbingly) American about that. One generation says, “Build me a manor.” The next says, “Actually… what if we built forty-eight charming colonials and one dentist office instead?”

MY ACCOMPLICES

Work has been suspiciously calm these past several weeks. Praise be to the seasonal slowdown Gods. For months I genuinely wasn’t sure I would be able to sustain the volume of projects drowning me amidst the open waters of Slack notifications and calendar invites. But lately? Nada. And it’s been absolute afternoon BLISS.

Like last Tuesday afternoon, I logged off at 3 p.m. and went for my first long run of the season. The kind of run where, halfway through, suddenly your lungs feel handmade. Your kidneys seem overworked. Your left knee starts sending formal complaints to management. And despite technically being “in shape,” you begin mentally drafting your will somewhere around mile four.

Fortunately I had a dinner date to get to … any excuse to make my way back home!

That evening I’d been invited to dinner with my fellow volunteer and fake murder accomplices - Lawrence and Elaine. At 6:30 p.m. I biked over to their house where we sat on the porch sipping wine and discovering that we had alarming amounts in common. Have I mentioned? They’re a good 28 - 42 years older than me? I have always been told I’m an old soul…

They had once lived in Italy. Had gone intending to stay only a few months and somehow remained there for over two years. “Sounds familiar,” I said, as though I hadn’t recently done the ummmm exact same thing in France.

Their precious, snuggly dog, Ranger, rested beside me while I reached for my glass of red wine on their porch. And then, without warning, he released the loudest, most aggressive bark I have ever heard come out of something that looked so emotionally stable. Scared. Me. To. Death. Everything slowed down instantly as I watched a tidal wave of ruby red wine launch itself out of the stemmed glass and directly onto moi. Within seconds my blue-and-white pinstripe shirt was soaked and I looked like I’d survived an actual murder. Elaine immediately whisked me upstairs and lent me one of her own shirts which, did you catch the part about being alike earlier?, was a blue-and-white pinstripe button-down. She had many in her closet… as I do.

By the end of the evening they were absolutely adamant that I not bike home. So, despite the fact that I am a forty year old woman who has used a bicycle as a primary means of transportation for roughly ummmmm I’d say thirty two of those years (I’ve been movin and groovin on two-wheels from an early age!), I thought it was sweet. So I didn’t even argue.

I loaded Joy Ride into the back of Lawrence’s car and we had the loveliest drive through the neighborhood, swapping family stories at stoplights like we’d known each other for years instead of approximately just one fake house murder ago.

Then, sitting at the light on Robinson and Grove, Lawrence turned to me and said, “You’re delightful, AC. Truly. How do we keep you here in Richmond?”

And reader, if you’re trying not to fall in love with a city, that is an extremely inconvenient thing to hear.

That night, after getting home from Lawrence and Elaine’s… and after listening to their not at all subtle campaign about all the available houses “right here in the neighborhood” … I made the fatal mistake of opening Zillow. Somewhere between changing out of Elaine’s borrowed shirt and brushing my teeth, I entered that delicate period when you’re slightly wine drunk, freshly affirmed, and only one charming front porch away from financial irresponsibility. By 2 a.m. I had found one!

Let me back up. On my drive back from Montauk a few days earlier, as I mentioned above, I had listened to one of Ed Mylett’s podcasts and became completely intoxicated by the idea of buying property as an investment. Ed has a way of speaking that makes you feel like you are simultaneously underachieving and moments away from billionaire status, as he is. By hour two I was fully convinced I should own at least one thoughtfully renovated property and possibly also a boat.

So the next day, on my way to meet The Book Club (we call ourselves TBC for short) at Fighting Fish for an early bird sushi dinner before the Project Hail Mary movie at Bow Tie Cinemas, I decided to take a small detour past 424 Roseneath. The house I had admired since moving here, and that I found in my rabbit hole house hunting the night before (or was it morning?), was on the market!

She was gorg, and her only flaw is that she is directly across the street from a house sized skeleton that is nothing less than ridiculous and a complete eyesore for anyone who has that as a porch view. Yuck! Hard pass.

And then, because Richmond is apparently growing smaller by the second. I ran directly into Bill.

FINAL TOUR WITH A SIDE OF SINGALONG + JUGGLING ACT

The week ended with another type of tour. In MY neighborhood this time.

Jim and I met for coffee at the new Idled Hands on Robinson, where he immediately called me out for “pretending to live in the Museum District while actually residing in the Fan.” Which is not not the truth.

And while technically the distinction is meaningless to anyone outside of Richmond, and honestly to many people inside of Richmond too, I have, in fact, been pretending to live in the Museum District for close to eight months now.

The reason is simple: the women are INCREDIBLE. Especially my favorites, Nicole and Becky!

Last October I got invited to a Halloween party in the Museum District and met a dazzling group of women who invited me into what they referred to only as “the club.” At some point, the person I was with, who actually lived in the Museum District, started raving about my house and suggested I host the next gathering. I was flattered of course. The women turned toward me immediately. “And where exactly do you live?” one asked. I told them my cross streets. And in unison, their faces fell. “Oh no,” one said. “That’s the Fan.” Another shook her head sympathetically. “You’re not in the Museum District,” they informed me. “Not even close,” another added.

Panicked, and desperate to remain in what I imagined to be a highly selective social organization, I did the only thing I could think to do. I pretended to be confused. “What am I saying?” I laughed, waving vaguely toward my friend’s house. “I live right there.”

Now, under normal circumstances this lie might’ve collapsed immediately. But everyone had been drinking something I feel like was called … Witches Brew (?), which I remember possibly containing something like cider, bourbon, prosecco, wine, vodka, and perhaps NyQuil. Basically, a memory eraser. To my astonishment, they accepted the correction without question. And just like that, I became a Museum District Woman. I’ve been in the club ever since.

According to Jim, who lives in a gorgeous house in The Fan … a block away from my gorgeous house in The Fan, if I was going to behave this way, I should at least stay properly informed about the neighborhood I actually inhabit. He’s right! That evening, he invited me to join him, his partner Brent, and his friend Aidere (who I have a massive lady crush on now) to people watch on his porch for the Fan Art Stroll.

Sidebar… For about forty-ish days now I’ve been practicing Transcendental Meditation twice a day which has begun to mellow me the f$#@ out. During the course of Jim and my conversation I mentioned that we share yet another person in common: Courtney. I had met Courtney during my meditation course. She was my partner there and as it would turn out (again, Richmond is habitually growing smaller for me) she works with … wait for it… Brent… Jim’s partner!!

At this point Jim put down his coffee, crossed his arms, and looked at me very seriously. “If you know Courtney, then it’s official. You have to stay in Richmond now. Courtney is the chicest person… and you two together?! Ya’ll would run this place.” My heart swooned.

We also ran into Mariah at the coffee shop. Another new friend of mine by way of Christina who I referenced above. So again, Richmond is apparently just … TINY.

That night, I bopped over to Jim and Brent’s house amidst the swarm of people on Grove for the Fan Art Stroll.

Enter Aidere. She and Jim had gone to Collegiate together (private school here in RVA) from kindergarten through high school, and their laughter had that rare quality unique to people who share both a history and at least three bad decisions with each other. The kind of laughter that begins before the sentence does. It was contagious to be around them all night! Aidere was devastatingly chic. Exactly half Jane Birkin and Diane Keaton. My unicorn muse. We gabbed for hours on their porch and watched the parade of people pass, stop in for a hug, and get a wine top-off from Jim’s heavy hand. Gawd I loved this town that night!

Eventually we wandered off their porch and into the sea of people. Walking up Grove to walk down Hanover. Jim was repeatedly stopped by people. He’s the mayor I thought! All hail Jim. And, he’s the best host. Each time he’d speak to someone, he’d immediately turn to introduce me and then moments after we left them, he would circle back to who they were, how he knew them, and why I should too. My own walking talking White Pages.

We ended at Sally and Greg’s. The mastermind (her) and the artist (him) behind the whole art walk operation. What an upgrade. We stood there talking for nearly an hour when a magician named John appeared with this funny little microphone headset and kept us in stitches as he blew our minds with his magic act. He juggled, created four coins out of only three inside MY closed fist, he pulled out the seven of hearts after Jim had merely thought about the seven of hearts, he made ropes lengthen and shorten just by touching them, and he remembered all of our names - most impressive of all! (Turns out he’s genuinely famous in Richmond… later verified by Jane’s husband, Patrick. Who’s lived here since the womb and laughed when I mentioned that I met him. He hadn’t seen him since grade school he said.)

Don’t worry, I took his card. He may or may not be coming to my next birthday party, by which I mean he absolutely is.

Oh! And before I move on to the gay singalong, would you guess it? Sally knew of Chauncey from Hanover! A (re)meet and greet is being arranged. I can finally rest.

Eventually Aidere split off and Jim and I made our way to Chez Foushee for a Broadway gay singalong, a phrase that still sets my permagrin in full motion. It was, without exaggeration, the best night of my life. (In Richmond anyway.)

Within minutes of arriving, I’d made best friends with everyone! Jim knew half the men, so that meant I did too by association. That’s what’s so great about a small(ish) town and a gay man who happens to be the mayor. By mere association, I’m in! Men in crop tops and cutoff shorts, suits and ties, fitted workout attire and all the inbetweens each spun me on the dancefloor as our MC, Mark, belted “You’ll Be Back” from Hamilton. A song that brings a memory surge of the night in Paris when Leah invited me to a Broadway Musical Trivia night. She and our friend of the evening, Mr. Queen, absolutely annihilated the competition with their rendition of that same song.

We won first place that night, in case you were curious. And of course you were. So read THIS for proof.

The next morning, before brunching with my sweet aunt Joy, who has lived here for years and loves it, I went on my final (open house) tour of the week. To see that gingerbread looking house at 424 Roseneath. Forget the skeleton. Of course I fell in love with it immediately, because that’s apparently my default setting when presented with old wood, good light, no loud trio of pussy cats pouncing on one another at all hours of the night disturbing the sweet lady living directly below them trying desperately to get her beauty sleep … ohh sorry I got a bit carried away… I mean, and the faint possibility of an actual backyard.

It’s not a go just yet… but lawd she was cute!

YOU HAVE TO STAY

Over the course of just a few days, three different people spontaneously told me how much they enjoyed being around me. One suggested I buy the house next door so “we can have a coffee date every morning.” Another said, “You can’t leave now that you know everyone chic.” Someone else told me, very thoughtfully, “You move through the world with such conviction. I love watching you interact with people. You have to stay!” Which is especially nice to hear when so much of your personality is essentially just walking up to strangers and asking overly personal questions with eye contact.

But what struck me most was realizing that in the span of a single week, on two different porches, one new dinner table, and four walks through (both of my claimed) neighborhoods, I kept hearing the same thing … “We have to find a way to keep you here.”

Not as pressure. Not as obligation. More like affection. As though I had somehow become part of the rhythm of things without noticing it happening myself. And maybe that’s why I wanted to start writing En Route again. The first time since moving here back in September, last week, I didn’t feel like I was visiting Richmond … I felt included in it.

And to add chocolate drizzle on my love this place sundae, last Monday evening while walking along and half paying attention to a podcast about either emotional resilience or cult leaders I passed a massive group of bicyclists gathering in a parking lot. There I met another Bill. I paused the narrator on my pod and looked him square in the eyes “I’ve gotta know everything that’s happening here! What are y’all about to do?” He was visibly touched by my enthusiasm and explained that every Monday evening at 6 p.m. the Bike Monday Bros meet at this parking lot and ride together through the city for about two hours.

I practically squealed with glee. Eeeeep! I marked my calendar instantly.

I noticed that every single person was wearing a helmet. Every. One. So I asked, “Oh. Is that a rule?” And Bill, cocking his head, replied.. “No. But it IS a law.” The way he said it made me feel like I’d just asked whether pants were optional at jury duty. Still, I was charmed. I will be sharing my tales about my joy ride on the next En Route.. But rest assured, I led the bunch as we peddled out on Monday evening.

Xxo ac

Last Tuesday, Marissa and I met at Penn Station, got all the snacks from all the yummy spots Moynihan Hall had to offer and rode along the Hudson river until we reached the river’s namesake, the town of Hudson. It was great to have had a mini date with her! My boo! And although not pictured, herself, she did me the honor of styling my shoot. You can take the Creative Director out of her office, but you can’t take the Creative Director out of her - even on a train (especially with “good light”).

As I deboarded, I heard some unmistakable Southern squeals coming from the far end of the caboose — and just from the voice (and that high pitch!), I heard home. It was my Erica! We laughed, hugged, and all caught up for a bit until Marissa hopped in her car, East Chatham bound, and we climbed into ours to cruise Hudson and dine at Feast & Floret (where if you go, you just may rub shoulders with ER’s Julianna Margulie, as we did) before "beddy by" came calling in Copake.

Will, Erica, and their two curious, playful pups and I had coffee Wednesday morning around their dining table for hours — my dream! And then Erica’s phone sounded. Rafi was waiting for us at his soon-to-open restaurant, Hilltown.

We rushed to get ready and headed straight there, where I felt beyond honored to get the grand tour as Erica’s guest. Oh! Have I mentioned she’ll be the Head Pastry and Pasta Chef there? (Cue the collective “only about a thousand times in ALL your En Routes” from you all. But come on — I am just so, SO, proud of her!)

Her space? The entire top floor to herself, where she’ll dream up whatever delights our sweet tooths can handle. (I’m hearing Rainbow Sherbet may just make an appearance.) Then we headed downstairs and met the man himself: Rafi, the owner. Truly the smiliest, most enthusiastic, detail-loving human I’ve ever met. His energy? Electric. By the time I left, I somehow thought I owned the place, he had gotten me so excited!

They open mid to late September. If you’re up there — GO!

After the tour, we made our way down the hill to Hudson for a mid-morning lunch situation at Café Mutton — where Erica had spent last summer perfecting the art of the crêpe. When you go, do as we did, and ask for an extra fork so that everyone can get in on the mussel toast, egg scramble and chicken jelly sammie, and then possibly ask for an autograph from Shaina Loew-Banayan, their head chef, who is a NY State Best James Beard Finalist. Impressive!

To walk it off, Erica and I set out for Olana — her “absolute favorite piece of land in all of upstate.” We hiked the entire thing, talking through all the nuances of life. One of my favorite memories with my girl. Afterward, she drove me across the bridge that is just beyond the property so I could see Olana’s full grandness from afar, and be proud of how high up we had gone. It was… in a word I can’t seem to use enough lately because it makes me laugh when I see the smirks of people who hear me… GORGINA!

But nothing compared to the view that we got to experience later that evening, when we went for a glass of wine at Klocke Estate. We ordered our local (ish) Finger Lakes glasses of wine and then went out to overlook what had to be the most gorgina sunset of all time. It felt like there were multiple — each time the sun slipping behind one mountain, then another, then another. Upgrade!

While Will was back in Jersey City prepping for the weekend at their famed butcher shop, Darke Pines (where the hype is real. GO! Just the other day, a girl was overheard in line saying into her phone: “I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but everyone seems to need whatever's at the end of this line.” That pretty much sums up the vibe at their Butcher Shop. Best sammies and meats and prepared foods), we, Erica “Rica” Gia Allen and Anne “Annie” Caroline Bethea, did what we do best — thrifted! We braved the downpour to grab coffees at Super Natural, and when the monsoon let up for maybe 30 seconds, we dashed into Second Stage on Warren Street (community thrift shop). LAWD — someone hold us back! We tried on everything.

I walked out with zero purchases… but the ultimate freebie! I spotted the one gem on the “free rack.” A baby blue London Fog windbreaker in mint condition (minus a massive neck discoloration that we tried bleaching out that night with strong detergent and a washing machine setting that was so intense it briefly knocked the power out – but sigh - not the stain!).

Erica on the other hand. She scored a cake carrier (pastry chef!!), a billowy white birthday shirt (chic city girl), and, of course, a cookbook. My boo doesn’t go anywhere without snagging a new recipe.

To toast our thrifting adventures, we popped into Rivertown Lodge for a little sneak peek, followed by a drive around town. I got to see their old apartment and a few of Erica’s favorite Hudson Proper spots (yep, I learned that’s how locals distinguish the village from the broader area). Wrapping up our day with dinner at Hudson Diner – Where Hudson’s mightiest forces, Mel the Bakery + The Meat Hook Butcher, joined to reincarnate the classic American diner — where rainbow sherbet, would you guess? was on the menu! Erica was right! It’s coming back! — and then an ice cream at Fortunes in Tivoli.

The morning we left, we woke up to the AC unit falling out of the window. Ok! We were already awake, but we fully woke up after that commotion and it landing right near where I was sitting outside. Sweet Erica had tried to remove it herself and when I looked up, she was staring down at me from the second story bare window, hands over her face, eyes wide — maybe even tearing up. She was terrified that she almost ended her AC with an AC. Can you imagine the irony??!! Instead, she fed me…

I rode back to Jersey City with her and finally got to taste the tomato sandwich (uh oh, here comes my bragging again!). This sandwich is so good that the Mayor gave her a key to the city in honor of it! What are we doing!!!?? I’m so proud! I would have given her the key and the house to the city for it, because good gawd it was unreal! I also got a half-pint of pimento cheese for my next day picnic with Lori and Luis, the last rice crispy treat (that she may or may not have stolen from the order in front of me so that her besties could have the last one on the shelf), and a jar of the All-Day-Salt — aka my stepdad’s kryptonite. He puts it on everything.

Bottom line. If you’re ever in JC, GO!!!! But make it on a Friday or Saturday because these tomato sandwiches are worth the wait! And you will wait … and wait … and wait until it’s your glorified time to order and start salivating!

CITY LIFE — ACCLIMATING FROM THE COUNTRY

This past week was filled with some of the best people who I’m lucky to call best friends, in the best city that I used to call the best home.

To kick things off: Lori and Luis invited me over to their new apartment — with a “trifecta view” (I think that’s what he called it?), where you can see in three different directions across the city. UNREAL! We then booked it to Central Park, walking in the street the whole way since Madison (I think?) was closed for a pedestrian day. LOVE THAT. We caught up on work, trips, what’s next, city life, laughed about the bachelorettes behind us dressed in tulle gowns... and I had what is now my second favorite sandwich (thanks to Erica’s tomato masterpiece the day before), which is any sandwich made by Luis. He’s also a master (home) chef. Yummmy.

I also made my annual visit to Kalustyan's on Lexington as I walked home. It’s the landmark for fine specialty foods! And if you know me, you know I go for the honey roasted pecans, the lemon dried almonds and the dried strawberries! It’s where it’s at!

Yesterday, on my walk to the Whitney to see the Amy Sherald exhibit, I felt high. But I wasn’t. (I don’t think?) Then again… who can say anymore? It’s legal up here now. It wasn’t back in the archaic days when I called this place home. Back then, if you wanted weed (which I didn’t, Mom and Dad!!), you had to call some sketchy delivery service (which I didn’t, Mom and Dad!!) and host the guy in your apartment while he showed you “the goods.” Now? That skunky scent floats freely through the streets, wafting up like it’s the suspect steam from the potholes.

Anyway — I derail.

So, as I was saying, I felt high. High on excitement, high on love for this almighty city, and maybe just a little on secondhand smoke from everyone! Who freakin’ knows!

On my happy high walk though, I passed my favorite house!!! And, what I’m calling the most expensive house in the world.

It’s a teeny little place — maybe 1,700 square feet tops — sitting right on the corner of Charles and Gansevoort in the West Village. And she is CUTE. Like, stop-in-your-tracks, storybook-level cute. Look at her!!

I say “most expensive” because my totally unqualified, not-at-all-in-real-estate guess is that this tiny slice of real estate is worth a cool $300 million. I’ve been known to grossly overestimate the value of things that I’ve never bought before — homes, boats, diamonds, just to name a few — but I’m still confidently placing this one in the hundred-million club. I mean… it’s on a goldmine!

And my favorite part about her? Which I’m quit sure is everyone’s favorite part about her… is that her owners have kept her exactly as she was. My heroes! They haven’t sold out (yet). No 35-story glass tower full of finance bros thinking they’re the %$#& living their rich life on top of one another in the West Village. No. It’s just one perfectly private petite house, with a doggy door, a yard, and their Subaru parked on the street for a single family in the heart of the most coveted neighborhood in all of the world. J’obsessed!

WILD RUN INS AND TELEPHATHY

On Sunday, I was invited to a Buddhist temple in Williamsburg. I’ve never been to a temple before and haven’t read much about Buddhism, but being back in NYC, I’ve returned to the way I used to live here — under the mantra: always say YES until you have to say NO. (A life rule gifted to me by Fiona, who I’m staying with now. She first shared it with me on my 28th birthday outside of The Ludlow Hotel. My old watering-hole.)

Although unfamiliar, I really enjoyed it. The teacher at the temple, Joe, spoke about the sky. How it isn’t actually blue. There is no blue. We just see blue. This blew my mind. And, instantly brought me back to a question I asked my mom as a kid. I am cackling as I type!! Hilarious. Here goes: “If the sky is blue during the day and it’s black at night, is it ever really blue? Or do we just think it is because someone told us so?” She took a sip of coffee, said it was too early for this kind of question, and then promptly left to dry her hair. She’s never returned to answer it. Ha!

And now, some 30 years later, I finally have my answer. In Williamsburg from a Buddha. The sky isn't blue. Because there is no blue. I mean think about it (it’s heady so be patient), but you’ll never reach blue. When you take off in a plane as an example, you see blue, you fly up to blue, and yet lo and behold nothing ever turns blue! Are you ready? Because it’s not blue. I’m still processing too. But I loved the lesson. Basically this is all an illusion. Ha! Got me wanting to now go dry my hair and not return.

Before going to the temple, I walked the Williamsburg Bridge and made a quick detour to Bakeri — my all-time favorite place in Williamsburg — for their famous lavender shortbread. Eek! They were sold-out (tragic), so I turned to the line behind me and asked, “What’s the move?” In an anonymous vote they all said the cinnamon bun. Huge. Gooey. And can you believe it? Calorie-free!

With ten minutes to spare, I grabbed it and a seat outside. Mid-bun bliss, three girls walked by, muttering “That place looks cute.” I couldn’t resist (I’ve been talking to strangers nonstop since I’ve been back (finally! no language barrier!)), so I responded, “It’s the yummiest place you’ll ever eat in this hood.” They smiled, and one of them said, deadpan, “You’re Southern.” At that point, I turned the volume up with “Howwwa on earth did you know thaaaat?”

Apparently, it was the way I said “eva” instead of “ever.” Killed me! Turns out, they were all from South Carolina, they had all gone to Furman University, and only one lived in the city now. We chatted almost until I had to leave. Pure moment upgrade. And just as they walked off... stage left… enter a couple from England.

As I took my final bite of that calorie-free (read: heavy-as-a-brick-bat and full of butter) cinnamon bun, a little old lady started honking her horn. Welcome to New York! Honks here mean everything: anger, SOS, a friendly “hey,” or, in her case, “Can someone direct me as I parallel park? I can barely see over the steering wheel!” The stares she got from passersby were brutal. At one point, I couldn’t help myself so I spoke up in her defense. That’s when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Where are you from? Wait, wait — let me guess!” Before I could say a word, she declared: “South Carolina. Charleston?”

UMmmm, how on EARTH did she know that? (she had not been there for the southern girl exchange remember.) She explained she has, and I quote, “a thing for accents.” Then she went on to explain that she grew up in a town in England that looks exactly like Charleston. I perked up! “Wait… you mean…” and before I could finish, she named the exact town I was thinking of. Of course now, writing this dispatch, I can’t remember it for the life of me, but it’s a tiny seaport village in the UK, and the hometown to, get this, one of my friends, Rebecca, — who now lives in … wait for it… Charleston!!!

So… eeeeeep… you are never going to guess!!!

When I leave temple, NO JOKE, who do I have a message from? Rebecca! Is that wild? We haven’t texted in months. I’m talking we might text once or twice a year!! UN. REAL.

I couldn’t believe the synchronicity. I was telling Fiona about it on our walk to the bridge when — bam! — another one hit. Out of nowhere “AC!!!” was shouted on the street. Body electric. I was famous! Someone recognized me! It was Steven. Which honestly might be even wilder than the Rebecca story, because, hello, we were in Williamsburg! We were walking on Wythe and maybe South 3rd? A total random street. No real reason anyone would choose it over, say, Berry or Bedford Ave. It was around 2pm, which is typically when we should have been pretending to be trendy New Yorkers brunching somewhere that’s the hot-spot. But we weren't. We were all there. A 45 minute bike ride, a 44 minute subway ride, or a 153 minute walk from where Steven lives on the Upper East, and a 45 min walk from where Fiona (and I, this week!) live near Broome and Allen. Not even close to the block we were ALL cruisin at the same time.

I’m still regretting not taking a photo — it was all too shocking. But lawd was it an upgrade! I (the girl who doesn’t live here permanently) was spotted! Even this morning at La Cabra Bakery the man behind the counter asked gleefully “Where have you been?” confused because I don’t remember him (eek) like he must remember me (or more likely mistook me for someone he actually knows), I answered with “I’ve been looking for you!” Which isn’t not true. I’m always looking for situations like that – the ones with people who are enthusiastic to see me coming.

Bottom line, NYC feels huge-ish… until it doesn’t. Then it shrinks and your name gets yelled out left and right! Comme moi!!

Kris didn’t yell my name per se, I mean we did have a lady date scheduled so she was looking for me and wasn’t shocked enough to belt “AC!!” — but lawd did I still feel body electric when we locked eyes! I haven’t gotten my arms around her since our last date in April or May in Pareeee. She’s usually in LA but the stars aligned and she happened to be here, for work, on our favorite city island (sorry Île Saint Louis), Manhattan, while I was!!

She met me at The Whitney for the Amy Sherald show (sidebar: This exhibit was pulled out of the Smithsonian by the artist. If you want to read more you can, here) and then as she ducked out to take a work call, I perused until I had seen it all. Making a special stop by to pay homage to Selma’s, Gee’s Bend quilt. Felt necessary and exciting, especially after being told more about these ladies by my Selma gal this week, Erica!

Then, we did what we do best: walk, talk, café sit, and hunt for hidden gems. Here’s what we found: Gray & Davis, a jewelry shop that was (sigh!) closed on Mondays, but that Kris has insisted that I keep on my list, the Three Lives & Company book shop (where if I had to bottle its scent? I’d call it “School Supplies”) where I picked up the Pulitzer Prize Winner, James, and Keith McNally’s page turner, I Regret Almost Everything (which I’ve learned I also need to LISTEN to it since it should be read/heard in the voice of an English chap), then on to Fellini Cucina, a café, where we both ordered their matcha yuzu lemonade and took residence for hours. She is an upgrade! A pure serotonin upgrade in human form. I wish everyone had a Kris!

Tonight I’m off to take Fiona to Superior Burger for a veggie dinner and then over to Angelica East where we’ll queue up for a showing of The Materialist.

Until next week, find all my places below,

Xxo ac

PS: if you’re in the city and have a hankering for southern food (who doesn’t ALWAYS?), go stand in Erica’s Biscuit Line on Sunday, August 10th, in Jersey City. She’ll be sold out by 1pm I’d bet anything!

While there, I realized there was no way my feet were making it from Bryant Park (the library) to the West Village (lunch) in what some call my “heels” — clogs. So, right there on the steps, I popped open my suitcase and pulled out my flats. I figured no one would care — or if they did, I wouldn’t.

A true New Yorker spotted me mid-switch and came over, grinning. “Oh, I’ve been there too many times!” I responded with… “Hasn’t every woman?!”

With that, she settled in and launched into a story about the time changing her shoes on the street actually landed her a job. She’d been running late to an interview, swapping shoes outside the building (sneaks to pumps) when a beautiful gazelle of a woman walked past her and into the lobby. Flustered, she half-laughed and muttered to her, “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?”

This is wild! Not 10 minutes later, guess who was sitting across the table when she walked in for the interview? Yep — same woman. The shoe moment was a sign of commitment to showing up to every situation prepared. By the end of their conversation, she was hired on the spot. “Because,” gazelle said, “we girls know what it takes, and do it. We lug our whole lives around just to make sure we show up looking the part.”

I loved it. I’ve had way too many shoe-change situations before chic events, dates, interviews, parties, you name it, in every city I’ve lived in — But no job offers becuase of it. Embarrassing? Sometimes. But necessary? Absolutely. Because hey — as the woman said — a city girl’s gotta do what a city girl’s gotta do. Swapping those shoes.

PLANES, TRAINS, AUTOMOBILES

Since arriving, I’ve already been on quite the transit tour: a flight into Newark, the New Jersey Transit into Manhattan — where I met the loveliest stranger, Nico. He gave up his seat so I wouldn’t have to ride backwards and risk turning green, scaring the other patrons. He also told me that he’s still in the “honeymoon phase” of living in the U.S., having just moved from Switzerland. (Switzerland! Why would he ever leave there!?) I understood exactly what he meant. When I lived in Paris, I used to think of the phrase: “Once you teach a child the word ‘tree,’ they’ll never really see a tree again.” Because, that’s how the honeymoon ends. The wonder wears off and you stop experiencing things as they are. Instead, reducing them to labels: trees, street, trash, bird, gothic cathedral, timeless artifacts. The magic fades into familiarity. Which is not the case yet for me on this NYC tour. Because from there…

…I’ve taken two taxis to and from Brooklyn, one subway ride from 57th to Delancey & Essex, and today, I’ll take an Amtrak from Penn Station to Hudson. On top of all the transits? I’ve also already logged over 20 miles on foot — no shoe changes this time, regretfully. Because my longest walking day (8.5 miles) was spent entirely in dressy loafers. Ouch. A rookie mistake I should’ve known better than to make — but hey, vanity sometimes wins over lugging around the sneaks.

RANDOM FACTS AND THE BEST RUN-INS

There’s something so comforting about being back in a city where I once lived. I love it! I once read that if you ate out for every single meal — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — in New York City, it would take 22.7 years to try every restaurant... assuming no new ones opened. Of course, new ones open every day. But yesterday, as I walked up Bowery, I caught myself smiling. I’ve been to umpteen of them and it only took me 10 years! Bring on that challenge! I’m here for it.

So far, this trip, Mắm has been recommended to me three times already! I plan to go when I’m back in the city this coming weekend. Stand by for a review.

One of the people who gave me this suggestion came to see me the day I got in! Last Friday, en route to Fiona’s place, I called Steven to ask what I always ask him when I land — “Does the city feel particularly sunnier right about now? Because… drumroll please… I’M HERE!” He was one of my best friends, a true Manhattanite, and my fellow co-founder of our very exclusive two-person club: EMC (standing for Exclusive Movie Club of course). He happened to be on Bleecker, on the east side, while I was on Bleecker, on the west. So I walked with my luggage and he biked until he spotted me. We met in the middle and then strolled the rest of the way to Fiona’s apartment on the Lower East Side. Gabbing, laughing, reminiscing.

And, right on cue, the skies opened up for a classic summer-in-New-York rainstorm. In true city fashion, we ducked under an awning with a bunch of strangers, all waiting it out together while watching the drunks take full advantage of the sudden city stillness. They turned the street into their stage by attempting to stir up trouble, loudly, with whoever happened to be perched on their block.

Oh, New York! How I’ve missed your wild, funny, unpredictable (and yet somehow so predictable) chaos!

OUT OF THIS WORLD

Saturday night was something extraordinary.

I came up specifically for a sound meditation with Alexandre Tannous. I’d had it circled on my calendar for six months and even with that much anticipation ... It still was more than I could have imagined. An upgrade to the nth degree.

Fiona, one of my besties, and I met up with Eve, one of her besties, on Allen Street. We flagged down a cab, tossed our blankets, pillows, mats, and eye masks in the back, and headed to Brooklyn for a full day (and night... and morning) of immersive sound.

When we arrived, Alexandre welcomed us with a long, thoughtful talk on the transformative power of music. How it connects to the brain, can transform epigenetics — the emotional weight we carry, sometimes unknowingly, passed down through up to as many as 14 generations — and how we can change these inherited experiences by reshaping our thoughts, reactions, and even the language we use to describe what we felt … by way of music.

He offered tools for reflection as we slowly settled in, lying down in the space. Then, for nearly seven hours, he played all of his instruments — layering sound, rhythm, and silence.

Life changing upgrade! If you ever hear of him coming to your town (or a flight away, like me) GO experience it yourself!

After it was over, someone announced, “This past month has felt like an active play in my head … but tonight? Tonight was the best show I’ve ever seen!” I felt the EXACT same!

I have never — never — felt that much compassion, love, and understanding radiate through me in one space. It was like being cradled by sound.

Another out of this world experience (not as ‘out of this world’ as that, but still…) was the MET!

I made my way there by walking up Fifth Avenue, eventually landing right in front of the Plaza. Of course, I had to duck in and say hello — it felt only right. Then it was on to the Park… my absolute favorite place in Manhattan. No matter how many times I see her, her vastness still makes me light up and clap with joy the moment I step inside.

I took her paths all the way until I reached the 79th Street crosstown exit. Passing the Rudolf Steiner School, where I would take miss Sunny Melet every morning for years, brought up the BEST memories!!

Then I reached the steps!

On exhibit? Sargent & Paris. I couldn’t believe my timing. It felt serendipitous that that show was on while I was in town. As if the city had saved it just for moi. A two year Parisian (can I call myself that?) now back in NYC. Because, as it turns out, it’s ending on August 3rd!! When I’ll be upstate. Did I mention? Serendipity! I loved every single moment. His story, his art, his art of other’s art was inspiring and so uplifting!

I also got to marvel at the Costume Institute’s Spring 2025 exhibition, Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. SO cool! And the jazz that was playing in the background? It made me buzz! Although, now that I’ve gone to the meditation, ALL music has me happily hearing the harmonies differently. The exhibit offered a powerful cultural and historical exploration of Black style across three centuries — all through the lens of dandyism (what the MET Gala’s theme was this past year). It was stunning!

On my way out, I stopped off to pay respect to all of my favorites: Cy Twombly, Mark Rothko, Jackson Pollock, Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh, and the medieval “Gates.”

I love this city so, so much. Home to over 8 million people, a mysterious population of black squirrels (yes, they were hopping all over Central Park yesterday), nonstop energy that never quits, buildings that are miles high, and every type of cuisine you can dream up. It’s alive in a way nowhere else in the world is. Every time I touch down here, I have to pinch myself. Truly. I feel incredibly lucky to have lived a life that’s allowed me to call this place home — even if just for a chapter. New York is one of the most powerful, complex, magical cities in the world.

This afternoon I’m leaving her for a few days in her countryside. At 5pm I’ll be meeting my boo, Marissa, at Penn Station to catch the train to Hudson. With a snack picnic in tow, we’ll get to have a little train-date en route to see Erica and Will!

Erica — a renowned chef and best friend — will be there to pick me up. She’ll whisk me away to her new home where we’ll be catching up with her husband, Will, one of my original best NYC friends. (Sidebar… I introduced these two. Thank you very much! Just before I left New York in 2017, I insisted that they meet – knowing that they’d fall in love! And they did. They got engaged within nine months after meeting. And as a thank you for being their cupid, they granted me the honor of being their ring bearer at their wedding. Precious!)

Also awaiting us? Their two sweet pups, Ellie and Lou Lou. I can’t wait for a few days in the open air, in a state that I love, surrounded by people I love, in a town and new home that they love!

Until next time, I will absolutely be in my New York State of Mind.

Xx ac

You guys will NEVER guess what I got this past week!

No, no... not that! The French government still insists on needing (surprise!) more time to make up their mind about me for the Visa. But! They did finally grant me what I’ve been begging for since January — my Attestation de Prolongation (aka, the magical piece of paper that makes me legal again while they come to their conclusion). Yep, after months (going on 11 now) of living in French limbo, I’m officially back on the legal grid… until October that is… when this Extension Certification expires (again). 

Mais, who cares! At least now I can fly over to Europe if I want without hesitation and without fear that I will have to speak my very butchered French at customs to explain my way out of trying to smuggle back in illegally. Now, I’m semi-legal once more!

The real kicker though — aside from the whole “I’m now living back in the U.S. and no longer trying to make France love me” thing — is the poetic timing of when I got the news.

Just minutes before learning that the French government finally decided to toss me a baguette breadcrumb, I was in a CPA’s office here in my small hometown, Conway, getting one final tax document to wrap up my 2024 return. Let me set the stage. I walked in at 9:50 a.m. and by 9:56 a.m. I was walking out with exactly what I needed. No paperwork maze, no existential questions, no espresso offered in tiny cups, no noncommittal words like: ‘maybe we can’, ‘we’ll possibly be able to’, ‘I can try’, ‘this potentially could be done’ were used. It was just done. The CPA didn’t even have time to offer me a seat — he simply took my name, heard my request, and then miraculously JUST hit print and handed it to me like it was normal. Which, after this visit, I’m remembering that that is normal in every other place in the world, but France. 

Efficiency? In real-time? Without a headache of waiting for no apparent reason AT ALL? I nearly wept. 

This country of mine gets a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad rep on, well, most everything lately (I’m looking at you the most Mr. President). But let me tell you — while we may fumble plenty, when it comes to follow-through and timeliness? We nail it. And moments like the one in the CPA’s office remind me exactly why I’m happy to be back and why I struggled so severely with the slow, meandering pace of my former country’s government. I was cut from the cloth of Americans after-all. Impatience is in our DNA (due to rarely experiencing long wait times).

Playing House and Crafting

Since my parents have been away on their vacation to visit Joe’s family in New York, I’ve discovered a whole new love of nesting. In a house that has been all to myself! And let me tell you… until I get one of my own… whew, have I shown my mother’s a good time. I pulled paintings out of retirement (you know, the ones hidden under those guest bedroom beds), rearranged drawers for maximum functionality in her kitchen, bathrooms and laundry room, rolled up rugs that were crowding a space, and did a full-on furniture edit in her craft-room. GOD IT FELT SO GOOD! I had an absolute ball touching all of her beautiful things and remembering just how much I love being in a space that feels like mine.

So, while enthralled by this wave of home-inspo, I not only have been “hearting” every New England cottage in New York and Maine, Southern colonial mansion in South Carolina and Virginia, and prewar classic-six apartment in Manhattan late night on my realtor.com account, I’ve too been ripping pages out of my mom’s world supply of Southern Living magazines with pictures that I love. Yep — I’ve been crafting my vision board in my mom’s newly organized room made especially for this! 

And if my vision board is any clue to what I’m summoning into my life this year, it’s shouting: tulip bouquets, sun-warmed bowls of peaches, marbled kitchens surrounded by windows, and a farmhouse nestled in the country with palm trees and a secret flowery dirt path that leads straight to the sea (because of course that architectural anomaly exists — on a vision board. Where all logic gracefully bows out when you create). Zebras graze in my backyard as I look on in an oversized-yet-impeccably-tailored women’s pantsuit, sipping something sparkling. Nearby, a Ralph Lauren–esque family skips through a technicolor veggie garden, baby on hip. And naturally — diamonds. Cascades of them. Preferably on me while I’m cruising down the coast in a vintage convertible, this season’s Prada sunglasses perched on my nose, an Hermès scarf floating behind me like a silk comet — channeling Grace Kelly, obviously, though not in Florida... in my Hamptons house. 

Reality is optional at best when you’re “vision boarding.” And lawd does it excite me!

Goldie Hawn Smooches

I honestly can’t remember the last person — or baby — I’ve kissed this much. And that’s saying a lot, especially considering how much time I’ve been spending with Piper (McCall’s 4 year old who doesn’t go for the mouth) and Caria (Rachel’s youngest) who ONLY goes for the mouth — my kind of boodle!) these past two weeks.

But Goldie? I’m obsessed. I can’t stop smooching her. She pulls me in like a moth to a flame — irresistible, snuggly, and somehow always begging me for one more smacker.

A friend in Paris once reminded me of this idea that when you kiss someone (even a boodle) on the mouth, you can absorb their thoughts or memories or attitude. I don’t think this is not true. But wild to think about, no? I remember reading how the author of The Artist’s Way described something similar too — she was walking through the West Village and suddenly felt like someone’s idea jumped right out of them and into her. And just like that, she wrote the book based on that new fresh idea that came to her from nowhere. Now? She's the one living my vision board in real life — dripping in that diamond success with a zebra in her backyard — all from that sublet transfer of thought on the street.

Well... I think Goldie Hawn may have passed something onto me. It’s not exactly an idea per se, but a feeling. A new calm, soft way of seeing the world for me lately! She’s asleep at my feet at this very moment by the way while I’m writing on the porch – my little tethered girl hoping to be woken up by her mama’s smooch!

She isn’t getting better, exactly. Her blood work numbers are improving, yes, but she’s a sick boodle — one who will likely be on IV fluids for the rest of her life. Still, she has a pep in her step lately and an increased appetite, sprinting-energy on our walks (she takes me for walks now. Not the other way around), and sassy side-eyes given to me before rebelliously running off to do something I’ve politely asked her not to — like eating cat poop, digging a hole in the neighbor’s yard, or parking herself stubbornly in the middle of the road when she knows this is cause for a stern “NO MA’AM” and possible zap on her collar. ALL behaviors, however, to be followed by un autre BAISER de moi. 

I kiss her when she’s bad, when she’s good, when she’s doing her only job of ummmm being CUTE, and when she is getting her medicine. A full 20 minutes of head smooches after I whisper a little prayer that I got the IV needle in just the right place. I then hold my breath as I watch the fluids flow — pouring if I nailed it, dripping slowly if I didn’t. And when she’s over it and ready to wiggle away, I hold her in place by what else? Smooches. She LOVES them. So actually, now that I’m writing about it. Maybe I’m giving her MY energy transferred through my kiss. And that’s whats got her pep back in her step. Who knows? But there’s something to this k.i.s.s.i.n.g. thing after all …I think. 

Visits with some of my favorite “Conway-ites”

I’ve had several sweet moments with several special people since settling in here solo over the past 2 weeks. 

Mrs. Sharon, one of my mother’s best friends and mother to one of my first friends, Leslie, invited me over to her stunning home for wine and charcuterie on her sweeping dock along the Waterway. We gabbed for hours and she gave me the kind of life advice that was both deeply faithful and refreshingly practical — a spiritual TED Talk — but with Manchego. A gift of a conversation!

Marybeth, Amy, and Larkin — my childhood next-door neighbors who I adored growing up with and now rarely get to see, since none of us live in the same state, but who happened to be visiting at the exact same time.

My dad and I had one of those perfect porch moments — eating chicken salad sandwiches while watching a group of obvious tourist golfers. The giveaway? They missed every shot (out of practice. Locals wouldn’t dare.), they then would hit their cart with their club (built up travel anger that needed releasing away from their shared family 10x5 hotel room), and the ringer? They were playing in 97 degree heat!!! Dead of the afternoon! All in all, an 11/10 entertainment value from the perfect 14 hole view line directly off of my father’s porch.

A few days later, Goldie Hawn and I scooped him up again for a long, Sunday morning beach walk, followed by breakfast at a restaurant while GH snoozed under the table.

Rachel, one of my and my sister’s best friends, joined me for a walk while sporting her very on-trend weighted vest one morning. Honestly, give this woman a podcast. Because each time I would share something I had on my mind she would ask me “am I here to support or provide solutions?” (If you’re wondering, my answer was always solutions. YES. Solutions please! We figured everything out!)

Then there’s McCall — my from-diapers best friend, who I’ve known my entire life! In fact, we reminisced about the time her grandmother once accidentally took me home from daycare thinking it was Mac, because we looked that much alike as babies. She invited me over to prune in her pool with her adorable trio — Parker (15), Paxton (12), and Piper (4), took not one, but three downtown coffee strolls with GH in tow, and went on a spontaneous joyride to admire houses of our friends way out in the country. 

And finally, I hosted a dinner for my “original friends” — Maggie, Scarlett, and Mac. Think great food, full-body laughs, lots of beer, a long boat ride, and that special brand of deep-rooted comfort that only childhood friendships bring. They’re loyal, unfiltered, wildly kind… and, this isn’t always a good thing, but they remember absolutely everything I did between ages 5 and 18. As do I … with them.

It’s been such an upgrade of a week! I’m excited to welcome my parents back in a few days, hear how their trip was, and fill them in on GH all before I head out. I am switching places with them as I’ll catch the first flight out to New York on Friday morning. I can’t wait to plug in and power up before I make decisions on the when, the where, the hows of my path at the moment. I plan to hop about and see some of my dearest people while in the tri-state area! I’m looking at you Sunny! Viv! Fiona! Both of my Eric(k)as! Sarah! Kris! Marissa! Alicia! And on and on and on!! 

Until then, I’ll be soaking up this Southern SUN!

xxo ac

This JUST In…

As I was wrapping up this little EN ROUTE this morning, I casually checked my email — and YOU ARE TRULY NEVER GOING TO GUESS. Drumroll, please...

I GOT MY VISA.

Just like that. Out of nowhere. Life is nothing if not ironic. It’s exactly like waiting on your school pictures back in the day — you obsess over the mail every day, then the moment you forget? Boom. There they are.

I’ve been working on trust lately. Trusting the path I’m on. Trusting the decisions I made in my past that have led me here today. Trust that the unknown holds good things. Trusting that what I deeply want — yes, as illustrated by my very specific, highly curated (with Southern Living clippings only because that’s all that existed in my mother’s home to pull from) vision board — will come in due time. And trusting, as Jane, college bestie, has always lovingly reminded me, that I truly can’t f%$# up life.

Getting my French Visa feels like a little wink from the universe — a reminder to let go, let God (as we used to say in church), and keep going. What’s meant for me will find me. And apparently, sometimes it shows up right in my inbox when I’m no longer even searching for it.

Pictured above, circa 2023 — leaving the French Embassy in Atlanta with my very first visa in hand. It was a proud, powerful, happy, hopeful, and truly exhilarating moment. Helped that I was dressed to the nines! All before the journey truly began. Before I left behind the life I knew — to build something new with another person, in their home country.

My life expanded in ways I never could have imagined — both beautiful and challenging. Through the places I was fortunate enough to see and experience, and the people I met and grew to love. Yet also, through the quiet unraveling: the loss of a sense of home, deep connections with close friends, steady work, routine, my things, and most importantly, my family. There was also an erosion of confidence that happened over the granting of that first Visa that I could never have imagined before living it — daily. Without fail, I would experience the crushing looks of confusion or misunderstanding from everyone around me when I would attempt to speak their native tongue – a language that I had never so much as studied before I had move over. Instead of appreciation and encouragement I was met with defeat on repeat.

It’s wild to think that today, two years later, after living my French vision board into its reality, and receiving the same verdict — I only feel relief. Relief that I’ve finally been recognized by the French government for all the effort, stress, tears, and countless administrative hoops I jumped through to comply with their mandates. Eleven months later, when it was finally, evidently, convenient for them to say YES to me.

This time, the feeling is anything but powerful. It’s been a draining, frustrating, and often defeating process. But — I GOT IT by God!

So… let’s see where it leads me this time (if it leads me there at all).

After returning from my marathon family vacation circuit (that you’ll be reading about below), I got the sweetest invitation to spend the 4th of July with Jane and her crew down at her parent’s beach house in Pawley’s. True medicine for the soul. I haven’t laughed that hard in months. And the mouth kisses? Jimmy’s a bit of a hard-to-get type, but his Godmama’s got reflexes like lightning. So as he turned to me, I planted one on him. EACH time!

When I wasn’t cradling Eddie in my arms, on my chest, draped across my legs, or propped up beside me hoping he needed to be fed again so “I could! I could!”, I was laser-focused on counting how many new words my genius godson picked up over just a few days. Smartest boodle there ever was! We tallied 15 new ones — including “stop,” “bath,” and a couple of stern “no-nos.” He didn’t quite get my name, but Lord, the way he’d light up and squeal when I walked in the room? I’d trade all the words in the world for that!! He nailed it.

Oh! And not pictured — but forever etched in my heart — were our beach walks. Just Jimmy and me walking to the wave break. Him in nothing but a diaper and bareback lathered with a quarter inch of SPF (just how I like my babies at the beach), monkey-jumping into my arms every time I pretended to set him down in the waves (which of course is why I did this action on repeat. Ah! Delicious!). I must’ve done it 500 times. Still working on the whole “ocean is our friend” concept. But from this beach baby (moi) to that beach boodle (lui)… it’s only a matter of time — and a few more Godmother beach days before he’s bodysurfing like a pro… or like his uncle. (Jane’s brother, Peter, learned this activity this summer. I know this because each time he would head to the ocean he would turn around and yell to the true coastal gal… “Anne Caroline!! Watch this! WATCH!!” and then he’d surf a wave in. And as if I were his proud Godmother too, I would clap along with his children. And make a big to-do. Haha)

FAMILY BEACH WEEK

On Father’s Day (here in the US), after I saw my dad and gave him his French Open hat that I smuggled back from France with me, my mama, Harriette “Rarrie,” my step father, Joe, “Yoyo,” my sister, Miller, brother in law, Boggs, and their children, Boggs (13), and Belle Miller (10) all joined at 42nd Avenue and Ocean Boulevard in the heart of Myrtle Beach for a family beach week. It was the perfect house and I had the perfect room. It was just off of the second floor with my own private study, bath, and massive closet. Well, shared half the time by my favorite niece, Belle Miller Howard. She decided to take the room across the hall so that she could have her very own bathroom. A 10 year old’s dream, when they happen to be completely obsessed with a morning, afternoon and evening skincare routine, like she is. Boggs claimed the entire third floor, which had been outfitted with nine beds — clearly meant for an unruly pack of sugar-fueled children who needed the space to bounce from one to the other. And BM’s parents took the private guest house in the back of the property. So, in times when she “needed her mama”… I was more than DELIGHTED to fill in. 

On the first night, I heard a soft knock on my door. Belle Miller was on the other side holding her pillow and stuffed animal named Taylor Slauth (can you guess who’s biggest fan she is?). “Annie, I’m scared of tsunamis.” Fully aware that a tsunami on the East Coast was about as likely as a snowstorm in July — thanks to tide patterns — I still told her to crawl into my bed so I could “keep her safe.” Hey, whatever it took to get her to snuggle down! It worked!

I thought she may have wanted to return to her bed satisfied that there is no fear to be had in tsunamis, after we had made a full investigation and read the statistics of one ever happening on the shore of South Carolina. Mais, non. Instead, she gleefully switched the subject to her friends and got even more snuggled down. Then, MY FAVORITE PART… she asked if she could sleep with me. HIGHLIGHT OF MY TRIP! She ended up bunking with me 3 out of the 5 nights we were in that house together. And over the course of the twelve days we have been together since leaving the Beach House (I stole her for another week when her parents were Greenville bound)… more times than I can count. The boodle late night gabs are everything! BLISS. (Picture below for proof.)

My family and I are pro-level beachgoers — if that's even a thing (and honestly, it should be). We've been perfecting the craft since before we were even born. According to family lore, our mothers — and their mothers before them — had their husbands dig little belly holes in the sand before heading off to work in the summertime pregnancy months, just so they could lie on their stomachs, catch a sun nap, and keep their baby bumps (aka us future beach bums) comfortably nestled. So, naturally, most mornings and late evenings you'd find us shoreside: staking out our chair spots at sunrise and cracking open “one more beer before heading in” at dusk, accompanied by the ever salty boiled peanuts, a sun-kissed face and sand paste on our legs from the extra sunscreen applications mixed in with, well, the day .

While we were down in Myrtle, we ran into our second cousins once removed. Or was it third cousins twice removed? Welcome to the South, where everyone’s somehow related. Turns out, the Watsons’ home was just a few avenues over from ours. They’ve got four daughters around my and my sister’s ages, and each of them has had about three to four kids of their own, give or take a toddler. So naturally, the beach chatter revolved around babies, teething horror stories, and who’s heading off to college this fall. Something’s in the water downhere actually I think, as everytime I turned around I was learning of another pregnancy. I’m like… where’s that spicket? And can I take a sip?

Speaking of bébés… A fun PSA! Miranda, my best friend in Paris, and her husband Nico, just welcomed into the world miss Charlotte Lily Hélène Bayle TODAY, July 14th. Her parent’s joked on our text this morning with me that they are happy to report that “She is sure to have fireworks on her birthday every year.” It’s Bastille Day in France.

While in Myrtle we played like the tourists do. Something, even though we were raised in the heart of a summertime playground, and our family is in the amusement business, we never did. Our beach house, up until it was sold two years ago, was in the southern part of the Grand Strand, and therefore miles and miles – meaning, bumper-to-bumper-traffic - away from all the rides, go-carts, mini golfs, and water parks. Staying in downtown Myrtle this week, we made up for time lost / rides not ridden. And had a BALL!

We started with Myrtle Waves – a water park that hasn’t changed all too much since I was Boggs and BM’s age. With the exception of the Rockin’ Ray. (Note to self, this slide is subject to causing unnecessary profanity screams on your way down backwards and ample sporadic belly laughs as you drop some 40 feet at the time of launch.) And if you have the chance, ride with your sibling. Miller and I lost body control each time we took the same tube, laughing so hard that the lifeguards would have to yank us from the kiddy pool at the end of our ride before an 8 year old behind us would drown us with his raft.

At the beginning of our day I rode the scariest tube of all time with Belle Miller racing beside me in her own. There was no raft with this one. Just bare body. My double-her-weight-size catapulted me down the slide at bolt speed. The most psychedelic experience – twirling me around, slamming me against the wet dark hot tube with no way of stopping. When I reached the bottom I couldn’t walk. No joke! Body electric. Belle Miller practically skipped away begging that we do it again. Using one of Jimmy’s new sayings, I said “NO NO!” Instead, I insisted that Miller had to try it. Poor thing. She had no idea what was coming! I continued to video every person’s ride so as not to miss her’s… yet, no need. Because the second she took off from way up top I knew it was her. The scream I heard, everyone heard because it echoed in the park, was Miller. She screamed bloody murder the entire 30 seconds she twisted, dipped, and got slung about until she popped out, wiped her face, and looked directly at me with “I hated that! That was awful!” (I will have some video proof on my instagram soon. She’s going to kill me. But, I can’t resist. Makes me cackle!)

Aside from the wave pool being “contaminated” by a kid who had thrown up all of his snack —Where is Jimmy when we need him? This little kid needed to be told “no no” before he was over-served at the Dip-N-Dots counter — we had a riot! GO!

The next night we sought out to hurl our bodies — while not wearing a bathing suit or schlepping a raft from one end of the burning asphalt park to the other, but yet at the open air amusement park — at Family Kingdom. We rode everything! And screamed all the way through! I, odd number out in line for the Swamp Fox, the ricketiest wooden roller coaster in the south east, locked arms with my stranger turn savior seat-mate on our plummet to the bottom and didn’t let go until the ride came to a complete stop. My mama told us that her father took her and her brother on it the first day it opened back in June 1966. So sweet! If you didn’t know, my mother is one of the rare few who was born and raised in Myrtle - on 48th Avenue to be exact!

We carried on as the (local) tourists would, and the girls took a shopping trip while the boys went on a guided fishing voyage to catch our delicious dinner. 

On our shopping day, Belle Miller got to experience The Dunes Club. A place where my sister and her husband had their wedding, a place my sister and I grew up going to in our Sunday-Bests to eat lunch on special occasions with our grandparents, and where my mom had her first date as a 15 year old.

SIDEBAR 1: One of my favorite stories my mama tells is this little gem: Back in her dating days, her parents coached her to always order the cheapest thing on the menu to be polite. So, being the good Southern girl she was, she picked the whole flounder. A terribly inexpensive plate. What they didn’t prepare her for was that it would show up fully intact — bones and all.

When she saw those tiny bones staring back at her, she panicked. Terrified she’d break proper Southern etiquette by taking them out of her mouth at the table, she swallowed them. Every. Last. One. All while making a face that silently screamed, this hurts so bad.

Needless to say, she’s never ordered a fish that wasn’t de-boned again — and there was definitely not a second date.

SIDEBAR 2 (and much longer): This also happens to be where we met Rudy Giuliani — which absolutely deserves a sidebar because, my word, what a hilarious meet-cute.

It all started one late weekday afternoon, when my grandmother took the family to lunch in the dining hall. We were the last table sat for that day’s service, and naturally, we lingered — eating, laughing, telling stories like we always do. Around 2 p.m., Herb, the maître d’, came gliding over to our table with a bit of intrigue: “There’s a presidential candidate on the golf course today.” We gaulked! But he refused to tell us who.

Fast forward twenty minutes, and in walks the puffiest, shiniest, bluest New York Yankees jacket you’ve ever seen — practically glowing in the Southern sun. Behind him? My cousin Gene, hanging back like a kid who just brought a stray dog into the house and knew he was about to catch heat. I roar with laughter thinking about how mortified Gene must’ve been.

A. We had no idea Rudy was playing golf.

B. We had no idea Gene knew Rudy. Vice versa.

C. And we definitely didn’t know they were golfing together that day. There!

We still laugh imagining Rudy thinking Gene had somehow summoned his entire extended family to come admire who he was teeing off with. It was unreal.

As any potential president would — or maybe just a polite golf buddy meeting the in-laws — Rudy walked over to our table to introduce himself. We all stood to greet him, one by one… except for the Matriarch herself. The Head of the Table. Queen of the South. My Mamee.

No, Mamee stayed firmly seated in the chair Herb had wheeled over for her earlier (we all sat in regular non-wheeled fluffed chairs, if you’re wondering) cane resting beside her like a royal scepter. When Rudy reached her, she didn’t bat an eye. Just sat up tall, extended her hand like she was being introduced at court and declared, clear as a (very) southern bell: “I am the motha, the grandmotha, and the aunt of all these fine people.”

We all wanted to evaporate. Rudy nodded with the kind of practiced smile that said I meet characters like this daily, and then quietly made his way to his table.

As we finished our meal and Herb returned to escort Mamee to her car, she took his arm and mine, cane in hand, and sashayed out just as she’d sashayed in — graceful, poised, and entirely in command. And as we passed Rudy’s table, she leaned slightly in my direction and let out a very un-grandmotherly, whisper: “Bassssstaaaaard!”

I wanted to die. We’re pretty sure he didn’t hear it, but who knows?

Turns out, Mamee was a staunch Democrat — and she was wild unimpressed by anyone who didn’t ask her name after she delivered a grand performance as the one she gave Mr. President (candidate). Honestly? Iconic. J’adore.

So, needless to say, this place held some memories. And still continue to! We met my mother’s aunt, and Gene’s mother!!!, there for lunch, Sarah Hope – the chicest woman in all of Myrtle Beach. We wanted to dine and visit of course, but too to show the current boodle Belle Miller where her namesake, the original Belle Miller, used to hold court. It was a very special experience to see the faces of people who we introduced her to. Everyone of them teared up as they heard Belle Miller’s name as they remembered the original — my precious spit-fire-glamourous grandmother. Those who met her, never forgot her. I’d venture to say — even Rudy!

Miller, Boggs and I had two dates at The Sea Captain's House – the best local restaurant in all of the beach if you ask us. We also took a trip down every-teenage-birthday-party-spot memory lane and pulled up a chair to a flattop where a Japanese chef flung shrimp in our mouths and faked my mama out by squeezing sauce on her blouse… Yamatos. The children LOVED it!

My genius and dedicated nephew, Boggs, found a whopping 605 sharks teeth - NO JOKE! The famed local weather man, Ed Piotrowski, even wrote a mini story about him. He, like his great grandfather, the original Belle Miller’s husband, is a master at spotting them. 

And, summer at the beach isn’t really happening unless there is at least one panic about what we’ll eat at some point during (every) day, afternoon naps, a few family tiffs, shrimp-creole, fried okra, boiled peanuts, and my mama’s homemade peach ice-cream involved. Lucky for us, we had lots of it all!

I’ve often joked that fish and family have one thing in common — after about three days, they both start to smell. And let’s be honest, it’s not not true. But this time, the saying took on a different meaning. You’re supposed to eat fish within three days before it goes bad… and having Belle Miller around longer than that? I practically devoured her first day in solo. She never spoiled! She got better and better. She’s with me till the end of this EN ROUTE…

FAMILY TRIP TO CHARLOTTE

From the morning we checked out of our paradise on the beach, Miller, Boggs, Belle Miller, Boggsy and I loaded up and made our way over to my father’s house, where we picked him up for a trip to Charlotte. We were all going to the Club World Cup soccer match: Real Madrid vs Pachuca on that Sunday. 

We arrived in Charlotte in the late afternoon — just in time for a cold beer at a local brewery and a spontaneous visit with our cousin Sarah, her sweet husband, Corbin, and their absolutely edible one-year-old daughter, Smith. After a lively evening and a full day of travel, we turned in early, grateful for a real bed and a quiet night before our busy day ahead. But only a few short hours after drifting off, we were jolted awake by a blaring siren and a mechanical voice of a robot man crackling through the wall speaker: “A fire has been reported in the building. Please make your way to the nearest exit.” Siren. Robot man. Siren. Robot man. Repeat. It was like being shaken from a dream into a scene from a low-budget fire safety video.

We were staying on the top floor – 16th to be exact. So in the blurry eyed dreamstate, I was the only one to grab all of my belongings (literally the only one in all of the hotel guests who did this. Did no one else hear the robot man? There was a FIRE reported IN THE BUILDING!) and made our way downstairs, found the rest of our family, sat for 20 minutes outside scratching our heads in curiosity and amusement that this was happening until the Fire Department pulled their truck away from the scene and another loudspeaker alaremend. This time it was coming from a cop car across the street – A manager spoke “You are free to go back to your rooms. We have taken care of the fire, but we can’t seem to turn off the alarms. We will do our best to get them turned off and alert you if you need to evacuate again.” HUMMMM what?!! 

We did as we were instructed. We hiked the 16 flights back up to the top and returned to our rooms while the alarm blared. By 1:08 am they finally had them turned off and in a few short hours, at 3am, it was GroundHogs Day. The same robot man alarm sounded and screaming sirens blared. Deja vu. This would happen another two times in the night. By 9am I woke up completely, brushed my teeth with a bottle of water, as during all of this fiasco, the water had also stopped working. The irony of a fire alarm going off in a waterless building. Am I right?

After we all were up, showered, fueled by the take-out coffee, we made our way to the Museum of Illusions (GO!! If you’re ever in town. We had a ball!) and then to a pub for a bite before the game. There, we noticed the streets spilling over with fans. Little did we know that the restaurant we chose would actually be front row to the parade of players caravanning from their hotel to the stadium. The kids LOVED this!

With the contagious enthusiasm as they passed, I asked everyone what they thought the final score would be. I bet 3-1 Real Madrid. Miller followed in agreeance and then Belle Miller changed her 4-2 to 3-1. Luckily they had me! Because guess who guessed exactly right?!!!! MOI! The girl in the group who didn’t even know about soccer until I moved over to France and watched it more times in the 24 months than I ever did in a lifetime. Once Real Madrid scored 3, and Pachuca was already at 1, I held my breath until I won the bet!

From the game, I practically skipped to the car where I was taking Belle Miller with me for a spend the night at Sasa and Corbin’s. We had been planning this for over a month now – a spend the night with baby Smith, and a dinner with my other two precious cousins, Emmy and Helen, who live in the Charlotte area too.  Best night of family, laughter and memories in their beyond gorgeous home.

That night, after Smith went to beddy-by, we had our dinner, and Belle Miller was tucked in, Sarah, Corbin and I stayed up until … wait for it… 2am talking, reminiscing, and laughing. At one point Corbin asked me if I had ever considered moving to Charlotte. He said “there’s something to be said for being close to family. We would love to have you here.” It made my heart sing. He isn’t wrong. That slumber was an UPGRADE for my soul and something I feel so grateful to have. FAMILY … and lots of them finally on the same continent again… and sharing memories together. 

On our way to Rarrie and Yoyo’s house, Belle Miller and I stopped in to visit Great Grandmama. At 98, her hearing isn’t what it used to be, but that didn’t stop her from keeping us fully entertained. She talked and talked, sharing stories, voicing her worries, and catching us up on all her news. Belle Miller was edible as she would take her voice to volume 10 when she addressed Greatmama, as we call her, and took her speed to a snnnnaaaaaaaaailllllllsssss pace. My edible, slow and loud, boodle.

BELLE MILLER + MOI

It was a dream to have BM with me for those solid 12 days. I have missed her so much since delivering her back to her mama and daddy in Greenville last week. I’m lucky. Because without my own children yet – I am given the rare opportunity to have real relationships with my niece and nephew – separate from their parents. It’s something not every aunty or uncle has the opportunity to experience. Belle Miller and I bound more and more with each visit. And I feel grateful beyond belief to have her with me. We played in the river, made a spa night, at ice cream together, laughed at the dinner table, attempted (3 different times) to finish My Fair Lady, and slumbered in our bedrooms. I have learned so much from her on this trip (and about all her friends and which little boys they all like) and only hope to grow up to be just like my adaptable ten year old niece one day. She’s my inspiration! 

Last week, she and I took GH for a great vet visit (they’re getting better and better) met Pops, where we will pile into his car and caravan to Greenville. We dropped her off for good this summer and spent the night together with her mama and family, and then Pops and I continued on to the Rocky Mountains in Tennessee. I joined him for the opening of another one of his properties and saw the ones he already has in that area. I had a ball (pun) getting beat in putt putt by him at Lost Treasure Golf and riding my first ever Mountain Coaster.

American summer has commenced!

Until next time. Xxo ac

But my love affair with this city has now expanded into the UPSTATE of her state, where I started my trip two Thursdays ago — and where practically every Manhattanite is now calling “home” — or "vacation home.”

I touched down in New York’s capital city, Albany, and immediately removed my jacket and sweater — was that even possible? That New York was hotter than South Carolina? It was. 

I flew in to visit one of my best friends, Marissa, and her husband Hannis, at what used to be their vacation home, turned full-time home (and after staying there, I can completely understand why!!) on Bear Paw Road. I told them on repeat that if I lived there, it would be my never-leaving-ever-ever home. I was IN LOVE with it. It was cozy, beside a lake, private, and had a screened porch that I claimed as my own for the full 62 hours I was their guest. 

Also, can we talk about that name? Bear Paw Road? If that’s not the most adorable rue for an upstate New York address, then honestly, what are we even doing here?

And!! Because life is apparently scripted by a very cute small-town novelist — another one of my best friends, this one from Charleston, just started spending time in an upstate home herself. Can you handle it? These two friends, from completely different chapters of my life, at this moment are staying in homes 20 minutes apart (and will be best friends if I, and life’s cute small-town novelist, gets it right!) in the most all-American towns.

I mean. What are the odds? With two best friends there — and a third on her way (Erica, who will be moving there in July to open up Hilltown Hot Pies), along with the scenery that I will be getting into shortly, it’s no surprise that I fell madly, head-over-heels, in love with this whole region. Like, a dangerous level of smitten kitten. 

Speaking of kittens…

Turns out, I was there also to conquer a fear. Marissa and Hannis have two boys who answer to the names of Sid and McGregor, and who also answer to pouncing pussy cats. I was told… only after I was buckled in tight and en route to their home from the airport… that if McGregor “liked me,” I would know it due to him sporadically pouncing onto my shoulders. Hummmmmm, whaaaaaaa???!! Non merci! I was petrified. And turns out, so were these two Cornish Rex felines. They were curious little pussies – but they were not curious enough to get on my shoulders. Thank Gawd! In fact, they wanted little to nothing to do with me. When Marissa held McGregor up to me for an introduction, he basically gave me the hand (or paw rather) as I went in for the stroke. No joke. We laughed hard as I was the one working up the courage to pet him, and yet like a reflex, his paw went up to forbid me from getting any closer. Avec plaisir, I thought – with relief. 

He and I did end up liking each other, even though we never actually touched. And we basically camped out together on the screen porch nearly every moment that I was at his house. He’d perch quietly on the window seal, staring intently at the bird’s nest being built above him like it was his life’s work, while his brother Sid would peek around the corner with this permanently confused look — like, “Wait… you’re not my mom. Who even are you? And why are you on my porch?” While I pretended to read my book – as I kept one eye on the words and the eye on those unexpected shoulder pouncers.

Each day, either before Marissa started work or once she wrapped up, she took me on a grand tour of all the local gems. We hit up Samascott’s for provisions, OK Pantry for their dangerously good matcha chocolate swirl bread, and Greenhouse Cidery at Berry Farm as we ate from Yummy Kitchen (which, 100%, lived up to the name). We squeezed in mini hikes at Ooms and on the grounds of PS21 — a center of contemporary performance with statues throughout the property, and stopped by the Old Chatham Country Store, where I somehow paid $5.37 for a can of peach tea. Yes, a can. And yes, I audibly said “Jesus” when the cashier rang it up – Because what kind of price even is that? For a can that isn’t laced with, I don’t know… gold!? We also went to Saisonner for the meet cute of Marissa, Sarah, and Drew (Sarah’s sweet boyfriend who too is a Charlestonian, and who is responsible for introducing our Sarah to this part of the world. Yay!). I think they all loved each other! Life’s cute small-town novelist mastermind (and I)… nailed it! Not to mention – I was over the moon to have had this serendipitous moment work out. I mean truly, what are the odds that we would all be in that area on the same night!?

Over the three days I stayed in East Chatham, Hannis and Marissa even let me borrow one of their cars while they worked. I took full advantage — touring the towns and inching my way along the roads like someone who had just discovered architecture. Pretty sure I maxed out at 15 mph in a 35. Couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to miss one single house. I was in AMERICA.

I don’t know about you. But when I picture America, I picture exactly where I was… a New England backdrop of: wooden houses with flags proudly waving, hydrangeas exploding in bloom, men in Polos faithfully watering their lawns, rocking chairs stationed on every porch, Bambi and her mama posing on every hillside, chipmunks dashing from tree to tree like they had deadlines, and old-timey storefronts with red, white and blue “We’re Open” banners flapping in the breeze.

East Chatham, Kinderhook, Hudson — they had it all. They were my perfect image of AMERICA. J’adore!

NEW YORK NEW YORK

We left Hudson in a full-on downpour last Saturday. I had tagged along with Marissa for her hair appointment in the city (or are we still calling this a town?), and while she was getting her blowout, I wandered off to window-shop at Red Chair on Warren — my new favorite store, and of course it was, because everything inside was imported from France. My soul practically sighed in a reminisce. Delicate china, hand-sewn linens, engraved silver... I was emotionally cradled by overpriced elegance, and the familiarity of my last two years. C'était génial!

Meanwhile, poor Marissa walked out of the salon looking like a shampoo commercial — only to step directly into a monsoon. So much for that $60 blowout. We laughed about it, though, as I unwrapped my bagel from Circles. Which, by the way, came with its own audible "Jesus" moment — when they announced that it would be $18 for a bacon, egg, and cheese. What are we even doing?! I mean. It shocked me, yes. But naturally, I had to taste what all the rave was about.. And, for that price, I felt compelled to upgrade. So I did… for an anchovy, butter, herbs, pickled vegetables, everything bagel that was delicious!! Yet, absolutely not worth the thousand-dollars.

We wrapped things up with dessert from Mel The Bakery before we drove to the Big Apple. Because if you’re going to get soaked and price-gouged, you might as well end on a sweet note. Am I right?

Pulling into NYC, a New Englander eased our transition from upstate to city life — Noah Kahan. He came dancing through the speakers. Brand new to me, and, as it turns out, old news to pretty much everyone else who listens to music. Pop culture could hit me square in the face and I still wouldn’t recognize it. On this trip alone, I was introduced to Bad Bunny (a global superstar, Grammy winner, total mystery to me) and Doechii (a female rapper, also Grammy winner, whose lyrics made me want to break into a sprint. Not metaphorically. Just… physically run).

We arrived at Marissa’s apartment on Riverside, where, as I wrote earlier, I immediately started humming New York State of Mind before I hopped on the 1,2,3 line that took me from 145th Street to Clark Street station in Brooklyn Heights. Vivian’s hood!

V and I had so much to giggle about. We hadn’t seen each other in, oh, six-ish weeks — which felt like forever, considering how often she had crossed the ocean to visit me in Paris through the years.

We set out for Greenpoint — a neighborhood that Erika and Kaki, two certified Brooklyn babes, insisted I had to consider as I searched for a potential neighborhood in NYC. But before we even made it there, we decided to post up at Gus & Marty’s  for a little aperitif. While we were settling in, the owner, Sarah, walked in. Turns out she and Vivian are dear friends — and ummm, wha??? I knew her too! A wave of memory hit me: I had dinner with Sarah years ago, long before Gus & Marty’s existed, and even before she and her husband opened the now-famous Egg Shop.

We all sat for hours, laughing and catching up — though, hilariously, neither of us could figure out when or where that dinner had happened, or who on earth had introduced us. We really tried. Rolodexes were mentally flipped through, timelines questioned, names dropped. Still, nothing.

And in case you're wondering — yes, we were too — but Vivian wasn’t the link. She met Sarah after I did. So the mystery remains. Classic New York: full of accidental reunions and unsolvable friend-of-a-friend puzzles.

We bopped over to see the hood and then looped around where we got two scoops of the yummiest ice cream at Davey’s Ice Cream. Then roamed the streets until we found our way back to Congress Street where we queued up A Rainy Day in New York. PS: Woody Allen did it again! Best NYC movie!

Throughout my trip we dined at Ingas, Popina, Laurel Bakery, and Fornino with our sweet twin friends Lizzie and Kitty (who I haven’t seen in so long that one has gotten married and had the cutest baby on the planet! And the other was in town scouting wedding-venues. Time flies!), and of course, the classic, Pastis. We ate more ice cream at Van Leeuwen and bought veggies from the Brooklyn farmers market. 

And we shopped: The Brooklyn Flea in Dumbo, Front General Store – where Vivian bought the coolest vintage Levi's jacket and it is always a MUST VISIT when in the hood. And then, we venmoed all the women selling their chic vintage pieces at every stoop sale! That’s right! Our New York version of a French brocante. We found all the good finds. A black blazer (what’s new?) for me along with a navy and white striped skirt (again. What’s new? I have the same already – only in pant version), and a suede skirt, the coolest leather mule heels, and denim for Viv.

I also got to see two other best friends while in the city: Fiona and Erica. Fiona and I had a coffees at Café Gitane, another classic NYC cafe in SoHo – sharing all that has been happening with us since our last upgrade-kind-of-phone-call that we have weekly. Before meeting her, I had a walk over the Brooklyn Bridge on a misty moody morning to get a honey croissant concoction from Elbow Bread (thanks to this David Lebovitz recommendation. It was everything! And funny enough, they were all southerners working there. They spotted my accent immediately! So I turned up the volume on it for them as I ordered. They L.O.V.E. loved it!)

By noon I sought off to meet Erica at Gjelina for a pizza and salad lunch before walking 12 miles!!!!! No joke! From there we zig zagged our way through the city as we went to Goop on Bond Street for me to get bullied by some snobby sales reps, drool over all the beautiful products, and then buy the best Forah face sunscreen. We bopped over to Detox Market where I went crazy!! I wanted the entire store! It was the American version of the French brand, Oh My Cream. 

Here, I managed to teach the staff about suctioning the face with these tools that I have been searching for, for months and to no avail, in France. I demonstrated for a solid 10min. They provided me with face oils and enthusiasm so I continued to lather up and perform. I sold three packets (ok, two were to me and my friend and only one was to an onlooker in the shop) – given my demo. Luka, our young sales assistant – who we had to forgive for not knowing who Cindy Crawford was (whaaa?) – loved me so much that at the end, while ringing me up, he said “if I was allowed to give you 50% off I would! Instead I popped a ton of samples in your bag and being such a fun customer.” Hmmm yes please! I had them do my brows (hence the model pose pic above!)

After our day of beauty we opted for a slice of cheesecake and the famed pistachio, brown butter, tahini and halva rice crispy treat at Hani’s Bakery (another nod to David Lebovitz). They were perfect! Then we wandered down to check out an apartment that I had had my eye on for weeks (friend of a friend subletting near the new-ish Dimes Square in the LES), we walked down Baxter to our old apartment at 121 (when I moved out, I gave over the lease to E and Will), pop over to Happier Grocery where we are convinced that all that “organic” labeling must be a gimmick. We giggled as we saw that they were selling sea salt under their brand for 3xs the cost of the Maldon sea salt living next to theirs on the shelf. 

Then we strolled over to the West Village, where we said goodbye about ten different times on the corner — only to keep starting new conversations and missing the light turning green. Eventually, I let her get on the PATH train, and I wandered down Christopher Street, winding my way through a few turns until I ended up in Washington Square Park.

And that’s when another wild memory hit me.

Have I ever told y’all about the time I met Mary Louise Parker… in her home?! Easily one of the wildest days of my life. I had no idea we were going to her apartment — my family friend, Birgit (who also happens to be an actress), casually mentioned we were stopping by her friend Betty’s place. I didn’t think twice. Betty sounded lovely. What she failed to mention was that “Betty” was actually Mary Louise Parker, an A-lister and only the lead in my favorite movie of all time: Fried Green Tomatoes.

Mary Louise and I hit it off instantly — probably thanks to our shared South Carolina roots (she was born in Columbia!) and double names. But the best / terrible part? I’d just come off a mountain weekend of hiking, swimming in the coldest lake imaginable, and riding around with the top down in a 1978 convertible. So I was... let’s say weathered. Dirty, windblown, and generally feral by New York standards.

When we got to her two-level apartment overlooking Washington Square Park, she reached out, touched my locks, and said, “You have the most beautiful hair.” I just stood there thinking: Should I tell her the secret is not washing it for 36 hours? Eeeek! I didn’t. Ultimately, I went with the safer route — smile, nod, and keep the illusion alive that I woke up like this. Humiliated and flattered all at once. Iconic moment for me!

Ok.. back to it…

I roamed the Upper West and East sides, wandered through my girl, Central Park, and then walked down Museum Mile until I reached the Plaza where Vivian came to meet me. We tried to walk into Monkey Bar for a classic NYC lunch in midtown, but when we saw that it would be impossible, we walked to Matcha Matcha for a mini pick me as we made our way to Bryant Park. (One of my favorite places in all of the city.) When we found ourselves at Pastis, Vivian reminded me that I had done everything I had wanted to on the list I sent her before arriving (maniac! I always do this with people before a trip. Send my intentions … so that there is no missed expectation. It’s a great tool!). With that… I decided to book an earlier flight to Richmond. 

After consulting with the newest mommy of two under two, Jane. And receiving her excited YES to come the night before I was originally due to arrive, I changed my flight to the one leaving in 4 hours. Vivian had some big news that day too… so we gleefully walked back to her apartment for me to gather my things and head out, so that she could have the place to herself to share with other friends and family her new news. It worked out beautifully! Dare I say? Flow!!

I made it to the airport just in time to almost miss the flight. I was the LAST one on the plane. So, I took advantage of that position as I made a quick scan for an empty row. Spotted! First class. I didn’t hesitate. I confidently took a seat and not one person said a word. I rode in luxurious extra large comfort the whole way down to see my boodles!

RICHMOND 

A red pickup truck pulled up as my Uber at 10:31 pm at RIC airport. I was back in the south! I snuck up Jane’s walkway like a mouse. Walking in the grass mostly so as to not make a sound on her street full of families and their’s full of two babies under two.. I had succeeded until the Uber driver yelled “you good?!” before receiving my silent thumbs up and driving away. 

The babies were EDIBLE!

Jimmy, my delicious godson, is cutter by the minute, and his little brother, Eddie, is a precious, active little piglet. He literally snorts while drinking his bottle, which made me a nervous wreck the first ten times I fed him. But by the end of my trip, I craved to hear those noises and snack on his cheeks while he snacked on his bottle. 

Somehow, by the time I left, he already looked older. Wild how fast it all happens!

Some of my favorite moments were with Jimmy. My ultimate boodle boy. He loves his “God” so so much – yes, that is still the preferred name in the Gill household for his adoring, kiss on the mouth every chance she got, Godmother. C’est moi! I would come downstairs, lock eyes with him, he’d grab his beloved “trash truck” and run straight over so I could play with him. He’d hand it to me, plop into my lap with his pacifier glued in his mouth, and watch intently while I wound it up and let it glide across the room. He’d wait a beat, then hop up, waddle over to retrieve it, and bring it right back so we could do it all over again. Boodle!

I learned so much about Jimmy this trip! Like, that he calls Patrick, his daddy, “GaGa,” and his mama, Jane, well… “MaMa.” That he loves pressing the buttons in “Pop ca,” Jane’s father, Toby’s car. He likes to point out Kate and Toby’s house (his cousins who live next door) on walks. He enjoys riding around in his push-car like a tiny king. He LOVES to hold his arms out and grunt to hold his baby brother – tilting his head as his way to kiss him. And he is obsessed with his “baketbow” (basketball) – which he will wake up to play at … a sunrise hour, 5am!! 

I’m IN LOVE with him!

Jane and I did what we always do: nap together (haha) with a baby nestled in a Boppy between us, organize every closet in her house, power through laundry, sip wine, laugh a ton, and sit for hours on her beautiful couch in her gorgeous home just gabbing about any and everything, person, scenario, and expectation. We belly-cackled with her husband, Patrick, took the boodles on long neighborhood strolls, ordered all the best coffees each morning, made our way to Stella’s for our favorite Cypriot salad — and, of course, one of us got a massage. Usually we do a couples. But this time… it was me, solo! I went to Bardos and had a session with the magical woman who literally put Jane into labor almost two years ago with Jimmy. I mean… is there a more powerful recommendation? She was incredible.

I also got to see Clair and Ashley, who both stopped by at different times for a visit with Jane and me. Clair, a highschool best friend of Jane’s and who I’ve known since almost as long as I’ve known Jane – when I started visiting Richmond. And Ashley who went to college with us, and who lived with both of us (me, kinda, in NYC, and with Jane in DC).

I had the best time! I do every time I visit Jane. But this time, I got to see her as a juggling mama of two, and it was a blessing! She and Pat are doing the best job raising those boodle boys! 

Jane kept saying, on repeat: “Having children is not for the faint of heart.” And I felt that truth more than ever this time around watching her. She is a queen! Two under two? A very busy household — but it’s also one overflowing with love and giggles and precious boys. I already miss them!!

MYRTLE BEACH

Now, I’m here in Myrtle Beach. I flew home Friday night to make it in time for my family’s beach week. We’re convinced that my mama and Joe have rented the best house in Myrtle.

We sold our beach house two summers ago down in Garden City (the only place we have ever “summered”), which was heartbreaking, but time. So, this year feels like a fresh chapter. A new tradition beginning.

This house – we counted last night — could sleep 25 people (if you double up in the queens and include the lush couches). It’s old and grand, and owned by a longtime Myrtle Beach local family (like my mother’s). You can feel the history in the walls. Just as you used to could feel it in our Beach House. We’re so happy to be here!

Even Goldie Hawn is smiling. She didn’t want to come inside today — and still doesn’t. She is sleeping under my feet as I type on the porch over looking the dunes. She pranced all the way down the beach this morning like it was her runway. Like daughter, like mother, I guess... I’m the exact same way beside the great Atlantic Ocean.

This evening we will welcome Miller and her crew as we celebrate Father’s Day! Until then, I am soaking in all the quiet and calm with my GH, mama and Joe.

Xxo ac

P.S. A fun surprise from last week — I made three cameos in three of my friends’ newsletters. I was blown away by the love, the shoutouts, and the support. Each one came in unexpectedly and made my heart swell as I opened and read their words. Who knew I was so loved by Erica, missed by Cara, and that my words would be so profound to Blaise? Friendships that make my hear sing! J’adore!!

Everything had gone smoothly by the time I reached my farewell gate at Charles de Gaulle. My Uber arrived early, and both of my bags — each 1.5 kg over the limit — were checked in with a wink from the kind woman at the desk without any extra charge. Security was a breeze too, though I held my breath the entire time. I had tucked my heavy-duty Kryptonite bike lock into my carry-on just an hour before leaving, after multiple Google searches assured me it was allowed. Still, when they flagged it, I whipped out my trusty search results — in English — which seemed to throw them off just enough to earn me another approving nod from the head of security. Greenlight!

Wildly enough, they didn’t bat an eye at the cast iron French Staub skillet in my bag — something my mother had (ironically) smuggled into France from America for me a year ago. Honestly, with the right grip, aim, and force, it could qualify as a weapon. But who cares. Don’t draw more attention, I thought to myself.

Now that I was waved through security and taking in oxygen again, I decided I too needed a coffee to wash down my final viennoiserie — a Pain au lait Ganache from Aux Merveilleux. The ONLY hot cup of Joe near gate B47 was fitting to say the least. As I found it at, Mickey D’s. Leaving France as a true American — fueled by a McCafé.

By the time I landed in Dallas, I was starving and so ready to see my sweet cousin Meagan — who swooped in 20 mins after wheels down — to take me off airport grounds for a salad and a spin. About 20 minutes into the drive, I admitted to her that I was getting a little anxious inching so far away from the airport. We were way off course, and I had a connecting flight to catch. She’d gotten turned around on, oh, just in the giant spaghetti bowl of interstates she was navigating in that major city of hers. How does she do this everyday??! We squeezed in the speediest lunch and chat. A total highlight of my American welcome home. That is… until I saw my dancing parents. (More on that soon.)

Getting dropped back off I made my way into security feeling confident. Alas, Dallas tried to put a kink in my ease. They tried to forbid me from brining on my cast iron skillet. Evidently in the USA this heavy as led (quite literally) item, that could kill a person in one sling to the head, is forbidden to take as a carry on. But instead of treating a fellow Southern American with a little TLC… they treated me like a second class citizen who was purposefully trying to get one over on them. At this point, it was 1am in Paris, so I had been traveling for a solid 18 hours and was on the brink of a hysterical cry. Lawd did I have one. Just briefly though until I found myself at the American Airlines check-in counter pleading for help.

Through my tears I spotted the kindest looking gentleman, Keith. When he and his fellow colleague finished with their clients at the same time, and both waived for the ‘next guest’ to come to them, I kept my eyes locked in Keith’s direction until he looked at me. I jumped in his line. I had a good feeling about this souther gentleman… and spoiler alert… my intuition was right!

I explained my situation. I told him how my international flight just before had offered all carry-on bags to be checked for free since they were at max capacity and didn’t have the cabin space. I told him that at this particular moment I was regretting the decision not to have done that since this predicament had now occurred. When I explained that his fellow airline workers were forbidding me to cross through the red tape because of my cast iron skillet he looked shocked and then started grinning. Within seconds he was painting a picture for me of his beloved inherited skillet that was his mother’s mother. Jack pot! I had struck a sentimental cord! With that, I just knew I was going to get my skillet checked, at no cost to me. And to add butter to the cornbread (what?!! I’m in the south now and that’s about the best thing on the planet to make IN any cast iron), I went on and on about how great his food must taste from his generational skillet given the cardinal rule of not washing it to keep it seasoned. He agreed with a nod and a smile, and then started feverishly typing until he found a “loophole” for me. “I’m gonna mark this as a Duty Free item – let’s say it’s ‘alcohol,”  he said. In came a joke of mine to seal the deal. “Is that because we both need a stiff drink right about now?” He laughed, as I had hoped he would – and then tagged my bag, asked if I wanted to stuff it with more items to lighten my shoulder bag load (which I did! In come the lock and the silver and all the other things that were weighing me down) and then he put it on the belt and wished me a great flight. I was back to having an easy time.

And to my delight, when I boarded this flight, I sat by the chicest woman. She had just moved to South Carolina from Pennsylvania and was as happy as a lark to be close to the beach. And I was happy that my very touristy beach home town was attracting people of her style. (Picture Martha's Vineyard in the fall.) We talked the whole way back. (Thank god. Because by the time I got to my seat I was in full on body electric – my limbs were so tired that they would NOT stop moving. I was desperate for the distraction.) She told me that her son was “working at a place called Down Wind Sails?” Hummmm what?? That was the very same place that my sister and I had worked every summer during high school and college. Small world! She too shared with me that one of her sisters was married to a Frenchman and that they had lived in Paris for ten years before they both decided to move back to NYC. She told me he (the frenchman) was the one who wanted to move back more than her sister. They both speak French to their two little girls and send them to an English & French school in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. I can just picture this chic couple now with their French American babies being the coolest ones on the block in NYC. I loved her. Michelle, my seat mate. 

In come the parent dance. Arriving to MYR I was greeted by a very enthusiastic pair of parents. Both my mother and father had come to the airport to welcome me home — and when they spotted me they both started jumping up and down. It looked precious and like they were doing jumping jacks. They carried on until I got into their arms. Precious! 

Bags then came out with ease, Joe pulled up to retrieve us with ease, and Boggs jr was snoozing away with ease in the back seat — he had fallen sound asleep on the way to the airport to pick up his favorite aunt on his mama’s side (only aunt on his mama’s side — but his favorite nonetheless) for my 11pm pickup (5am Paris time). Boodle!

Easing back into American life has come with … boat rides, kayaking with Boggs, Goldie Hawn walks and administering her daily IV (my sweet strong girl), on-time FedEx delivery with my Send My Bags from France, early morning coffees on the porch with my mama, lunch at the Sea Captain’s House with my pops, full breakfast plates at The Trestle Bakery & Café, daily off-leash cemetery strolls with Goldie, my mama and Martha (where we met a man walking his pooch who used to be a professional baseball player for the Miami Marlins! And if you think that’s cool, he also spoke fluent French! We said our farewell ‘à plus tard’ in our wannabe native tongue as we left), and trip planning. Yes. I have enjoyed Conway and have looked forward to going to see friends in both Charleston and NYC. So, I booked trips.

While in Conway though over the weekend, I walked down to the Saturday Market with my mom—our favorite weekly tradition. Nestled beneath the charming downtown bridge, the market buzzed with people and overflowed with vibrant, fresh produce. En route there she asked me “Who do you hope to see the most?” I answered in one second, “Richard Lovelace.” My first boss. I almost always see him at our market, though my mom mentioned he wasn’t in town. But to both of our surprise — he was! He ended up being my last hug and visit with his wife, Rebecca, on our way out and their way in. Greenlight!

[SIDEBAR: I worked for Richard when I was just 14, maybe 15 — I can’t remember exactly. I just know I was too young to drive myself to his office at one point. He had a pet parrot in his office that would randomly squawk out $%@# and $%&damnit on repeat. What’s the saying? Monkey hear, monkey say? Richard had a colorful vocabulary, especially when reviewing law cases.

Every evening, after he’d left for the day and the rest of us were still there filing and tidying up, I’d hear his secretary, Cathy, go into his office and softly say, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” to the bird. She once told me she did it in hopes of teaching it something other than… French.

It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had! I loved working for him and his team.]

I too got to see Jenni Lynn — my Grammy nominated bluegrass singer songwriter musician friend — who invited me to her concert that night at a local bar. I got to hug on Monica Yates — my sweet friend who married my high-school sweetheart, Bradley —  and smooch on their boodles who were in tow in their wagon. I stayed squatted down to their level during our visit and watched as their daughter put on “her lips” (her mama’s lipstick). She is, maybe, 2.5 years old. All girl!!

I biked Joy Ride (she was tuned up for my return. So sweet!) over to see Rachel, Quinn, and Caria — my sister from another mother and her boodles — while her husband, Miles, switched places with me. He went to Europe to direct his film just as I had landed stateside. Rachel and I grew up playing lost in the woods in both of our massive yards and the stream and woods that connected our homes. It did my heart good to get my arms around her! And speaking of heart full...

Later that night, I got to fill up again with Maggie — my hometown best friend — and her girls. We met at a bar downtown to listen to Jenni’s band play (I couldn’t believe that I timed my arrival for that one Saturday night that she had a gig downtown! Greenlight!). When I walked in, I told Maggie “This place has changed! It looks nothing like it did.” Maggie killed me with her response, “What do you mean? Because there aren’t any bras hanging from the ceiling? Or did you mean because the stripper pole is gone? Or because it’s well-lit and there are families here now with their children? Or is it because you can’t chain smoke inside? Or is it that the ‘office’ isn’t an employee’s ‘bedroom’ any longer? You mean those changes?” We were hysterical. Yes all of those changes. My sweet country town has turned into quite the place to be. And this bar, Chantis, that used to be all those things listed above, is an … establishment!

And of course, Conway has delivered lots and lots of snuggles and kisses and walks and spoon-feeding my Goldie Hawn! Love of my life. She is doing great by the way and I thank you for everyone who continues to ask! I am proud to say that at her last vet visit I learned that she had gained a full pound and a half and that her numbers had improved. Her doctor was surprised — but I wasn’t. My girl is a survivor!

Sunday I made my way down to Chuck Town, CHS, the Holy City — where I wheeled into the Old Village around 3pm to scooped up Blaise. I drove us directly to Sullivan’s Island where I pulled a beach girl / climbed in the back of the car and changed into my “bop suite” (name for bathing suite in the AC family household), before we walked the beach and parked it on the sand for hours … gabbing and spying dolphins. 

Charleston was an upgrade! And such a delightful surprise of faces — as I knew it would be. This time coming in town, I wanted to keep it quiet. I naturally get a little overwhelmed to see everyone during one trip so this time I decided to keep a low profile because I know I’ll be back… soon!

After Blaise and my sandy visit on the “bonch” (another AC family household name, this time for beach) we drove around the island admiring all the new houses — like the one that was listed for $11million (we looked it up) on the ocean and looking like it was the set for a Ralph Lauren Summer Campaign shot in Nantucket. We landed at Longboard, a, new to me, restaurant for my evening beer and her glass of wine. We could have stayed gabbing all night long but I had precious boodles downtown to get to!

After dropping her, I went straight to Prioleau Street, where I had two little boys ready to greet their “Aunt Caroline.” (They have trouble understanding that it’s Anne Caroline — and hey! I’ll take it! I am honored that they call me Aunt!). In the garage I triple read my instructions sent by their mama, and my dear friend, Lindsay, about how to get into their condo building. And after a few mixed letters and numbers combination punched into the elevator, the doors opened directly into their apartment. When I walked in, I spotted two boodles snuggled on the couch with their mama staring at me with excitement. I could have EATTEN them. Took no time for the smooches to start and the stories to begin. Banks (3) and Van (5) had warmed up to me in a matter of nanoseconds. As I do, I started rubbing Van’s back, arms, legs… whatever was near me. When he came to a complete stop I could tell that he loved it. So I continued until he put his other leg out for me to massage that one next. Ahhhh! Best moment! (Miller’s children are too old to let me do this with them (play Massuse) so I ate it up). Banks, was wide open — making us laugh and keeping our attention with his dinner interruptions that his brother “was taking up all of the space in the bed”, just to sneak in to the kitchen to see what us grownups were up to.

It was the absolute best night! I’m simply IN LOVE with their family. 

And the next morning, Olive — the newest (9 month old) star in the Marko Family — made an appearance and my jaw hurt. She is edible! She had me at first “coo.” I took her in my arms instantly and ate her up before I handed her over to Clair Bear (what the children call their sweet nanny — who’s dimples don’t quit!), so that we could take the boys for breakfast.

Banks, Van, Lindsay, Evan, and Aunt Caroline all rode on their golf cart (me, sandwiched in between the boys… heaven… while Banks sporadically yelled the word “echo” each time we passed a garage) through town stopping off at Sorelle (where I ran into a college friend, Susu. I was her Pledge Mom in our college sorority) for adult coffees and kid donuts, and Alcove Market for adult egg sandwiches and kid yogurts and fruit. 

Next, I dropped them off and then strolled down to Elisa’s charming home on Ladson Street to have a French Press out in her backyard with her, her sister in law, Carolina, and her mother. All three had visited with me (and made me a great favor to bring two bags back with them to Charleston) in Paris months and months ago. After the alarm sounded that it was time to go, I got to escort Elisa to her kid’s day camp where we picked up her four precious boodles. Here, Charleston got smaller again, when I ran into one of my sweet friends, Jillian, and her three kiddos. Upgrade!

Laura and I met for lunch at Fast & French that day under umbrellas outside to shield us from the INSANELY steamy southern day. She too invited me last minute to join her at the Chamber Music at the Dock Street Theater for Spoleto. Upgrade! It was incredible! I don’t think either of us stopped smiling or dancing in place the entire time to the violins were played and the guest singer belted.

The next day I too ran into Dorete, a colleague of mine at the Charleston Library Society. We had an impromptu downtown walk around the Battery and South of Broad. Upgrade!

I spent some quality time with Angie Hranowsky in her interior design studio and after, I had the pleasure of dinning with two besties at The Ordinary — where as soon as I stepped foot in the door I spotted the most attractive table of people waving me down: Melissa, Ted, Whitley and Nate. We had a ball! It was such a joy to be with all of them! I have missed my people who keep me in stitches! We laughed and drank and ate and shared all the things. Upgrade!

Mike Lata, the restaurant’s (and Charleston’s) famed chef, came over to speak to us. Something I have also missed in Paris. Being sought out by people of the community who recognize me! I relished in this moment. And, since Whitley was with us, an A-Lister in the restaurant because she and her sister designed this gorgeous place, he sent over a tasting of his new green bean salad with a soft boiled egg. Surprise and delight! It was delicious, along with all the oysters and my favorite — smoked fish pâté. 

En route home that night, I stopped off to Jeni’s for a child’s scoop of my favorite flavor and walked / licked it at a snails pace until I reached the corner of King and Beaufain when I immediately regretted not going to Off Track instead. Either way, ice cream stroll after an incredible dinner in downtown Charleston? That is bliss!

Charleston continued to grow smaller for me still by my last day when I got to see Jill and Ray Weeks. So happy to have shared with Jill that I had just told Fanny a few weeks ago about how she was my Charlotte to my Web here in Charleston. When Jill’s house was getting shot by Architectural Digest she invited all of the young influential women in the city who inspired her to come take a private tour. I was lucky enough to have been invited. And that’s where I met all of my (now) best friends in Charleston. Jill started my web of community. I am forever grateful to her and always get so excited when I spot my chic Charleston muse.

Later that day, en route to see Fanny, I got a special honk and stop from Dana — my precious friend (expecting a baby girl in no time). She had blown her car horn as she said “I can spot that strut anywhere!” Upgrade! She giggled as she came to a stop for a short chat and smooch on Queen Street.

My heart was full with all of these love moments and small town run-ins!! Each time I visit Charleston I am reminded me how lucky I am to have friends in this pocket of the world. They light me up and vice versa.

And at the final hour, I was able to see my Fanny. My sweet, chic, French, loving, happy, beautiful, muse of a friend, Fanny! She met me at Harken for an afternoon treat and gab. She was radiating! She had had the best time being back (since early May) and told me that she and Patrick only have three more weeks until they are Paris bound again. She said that she was already missing Charleston. She has said the same to me when she is about to leave Paris of course too. She has the best of both worlds and will be going back at such a great time of year — to enjoy France in her blooming beauty. It filled my heart to laugh with her and share our thoughts about the future. She has been a part of nearly every step of my Parisian path — so in some ways, she knows more about what’s going on with me than many of my American friends do (the day-to-day life decisions, the difficulties of fitting in and my visa approval process, and all the other girl talk we had each week over coffees at our watering hole, Recto Verso). 

As I drove home — to make it to Goldie’s vet visit, the words from my very wise friend, Blaise, came to mind. “AC, before you can make a decision on where you want to settle, you need to get to NYC asap and feel it out again. Walk the streets, see your friends, get inspired and feel wether you want to be there. You can’t make an informed decision without this datapoint.” 

So, I took her advice. I booked my flight that night when I got back to Conway.

And, as of yesterday, I landed in Upstate New York, where I am publishing this dispatch.

I am excited to spend some quality time in East Chatham with Marissa, Hannis and their two cats: Sid and McGrover. To pop over to Manhattan to see Fiona and Erica and view an apartment I have my eye on. Snuggle down with Vivian in Brooklyn for some belly laughs and wine. And roam about NYC for some needed exploration and inspiration!

After New York I’ll get to pop down to Richmond to meet a fresh boodle, Eddie, and smooch on my godson, Jimmy. And laugh hard with their mama, and my best friend, Jane, and her husband Patrick before I end my week in Myrtle Beach with my family!

It’s been an easy return — given all these loving Welcome Homes.

Until next week…

Xxxo (from the big apple) ac

I took it as France’s way of making amends to this efficient American (c’est, moi), for all the times it’s been late or a no-show for me. (Just a tiny example of that. Oh, I don’t know… maybe my visa?!!! Which is still radio silent, and we’re creeping up on 9 months now that I’ve applied for it.) But on Thursday?, I graciously accepted that rare moment of punctuality as a formal apology and handed over my heavy @#$ bags to the carrier.

Leaving your home – for your home country – is a bit overwhelming to say the least. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve erupted in tears, or laughter, or rage, or excitement, or sometimes all en même temps this week. But on Thursday morning, after my bags were taken by FedEx, I finally felt a different sensation – relief.

This process of moving this time has required a lot more logistics – because, well, I’ve lived here. And over these two years, my friends and family have graciously brought over a bag (or twelve) for me with my things. Now, I need to get them all back and can’t take umpteen on a flight. Therefore, this time, the move has required a bit more creativity…

• Asking friends who are visiting to check a bag of mine back with them to the USA (thank you to my sweet and willing handlers: Vivian, mama, and Elisa)

• Scheduling — figuring out exactly when I’ll be around for a pickup, delivery, or both, and at what cost. Also, booking my flight and car for the day I leave.

• Tape. Lots and lots of tape. I used 4 rolls of duct tape to make sure nothing bursts out of my shipped bags in transit.

• Saying “yes” to help in carrying the 60 lbs bags down my windy and ancient stairs.

• Countless steps on the scale and off the scale – with the bags and without the bags – to make sure none of them go over the weight limits for flights or shipping.

• Organization – getting things to people or coordinating quick rendezvous for one last bisou, and finding the exact right ticket home.

So, you can only imagine that when I was given a “window of time” for Send My Bags to pick up — from 9am to 6pm on Thursday — it was a relief to say the least that they came within 20 minutes, and that I was able to enjoy some of my final hours of my Paris life. 

HACKS THAT GET ME  BACK TO THE USA

• Buying a round-trip, even if I don’t plan to use the return flight. When I started to look up flights I saw that Delta was offering a one-way ticket for $2,000. De quio?! I couldn’t believe it. So I started checking round-trip options, just to see if the price would budge. Oh, it did. American Airlines (god help me, I swore I would never fly anything but Delta again, but couldn’t resist this steal!) was, wait for it.. wait for it… $770 round-trip. A no brainer! I secured it immediately. 

• Send My Bag – I can not express how lovely this company has been to work with. I will never not use them if I move to another country / across country / next door / or need to send a bag to a friend etc. The attentiveness in every detail and their client communication was super. They even sent me an email one morning to make sure I was “feeling confident about my upcoming pick-up because they noticed that I had logged into my account at very early hours” — which I did, on one of my many sleepless nights — But what?! What company does that??! How great! I felt so taken care of and understood by them each time I called (yes, I did call - 5xs , at least) to make sure I was tapping my bag properly, or securing the zippers in place, or ensuring the printed materials would be fine in customs. They had experience working with people who were terrified of shipping their personal, precious belongings. Comme moi! They were patient beyond belief and calmed me down!

• Stoop Sale – This was one of the best things I decided to do too! By selling all of my goodies to friends, I have been able to kill two birds with one stone – pass along some of my collectables and gems to friends while too getting to smooch them for the last times: Selden, Betty & Thomas (kitchen goods), Ariel (1800s mirror, prized purchase since moving here), Cara, Kiel, Bowie & Stevie (the round rug we bought together and a few markers for their daughter that I snuck in), Emily (vases, coveted garlic grater and tupperware), Ellie (all of my bedding and towels), and a few more friends of friends pick ups.

SAYING À BIENTÔT

“I will only say à bientot, AC! This is not goodbye.” This was what Jaci (my ultimate muse) said to me as I hugged her farewell oop, I mean à bientôt, for the umpteenth time on Thursday night. And since, it has been the phrase that all of my friends here have said to me when we are leaving one another. They can’t bear to say goodbye – and I can’t either! 

Hell, I just might be using that round trip after all. I miss them so much already!

These past ten days my cup has runneth over with yummy (figuratively and literally given the cakes, coffees, teas, meals, cookies, and beaucoup bottles of wine) moments with… Ellie (tears and hugs at Shakespeare & Company Café), Hélèn (eating every cake from Laïzé and drinking all the teas over deep heartfelt conversations), Cyril (an impromptu dance off to Britney Spears Toxic album at his chic home across the street from mine on our île), Jillian, Justine, & (new friend at the 11th hour) James giggles and smooches at Jillian’s 40th “Sparkle” birthday soirée (where instructions to “knock three times and say Studio 54” was the code to entering the BEST party of all time!), Sarah (where we ate chocolate and strawberry Japanese cake and drank matcha on the floor at Kiji), Miranda at  Bel Horizon (where I got my final belly rub of her bun in the oven and a deep belly sob as I hugged her goodbye), My Margots at Barron (for the chicest, yet priciest, artichoke salad I have ever eaten, with a heavy side of belly-laugh!) and La Bonbonnette (where my other precious Margot and I decided meeting at 4pm, when they open, may sound off the alcoholic alarms, so instead we met later and found ourselves wanting to shut it down; we were so wrapped in sweet conversations and… gifts! She and her husband, Gabriel, gave me Where is the Cool - Food book. Can’t wait to crack it open!), Leah, Lash, Cara, and Céline Dion for the hilarious show, Titanique… And the list “goes on and on” (Céline pun – too good of timing, not to!)

Aside from also doing what I love best in this city – roaming solo on foot and on top of my favorite girl, James Chocolatine, I too took myself to Sylvia to see Cyril in action. He is retiring from the Paris Ballet Company this year and I will miss his final performance in July. Lucky me, I scored an orchestra seat at one of his performing shows with a perfect view of my handsome little silène. At the second intermission he brought me backstage where I didn’t dare take a photo of the inner workings of the set, but was amazed at the machine of people putting it together. I did however take a few selfies with my deer friend (ooop, another pun. Can’t stop, won’t stop this dispatch. He played a deer ;)). 

On the cloudiest day, I bought a ticket to Musée de l'Orangerie and marveled at the permanent collection of Monet’s Waterlilies. It was a DREAM!

On the sunniest day, I got invited to the French Open which felt and looked like the US Open. Only this time, instead of the crowd yelling “well done!” They all shouted “bien joué!” and made horn sounds of Assembly of the Buglers over, and over, and over! We did do the wave though – that was the same. And, we ate ice cream!! Mais, minor difference. Sans American Dippin Dots – instead, we were served up that yummy European Grom Gelato.

PSA:  Stop what you’re doing and look up Ethan Quinn. He’s the next Roger Federer – mark my word! We too saw France’s Luca Van Assche win against Timofey Skatov from Kazakhstan, where the talent (and grunts on the court) were unmatched (eeeek another pun! What is with me today?)

My last week in Paris was simply wonderful. I packed in so much — saw so many dear people, and soaked up the city in every way I could. I rode James Chocolatine for days (she even clocked 18 miles one day — miraculously, I wasn’t sore, just sunburned), wandered through my favorite rues and jardins, took in timeless art, and embraced both the beauty of her sunshine and the melancholy of her sporadic Parisian rain.

I had a final evening by the Seine — just me, the river, and ma petite bière — and went to my last yoga class with Shane, my favorite teacher at Rasa. At the end of his class, I announced it was my final one, and the entire room let out a sweet, collective “coo.” Yogis are universal — where our mats are our language. I’ll miss my Paris crew deeply: Elise, Tina, Alain, Chris, and Kris!

Other places I got to go to that are worth a link were: Restaurant Brigette, Bar du Moulin, L'Elysée Saint Honoré, Miznon, and Musée Carnavalet. 

BON VOYAGE

I fly out tomorrow morning at 11am Paris Time (5am EST) and will arrive at my final destination, some 18ish hours later, at 10:37pm EST (4:37am Paris Time) – where my mama and my boodle nephew, Boggs, (who turned 13 last week! Mind blown!) are coming to pick me up. My father too has insisted that he will be making a drive-by when I get in, so as not to miss welcoming me back to the United States of America. Family reunion!

I am so looking forward to hugging them and seeing my girl, Goldie Hawn, who is doing so well from what I hear and see on my daily report (texts and videos or pictures from my mother). I can’t wait to lay eyes on her, hold that precious doggie of mine for as long as she’ll let me, and be back home.

Saying goodbye to Paris is something I never truly thought would happen. I came here for love and with a purpose — to transform my life and begin again in a place that would challenge me while also offering beauty and inspiration for building a future, perhaps even a family. Now I am leaving with so many stories I could (and may) write a book and looking forward to moving toward a new chapter… where everything at the moment is unknown… but possible! I can’t say for sure that I won’t return — Paris, after-all, has been one of the greatest teachers of my life and will always hold a piece of my heart. But what I can say is that now, it’s time to go back to the US, be surrounded by those I love the most and who love me the most too, work, find a home, and plant mes pieds sur terre (a new phrase that I learned this week meaning “my feet on the ground”).

Until next week when I will be reporting from America … bisous bisous et à bientôt!

Xxo ac

After a brief moment of horror, I hurriedly made an about face to join the long snake-cue at the check-in desk. Then, I got my ticket and breezed through security like nothing had happened. Everything felt easy! That is, until I took my seat, 13C – where the vibrations I felt weren't from the engine, they were coming from the two tiny tornadoes seated behind me. Sophia, and her cousin, Valentina, (deep in the throes of the terrible twos). I knew their names within minutes — everyone did — thanks to their parent’s volume spike that occurred the moment our pilot asked us to buckle up and those two went… wild. From that point on, their voices remained at full volume for the rest of the flight yelling at their girls to “calmati!”

These two little ones quickly mastered the fine art of tray-table slamming (into the back of my chair, of course), practiced launching their little feet into my seat back with alarming precision, and competed with the in-flight announcements for dominance of the cabin soundscape. If you’re curious – They won.

I considered turning around to deliver the glare, but then remembered a friend’s story of being shamed mid-flight when her baby had a meltdown. So, I opted for compassion — and to save us all, a change of scenery. After a quick chat with the flight attendant, who helped me spot an available seat, rows in front of my current one, I returned to 13C to grab my bags… only to discover a plot twist: the mother had switched seats with Valentina. Thanks be to god, for me. But, eeek! Poor 13A – Valentina was about to give them the ride of their life.

“Benvenuti in Italia!” I guess eh? Where everything in this country is a bit more expressive, a bit more loud and — though we haven’t reached this part yet in En Route  — utterly delicious. Just wait…

The moment I landed, I rushed to hail a cab — as I was suddenly caught holding an umbrella over myself and my tiny suitcase as a downpour soaked the tarmac. The same stormy weather that had chased Simon and me around Corsica several weeks before, had apparently followed me to Naples. This would mark my second rain-drenched vacation this month. Mais, c’est la vie. 

When the cabby let me out at my destination, Casa D’Anna, I was greeted by Alessandra — the owner of this beautiful boutique hotel and the woman I’d been emailing with for the past two years. Simon had given me a two night stay here for my 38th birthday, but for one reason or another, we had to postpone the trip again and again. Finally, I made it. And Alessandra was happy to get her arms around her pen pal. 

Over our email exchange she had booked me in her Ischia Suite. And once I saw the room, I immediately added an additional night to my stay. I already could tell, I wouldn’t want to leave. It was what Italian dreams are made of! The space felt like a mini palace — elegant, eclectic, and lovingly curated. The walls were dressed in paintings and large taxidermy, every surface piled high with books: tables, shelves, even the occasional chair. Oversized candles were tucked into every nook and cranny, casting a warm, lived-in glow. Era perfetto!

I tucked my things into my gorgeous room and did a quick outfit change: from plane-wear (layers, necessary earplugs this time, and clogs) to tourist-wear (shorts, walking shoes, and a good dose of sunscreen). Then I climbed two flights of stairs to the sun deck, where I was greeted with a cappuccino and a homemade mini pastry from the in-house chef. Super! 

I scarfed it down — no shame. I’d been up since 5 a.m., and by now it was almost 1 p.m. with nothing in my stomach. That almost felt sacreligious here. That pastry was my very first bite in Naples, and if it was any indication of what was to come… I was in for a seriously delicious time.

Before the trip, a few friends gave me a heads-up: “You might not love Naples, AC. It’s kind of loud and a little dirty.” They weren’t entirely wrong. On the drive into town, parts of the city really did feel like another world — gritty, chaotic, and at moments, almost like a developing country. Even the street I was staying on, Via del Cristallini, had that stark contrast. Just beyond the iron gates of my chic accommodations was a lively, unruly scene of markets and trash every which way on the street while loud vespas zoomed by honking in, not-so-serious, rage. I was a little nervous to venture out — but what was forecasted to be my only sunny afternoon, now that the rain had stopped, I was ready to explore. So, true to form (did you know I’m a planner? Well, now you do!), I promptly made myself this custom Google Map and set off to soak in as much beauty as I could.

First stop, Duomo di Santa Maria Assunta where I promptly dipped my fingers in the holy water, bowed at the cross, and gave a Hail Mary before I sat to have a moment of awe. In my opinion, if you do anything in Naples (and there is a lot to do!!), do this!!! It was an out of body experience. Next on the list: a stroll down Via San Gregorio Armeno to see what all the Christmas rave was about. And wow! This street felt like the second North Pole, overflowing with ornaments, holly, and enough Santas to keep the elves in business year-round. Every inch sparkled with cheer. From there, I wandered over to Piazza San Domenico Maggiore, then bounced my way into the Complesso Monumentale di Santa Chiara — and honestly, what are we even doing here!? That was the most unbelievably beautiful garden I have ever had the pleasure of stepping in. Grand, serene, and absolutely soaked in history. Go here too! 

I continued on to Piazza del Gesù Nuovo, then made my way to what can only be described as a slice of heaven — Pizzeria Da Attilio. This spot came highly recommended by Rafi, a celebrated NYC chef, and soon-to-be boss of one of my besties, Erica, at Hill Stone in Hudson, New York. He insisted I had to try it, and wow — he was right. I ordered their signature pizza, the Carnevale: an eight-pointed star with creamy local ricotta tucked into each edge. It was delicious and yes. I did nearly polished off the whole thing. And while I ate, I had a show. From my seat, I had a perfect view of the bustling fish market next door, where real drama unfolded — men frantically waving off seagulls that were dive-bombing for the fresh shrimp on display. A few lucky birds actually scored some mid-flight seafood snacks!

To walk off the best meal yet (also, only my first meal)! I made my way over to the stunning Galleria Umberto I — and just in time to catch a “private” concert, shared with about a hundred others, courtesy of the Naval Academy Band. The sound lifted through the domed ceilings like it belonged there. Energy electric! From there, over to Castel Nuovo, followed by a walk through a nearby park that led me to the water’s edge — where Mother Nature decided to put on a full-blown lightning show, complete with thunderous applause and umbrellas on high alert. Just around the corner, I arrived at Castel dell’Ovo and then descended a few tucked-away flights of stairs to reach the port. There, I watched fishermen slowly coming in for the day — called back by the heat lightning storm that danced across the sea. 

Caught in another quick downpour, I ducked into the Royal Palace of Naples, then wandered through Piazza del Plebiscito — soaked, but content. And just when I thought the day couldn’t get better, I made my way up to Mennella Il Gelato for what I’m now calling the best gelato on the planet. And where I may or may not (but 100% did) go every day after that initial scoop.

That night, after a needed shower and another outfit change, I found myself at Pizzeria Concettina ai Tre Santi. A place that I actually found myself twice during my stay — thanks to its dangerously convenient proximity to my hotel (a one-minute stroll, if that). Both times, I ordered the fiori di ricotta, and yet, each visit held a completely different experience.

The first was outdoors, where I sat beside a lively group of four French women on a girls’ trip. They started asking me about my dish, curious and enthusiastic. I lit up as I explained the entire thing to them in French, beaming with pride that they understood me. At the end of the meal, I even walked over and asked, “Est-ce que vous voulez que je prenne une photo de vous?” I’m sure I botched the grammar a bit, but they broke into applause, showering me with “Oui, oui, c’est très gentil!” as they handed me over their cameras. It was such a joyful, human moment — language barriers temporarily dissolved by food, kindness, and posing.

A few nights later, I returned. Same dish, same table nearly — but this time, just before my main course arrived, I got the devastating news that my girl, Goldie Hawn, had been hospitalized. And I spiraled. Not in the beautiful fusilli, gemelli, or cavatappi pasta kind of way — but in the full-blown, leave the restaurant before my main dish was served, run-a-hot-shower so I can belly-sob in a container of running water, hold on to tons of mom guilt for leaving her for these past two years while I reached for my phone in hopes to text her (I’ve always wished I could), sob myself to sleep kind of way. A totally different experience! Still delicious, but not nearly as satisfying.

[And if you’re curious, Goldie is very much being taken care of by my mama and Joe who are simply devastated at her state, and therefore treating her like a queen. Early yesterday, I learned that my mother had prepared a tenderloin with pureed pumpkin and rice just for Goldie Hawn. Precious! Breaks my heart not to have been there from the beginning of her illness, but I'm happy that she is comfortable and eating better than most adults ever will in her final months of life. Please – if you think of it, say a little prayer for her that her kidneys will start to work again and keep her healthy. She is my girl. She’s my parent’s girl at this point too. Our heart. We are all in such sadness.]

The trouble of vacationing if you don’t plan? You will have everything you want to do written down and yet be surprised when you get there that places are… closed. And in Napoli? Note to self, everything is closed on Wednesdays. Everything! So, knowing this, I let myself sleep late on Wednesday morning and was the last one served for breakfast at the hotel which was perfect because I had the entire rooftop all to myself. Then, I took the most leisurely walk up to Palace of Capodimonte where the museum was closed for the day (of course we knew that) – so I went strictly for the Bosco di Capodimonte — the massive garden. And where I came to the conclusion that this was the BEST part of my trip! I walked for days!!! Ok, just two hours! But still! Perfetto!!

Sidebar: Whenever I land somewhere new — or somewhere familiar for that matter — I try to head straight for a park or a big body of water. It’s become a ritual of sorts, a way to ground (pun) myself before diving (another pun) into the pulse of the city. In London, it's usually Hyde Park. In Paris, I’ll make my way to Jardin des Tuileries, Place des Vosges, or Jardin du Luxembourg — depending on her mood. NYC, obviously, Central Park. And when I land in South Carolina? Ummmmm nothing else will do but a barefoot walk on the beach next to the almighty Atlantic Ocean. So, Bosco di Capodimonte was necessary and food (as if I needed more of that this trip) for my soul. 

And thankfully, as the weather does in every sea town, the forecast switched overnight. Greenlight! I had another sunny day on my hands.

Coming down from the massive hill where this beautiful garden sat perched, I wove through a scene that could only be Naples. Vespas zipped past, laying on their horns in full-blown fake fury. I passed several open-air grocery trucks — somehow defying physics as crates of produce stayed miraculously intact, despite the drivers flooring it down narrow streets. And then there were the three priests, dressed in full regalia, passionately guiding a group of followers through what sounded to my ears only like rapid-fire, speed-talking Italian. It was chaotic, a little surreal, and entirely captivating.

When I finally made it down to flatter ground, I found myself near Starita — a spot I'd been told served the best Neapolitan pizza in existence. And let me tell you: they were not wrong. I was honestly surprised, given the sleek, modern interior (and those who know me know I usually go for the more classic, old-world vibe), I thought it wouldn’t be as good as it “used to be.” But, lawd was it! I took a cue from the French couple seated beside me and ordered the Romana. Perfection. Truly, it was everything.

That evening, after what felt like a dozen more laps around the city, I decided to take it easy. Back at the hotel, I cracked open the minibar’s tiny bottle of red wine and headed up to the roof. The chef surprised me with a small dish of local mixed nuts and even brought a candle for the table — such a sweet touch. I settled in with my When in French, a book so uncannily aligned with my own experience that I feel like I could’ve written it myself – and enjoyed the evening under the stars.

Rested and rejuvenated by the next day, I woke up at the crack of dawn, had an epic meditation (another time another place – quite literally), and I had the most filling breakfast. Every single morning, the individual tables were always a dream: a full basket overflowing with three kinds of toast, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two homemade danishes (on this particular morning, chocolate ganache — Excuse me? What are we even doing!? So yummy!). There was also a bright fruit bowl, a mini jar of house-made yogurt, and endless cappuccinos — as many as my heart could handle (which was a solid three each day). Two types of homemade jam, lemon and tomato, sat alongside little ramekins of unsalted butter only. This is absolutely one of my favorite things about Italy. Unsalted butter is a love language there. And then, the “communal table”: a beautiful spread of prosciutto, cheese, and a big bowl of boiled eggs, just waiting for me this day … to help myself. Which I did!!!

So, after my full on dinner for breakfast feast, I set out to ride the funicular up to Vomero for a visit to the Certosa e Museo di San Martino. When I arrived, to my delight, I found the entire place to myself. Not a single tour group in sight. Just me, the echo of my own footsteps, and centuries of art and history. 

WE DON’T WAIT IN LINES — WE START THEM!

Sidebar: Vivian, one of my best friends, happened to pop into Paris the weekend before I flew out. During her trip, she kept joking, “we don’t wait in lines, we start them!” Because everywhere we went, we’d immediately be served an ice cream cone without a wait at Bachir, in Montmartre, the first glasses of wine before we’d even settled in at L'Etna, the last two in before a tour at Gustave Moreau Musée (one of the best things I’ve ever done in Paris!) or snag the only two seats at the bar when we were starving and needed dinner at Bistrot des Tournelles, Cendrillon, and La Cidrerie du Canal — only to see that within minutes after, a line would snake out behind us. It became a running joke. We don’t wait in lines — we start them. And oddly enough, that same magic seemed to follow me through Naples. Every museum, café, or trattoria I went to – the second I walked in, doors opened, tables cleared, and somehow, I stayed one step ahead of the crowd. Greenlights!

During the other times in my trip I had a glass of wine and a panna e ricotta at Gran Caffè Gambrinus where the pastry chef was French (shhhhhh, they think she’s Italian) and adored that I was speaking with her in French – so I applauded my effort and made me feel proud; I sat at a fourtop with four other solo travelers (Ellie, from Belgium, Vivian, from China, and Rita from Italy) to down an entire pie at L’Antica Pizzeria. Yes, this was the spot, where Julia Roberts famously, the day after indulging in her pie here in Eat Pray Love, had to buy a bigger pair of pants. I didn’t have to do that, but it wasn’t such a bad idea!!; And I popped into the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli. Where I’d been curious, but not totally convinced that I needed to go — until I got there and was completely blown away. I couldn’t get over the sheer amount of history packed under one roof.

It always amazes me that we can pay $20… sometimes even just $6 (looking at you, Sansevero Chapel Museum, where I saw the legendary Veiled Christ statue!) — and in return, get access thousands of pieces of priceless art. Truly mind-blowing. What a gift!

Oh! And I got to witness restorationists. Too many to count all in white coats and gloves and super powerful lights. I didn’t take any photos of them; something about it felt intrusive, like I’d be breaking a spell. But it was magical to watch their quiet focus, their care, their almost meditative precision of them gently dusted a single tiny toe of a statue. It made the whole place feel alive, like the art was still breathing, still being tended to with love.

I too made my way down the hill to the Sansevero Chapel Museum — a place I would insist you visit if you ever find yourself in Naples. I did something I almost never do as a traveler: I bought the audio guide. And let me tell you — it was absolutely worth it. To see the Veiled Christ up close and personal. What?!! Masterpiece. This museum ended up being one of the highlights of my entire trip. It’s petite, intimate, unlike anything else, and utterly perfect.

Just a heads-up: you’ll need to reserve tickets in advance, and photography is strictly forbidden. Trust me — you’ll get yelled at if you try, as (head in hands) I did. 

And on my final day, after my massive last breakfast, and then learning that the Botanical Gardens were closed (didn’t plan for that – in this situation, it was seasonal thing so it didn’t say on google maps), I hopped a bus with a ton of local Italians who all felt protective over me to get me where I needed to go – “l'aeroporto.” They knew I didn’t speak Italian and were all involved in my business! When I got off one stop before the airport, there was an uproar! I’m talkin… wild! I tried to explain but it was lost in translation. I wanted to get off there. I wanted to taste the famed sfogliatella from Pasticceria Madonna and that was the stop! This was a local tip from one of my Napoli native friends who I know living in Paris and who said this was the holy grail. He was right!! Best thing I ever did was to make those Italians angry on the bus when I left like a “dumb American” – because ummmm no regrets! That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten!! This would be a MUST on your list.

As compact as Naples is, it still felt like there wasn’t nearly enough time. So, I’ll leave you with a few places that came highly recommended but I didn’t quite make it to. Maybe they'll land on your list:

Underground Naples. The day I tried to go, the line wrapped around the block and was absolutely packed—with what looked like an entire high school field trip. Dozens of teens giggling, flirting, and being generally adorable... which also told me exactly what kind of tour experience I was in for. I bailed.

Dora's – seafood restaurant in Chiaia, a neighborhood I absolutely adored. I didn’t make it there, but it came highly recommended. Chiaia itself is right near the coastline, where I spent most of my so-called “leisure” time (read: brisk walking with purpose). It had just the right mix of elegance and energy—definitely a part of Naples I’d love to explore more deeply next time.

Antonio & Antonio – a perfect spot for a drink, a bite, and some top-tier people-watching I’ve heard, as it’s right along the waterfront. I didn’t make it this time—but it’s firmly saved for the next round.

Trattoria Enoteca Campagnola – Word on the street (and in several DMs) is that their ragù genovese is the best in all the land. I regret missing it—but consider this your nudge to go and report back.

And finally, a Babà – the famous rum-soaked sponge cake that’s basically a Neapolitan rite of passage. But I have to say... I think it’s an acquired taste. It’s not for me. I stuck with my trusty go-to: gelato. No regrets.

Naples was bold, beautiful, gritty, chaotic, and unforgettable. It challenged me, charmed me, and surprised me in ways I didn’t expect. I may not have checked off every spot on my list, but that just means I have a reason to return. All I can say is that the next time — I’m bringing looser pants and someone to share the experience with!

Until next week, baci!!

xxo ac

I can’t believe I’m leaving! And more than that. I can’t believe how stressful this is! I haven’t slept a full night in 12 days. 

I was full of wonder and excitement when I moved over – and now, almost two years later, I am full of sorrow and defeat, and at the same time, clarity and hope. Cue the violin, because I’m sad to say goodbye. But also, someone throw some confetti! Because through the sadness, I’m happy to begin this next chapter, and proud of myself for finally making the impossible decision — to leave.

Judging by the message I received from my dear friend, Blaise, last week, she is definitely more in the gripping the confetti camp than humming along to the main star of a string quartet.

Warning… pardon her very French French!

“AC! I read your En Route dispatch closely and am very, very selfishly THRILLED - FUCKING THRILLED - that you will be State side soon. In the glorious US of A. On behalf of everyone in this nation, we can't wait!” 

So sweet! And at most times lately — I can’t either!

THE GREAT PACK FOR THE GREAT MOVE

Picture me. A scale. A scatter of things – EVERYWHERE. And beaucoup of bags. I now know all too well what I weigh (and thanks to the cadbury mini eggs that Cara smuggled back from the US for me last week my kgs is ummmmmm slightly higher than it typically is). Because each time I zip up a bag, I get on the scale. Memorize my kg number. Get off the scale. Pick up the bag. Get back on the scale holding the bag for another reading. Then, unzip the bag. Take out 2-6 kg of things. Zip back and repeat the cycle until I get them all reading under 22 kg / 50lbs (Delta’s limit). 

My closet is now bare, my walls are naked, my plant, Gertrude, is in another precious home (still on Île Saint Louis — with my dear friend Justine as her mama now), and there are neatly stacked huge black bags all over my living room ready to be shipped.

I’m ready to go! It’s a weird feeling to already be packed and now just be waiting. 

So, when I shared that weird feeling with Miranda this week, she  had a genius idea! “If you want to stay a few more weeks, pretend you're on one of your European vacations until you leave. Create a list of everything you want to do and then — do it!” Proud to say that I marked the first thing off my list two nights ago with her…

1. Beers and carousel rides with my family over here – Miranda, Nico, and their delicious bébé, Margaux.

It was one of the highlights of my week! I will miss them more than I can say. And if I do start to say… I may start with a long boo hoo (again). — I meannnn look at that joy coming out of that baby!! Gawd I will miss her!

At the times I have not been in my head with all the – packing, planning, sorting, organizing, calling Delta, looking up shipping prices, asking my father if I can use his car again when I’m stateside (he said yes with glee of course - I think he is most excited for my return), texting my sister to ensure I have the right to steal her daughter almost instantly when I land for a full on slumber party week, and voice noting my cousins to see if they are free for me to lip lock with a boodle — their daughter/niece, Smith – So again, when I’m not doing all of that – I’ve been spending time with my people here.. starting to say goodbye! 

Here are the highlights:

Lebanese Disco — we had a BALL! Pictures below for proof.

An incroyable La Fête du Muguet weekend — where I genuinely had forgotten it was even a holiday (though, I gave myself grace, because it feels like every week there’s a holiday here in France — including the latest one just three days ago!). Learned to play Kings Cross on the Seine with Justine, Noodle (dog), Eddie, Corrine, and Renée (not pictured). Discovered parts of the city I’d never explored — especially around the canal near Bastille with modern architecture.

Got a crash course in ‘hobby vineyards’ from John (Cara and Kiel’s friend), who happened to arrive from Cali the same day I went to pick up a checked bag they generously gave me for my GREAT MOVE. Met an 80-ish-year-old Larry David doppelgänger, Benjamin, on Pont Louis-Philippe – who gabbed with me for 90-minutes! Was told I’m a great storyteller by Leah’s partner, Hassan — highlight of my life! Walked through Bois de Boulogne with Sara, where she told me, “I had forgotten how much I loved to laugh,” when she was reminiscing about her Easter trip home seeing her best friends in LA — ahhh! I can’t wait for that too – medicine! Missed snagging two tickets to one of Cyril’s final ballet performances (I had to sell my ticket to his final final show in July since I won’t be returning) – but I think the box office will come through for me later today. And ate my final pistachio and chocolate escargot from Du Pain et des Idées boulangerie. I got to meet Ellie for a gab in Jardin du Luxembourg where I learned about two new books that are on order as I type. Had a date with my sweet David Jimenez at our spot on the Island, Le Flore en l'Île, after that abrupt and brutal hail storm several days ago!!

But that’s not all…

I’ve had beers, and wine, on the Seine, and a dinner at Le Petit Célestin, two different nights, with Justine — one of the nights with her boyfriend, Will, where we talked all things art history and the only art people I have any connection to (Julian Schnabel - who, remember, was the first person I ran into and knew over here in Europe? Reference: my first En Route. Willem De Kooning – who made a cameo in this En Route, and Bruce Weber – who I got to know at the same time I met Julian in Montauk) and what exhibits he suggests I go to before I leave the city. His energy was contagious when he talked about: Musée national Gustave Moreau, Carnavalet Museum, and Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature (Miranda told me the last two were a must also before I go)... along with a ton more! I also got my picture taken by a film photographer walking on the seine while I was enjoying my demi bier and book. I must have looked artsy. I walked through Jardin des tuileries for hours. I visited Musée Rodin for my final time – favorite secret garden in all of Paris! Attempted to stop in to Musée de l'Orangerie – yet the line was around the corner for three days in a row!

And that’s still not all…

I finally made it to Maison Toto for the best grilled cheese on the planet with Selden to say farewell to Thomas, her boo, and owner. I attended an art opening for Will, Justine’s beau – where the best part of the night was when an artist stood in a box and listened to a record Will had cut, as part of the exhibit. I have never seen anything like it! And meeting all of their friends in the art world.

Still more…

I had two solo dates with an expecting bébé-nombre-deux Miranda at Cafe Judy and Le Jardin de Verre de Locke. I roamed about Place Vendôme where I spotted a lady with grey braids down to her ankles! I strolled the quai where a couple was taking an evening siesta in the public hammocks over a homeless man who had the same idea (sound asleep on the ground under them). Went to lots of yoga of course. Had my final steam at SoHo – I am officially not a member anymore. Had a bottle of wine with my Margot at her BEAUTIFUL apartment – where I may or may not have (but 100% did) smooch on her baby, Henri, too many times and blew kisses to her boodle Sasha (who is too old to be forced to take my bisous like her boodle brother, who was strapped to his mama and had no chance of escaping me). And finally, I broke the news to my sublet-er, Simona, that I’m leaving by the end of this month. I still think secretly owns this apartment and won’t say it for some reason.

And… in between… I PACKED.

ABOUT LARRY — I MEAN BENJAMIN

After my very long, very hot, very lovely solo dance party walk (blaring the likes of Aretha Franklin) last Friday, the day after the holiday which I learned they call the Pont. Like the bridge day from the holiday to the weekend. I took two scoops of ice cream (salted caramel and thyme with olive oil) from Bältis Artisan Glacier and then made my way over to Pont Louis Phillippe, where I took a seat to read through this En Route. I was searching for the bar and mixologist’s name that I had written about almost a full year ago. (En route has become my search engine, if you will).

As I mentioned, Cara had her and her husband’s friend, John, in town for a few nights and they wanted to show him a good time. Earlier in the week while on our walk (oh!! I did that too! I had a sweet 2 hour long coffee date with her at the Canal after our coffees at I/O Café. When we passed Maison Proust Bar, I told her about how Colin, the famous mixologist from Hemingway Bar, was brought in every Friday night to make cocktails there. So, this is where she wanted to take their friend. While I found the place almost instantly in my dispatch and sent it to her… I got intrigued so I kept reading about where I had been almost exactly a year ago to the day. Wild how much has changed.

As I was deep in my words, I got interrupted by Benjamin – my new (80 ish year old) friend and confidant. And Larry David lookalike. He was walking on the bridge and in awe of its beauty, so asked if I would take a picture of him. It was so sweet! After I took his photo and handed his phone back, he pointed to the bench I had been sitting on and said “hurry” … there were people eyeing it. I told him thank you but I was about to leave anyway. That's when the clock started. Some 90 mins after that moment we stopped gabbing. No joke. It was such a great meet cute (as they call it in the movie biz). 

He sounded like a jewish New Yorker and looked like one too (slinder, glasses, curly grey hair and sporting all black) — Which was very familiar to me. Just having an easy flowing laugh / conversation with someone who is old enough to be my grandparent, it made me excited to return to a place where I will have no trouble having moments like these all the time. Speaking to strangers and learning about…  I don't know… anything they want to share! Because I’ll understand them! And they’ll understand moi!

In Benjamin’s case, I learned that he had spent his whole life enjoying traveling and living all over the word – not caring one bit about becoming rich. And yet, at his age, he told me - with a laugh - he was possibly rethinking that choice. Especially given that his friends have all just sold their companies for upwards of $30 million each. He was kidding of course about wanting to trade in his wanderlusting for their bank accounts. But he’s not wrong! That would be pretty good, as his lookalike, Larry would say. “They get to stay at the Ritz while I crash in my $200 a night airbnb.” I also learned later, because he LinkedIn friended me, that he must have been being modest. He’s a pretty big deal at Amazon – so not exactly NOT rich. Ha!

Before I left him he said the kindest compliment to me - “Talking with you, AC, was the highlight of my trip. Thank you for being so open with me and curious.” I thought, moi aussi, Benjamin. It was a pleasure!

THREADS OF FRANCE

This past week when I took my 75th bag of recycling out – it’s amazing the trash you accumulate when you are moving, am I right?! – I noticed that my jar of olives from the organic grocer on the island was labeled Picholine. Made my heart swell. That was the name of my last bike in NYC. I named her that because the bike before her was named Olive (given her color) – 1970 olive green Raleigh. It was her almost identical replica. Olive had gotten hit on the street by a car while I was on a trip to Chicago circa 2015ish. Devastated to return to her broken frame, I texted all of my friends with the news in hopes for support. Instead, I got even more! My dear friend who knew how much I loved my bike, gave me her never ridden almost brand-new vintage (we call that deadstock ;)) bike that looked like Olive’s older sister. She was 10 years her senior – a 1960s olive green Raleigh. So, I named her Picholine – a type of small green Olive originally from the south of France – to keep the name in the family if you will. Isn’t that wild? This isn’t my only kind of story like that. French threads have woven in and out of my life story since I was born. Full circle though, I feel, now that I may end back up in NYC.

Speaking of bikes though. This week I also sent my friends a spreadsheet of everything that I have and that MUST GO in the hopes to A. offset some of these shipping costs by selling everything I’ve bought - for a steal. And B. give my friends an opportunity to keep parts of me in their homes when I am gone. (That part B was written with no vanity… at all!) And, the MOST difficult item to write down? That was of course, my James Chocolatine! I love her so much and can only hope that whoever gets her (already had 3 inquiries) will ride her as often as I do. I plan to also go ask stores if they want to buy her from me. Stay tuned. She will be so hard to let go of.

MISSING MY TREEHOUSE ALREADY

There are so many things I will miss about this city. That deserves it’s own En Route – so stand by. But these two weeks, since I’ve spent a great deal of time in my apartment packing and preparing, I’ve realized that there are so many things I will miss about her!

I will miss how I have to hike to the very top of my historical building to reach her front door. I’ll miss walking into her (tiny, but charming) foyer, that's lined with cupboards that used to be stocked with dried goods and cleaning supplies. I’ll miss opening the glass door into the open living space, where the fireplace greets me alongside those warm terracotta colored tiles. I’ll miss her spiral staircase that leads to the second floor – that second floor, I’ll miss too. The wooden beams that have held this place up for centuries and the history behind her structure. I’ll even miss ducking to get into my hobbit sized bathroom, and the tiny shower tucked right next to the toilet. I will miss my ritual of opening up all the windows slightly every night in order to create a breeze… and by doing so, letting all the sounds of Paris seep in while I sleep. I will miss waking up to the sound of church bells most mornings. I’ll miss her light — the way it pours into this top-floor courtyard-facing apartment, even on the cloudiest of days. I will miss secretly spying on my new neighbors who have just bought the top floor apartment across the way and who have started a coffee ritual of drinking them under their tasseled umbrellas that are placed beside their ten new lemon trees on their sprawling terrace. I’ll miss my coffee ritual of: boiling water in my one pot to pour over my French press, then heating my milk in the same pot before pouring it into one of my mugs (now packed away). I’ll miss the tapestry I hung over the refrigerator to hide its dull exterior. I’ll miss the birdsongs that float in all day long. I’ll miss her so much!

I always knew she was temporary — but what a haven she became back in August when it felt like my sky was falling here. She brought me back to life and I loved her so much while I made her my home.

Now… what I won't miss in this precious apartment of mine is… well, the loud door below me that makes my skin crawl when they open it. The way my neighbor’s running-smell (you know the one) wafts through the hallway in the mornings. How stark white the walls are or that all the walls are cracking severely and need attention. The loud banging noise that my water heater throws off nightly. The way I have to duck to get into my bathroom. The way I have to shower right beside my toilet. (I know I said I’ll miss those, but nah. Full on, nah!). I won’t miss that I only have one pot (I know that’s something that I could have more of. But did I mention? I knew on a soul level she would be temporary. No need.) and that my kitchen isn’t bigger than a minute. I won’t miss that I don’t have an oven!!! And I won’t miss knowing that she isn’t my permanent home. 

I’m not quite sure where “home” is yet, but I know it’s coming. I’ve had a few very flowy things happen this week that let me know it’s on its way! Tiny god winks. Stay tuned. Not ready to share yet.

And while we’re on the topic of things I won’t miss. One hit me hard this past week: I won’t miss how insecure this country has made me feel — and how often. It’s been brutal more than I thought it ever would have been. (I thought hard about whether I needed to add this bit in. But honestly, it solidified my decision. So I think it’s necessary to document.)

This week in yoga, near the end of class, as we laid on our backs. Out of eyesight from my teacher I drifted into my thoughts and stopped listening to him. Instead, I started planning, thinking about all the logistics, the flights I needed to book, the packing … hummmmmm all the reasons that I’m not sleeping at all recently (us yogis refer to this “monkey mind”). I didn’t even hear him calling my name. The teacher stopped the class, looked directly at me - lost in my stress - and asked if I spoke French. Evidently I had missed the cue to “extend the legs” for the final pose. I responded with, “Un peu. J'apprends encore le français.” The room fell silent. I was humiliated.

From then on, he addressed only me in English. I know he meant to be kind, but I was mortified. And honestly, I’m sick of always giving people who do this the benefit of the doubt. I had posed for him even — as a model for the class! So I UNDERSTAND YOU I JUST WASN’T LISTENING I wanted to scream!

Sometimes, I want some compassion too. I want them to stop doing that! I want them to appreciate that I’m trying my hardest and that their spotlight on me by switching to English actually isn’t kind. It’s hurtful and embarrassing and makes me want to leave this country faster with every situation like this! Which I know I have already decided to do.. But it intensifies it. And it makes me want to leave because I’m upset, not for the hopeful reasons I have chosen to leave for. Hot tears streamed down my face during savasana that day. Thankfully, hidden from other’s eyes since we were supposed to have them closed – I could let them pour out. 

This is not how I imagined living abroad would feel. Call that naivety, but I didn’t. I thought I would have been met by people who wanted me to learn, who would practice with me and encourage my efforts. I didn’t expect to feel so small, so often. I’ve never experienced insecurity this intensely, or this consistently, before in my life. It’s like I never get a break from it over here. Even on days that I’m in flow and feeling good at my language – inevitably a French person is going to look at me strangely when I speak, call me out for saying 15 instead of 30, is going to immediately start speaking English, or something else to make me feel about an inch tall. Truthfully? I don’t think it’s good for the soul to have this kind of defeat so often. I actually think it’s pretty damaging. Hence me packing my bags. I have loved my experience, I have grown from my experience, and I’m not cut out to live a life where I feel like this so often.

Lucky me, I’ve got my English speaking friend – Vivian, who won’t call me out, rather, she will applaud my efforts when I order for us – coming to visit me for this long weekend. She lands any minute now. And then on Tuesday, I’ll be hopping on a plane to Italy — where I fully intend to swap the embarrassment of not speaking the language for the far more delicious embarrassment of eating all the pizza and pasta.

Until next week. Here’s a photo that Benjamin took of me on my Île.

Xxo ac

Last week, as Simon drove (at graciously a glacial speed, given his passenger (c’est moi) was full on head-out-the-window, fully convinced that the next hairpin mountain turn might render her a new and unfortunate shade of green), he’d spot a curve up ahead, squint to see if any cars were on-coming, and if the coast was clear, he’d light up and announce, “Couper le virage!” Then, just like that, he'd skip the curve entirely (which made me very happy), steering straight through instead. His mother had taught him this phrase when he was young and learning how to drive in the Mountains of her hometown. It means to cut the curve so as to go straight.

I found it fitting for this week’s EN ROUTE title, since I have decided to couper le virage ici à Paris and head straight back to my home country, America. At least for a while.

This hasn’t been an easy decision — one I’ve turned over in my mind at least a trillion times in the past four months since being back in France after my wonderful month long visit home over Christmas. But the truth is, I’m homesick. I miss hearing my mama not say “good morning” at the start of our daily 2pm Paris Time calls — which, for me, is already the middle of the afternoon, not our joint morning. I want to be in the same time zone. I want to laugh in my own language, see familiar faces, feel supported, build community, and have days where I don’t need to rehearse sentences before stepping outside, just to avoid feeling misplaced for saying... well, any words.

That’s not to say that this experience hasn’t brought me immense joy and deep gratitude more times than I can count. Living everyday life in another country has been a true gift — one that’s changed me to my core. It’s definitely not for the faint of heart, and I’m proud of myself for doing it. It’s just — I’m in need of a reset.

With my lease ending, memberships expiring, work conveniently hitting pause for a few months in the coming weeks, and the visa still sitting in limbo, it feels like the right time to step back. To take the pause that has been calling my name throughout nearly every sleepless night lately.

With this decision, I have had the impossible responsibility of breaking it to those who I love the most here à Paris – that I will be leaving them and this gorgeous city at the end of May and returning to the USA, possibly for good. The news has been met, and delivered, with a virage of emotions: sadness and joy.

Before I go, I am…

A. Writing a Paris Bucket List, and then, doing it all! (It’s in the works and I’m welcoming any and all suggestions.)

B. Staying over in Europe until the very end and make several mini trips to other countries before I hail the Delta flight back to the US. (As without this visa that has been the bane of my existence, and part of the reason I am so ready to go, I don’t know when I’ll be allowed to travel back to this continent after I leave it.)

C. To see all the people who I have fallen in love with here as often as possible and at all of our favorite spots.

D. To repeat the same action that got me here in the first place – having a “stoop sale” – open to all of my friends with all of my things that I’ve accumulated over here that don’t need to return with me. (I’m already feeling a virage of emotions about this part – sad to let some things go and yet happy that I (my things) will be able to “stay” in my friend’s homes over here when I’m gone.)

E. Figure out how in the world I will ship all the rest of my things back. (Challenging and $$$, but not impossible. I just need to eat the frog (stop procrastinating) and figure it out.)

So there. Now you know.

CORSICA

Corsica, Corsica, Corsica! What a beautiful paradise!

I took the train from Paris to meet Simon in Marseille the evening before we were to spend 4 full nights and days on the island of Corsica – for an overnight ferry boat ride. We had a ball! He was coming off of one of his sailing training weekends in Cannes for his upcoming cross-ocean-voyage and looking like a fisherman – showerless, smiling ear to ear, and wearing his wellies all the way up to his knees. 

We loaded onto the boat and into our cabin. When we heard the air horn blow – signaling that we were pulling away from the port – he hurried me outside. As the boat moved south, we ran north on the deck. That was my favorite memory of the trip. People were staring as these two grown adults were in hysterics running in place (it looked like) as Simon kept his left arm extended, pointing to the mainland, so as to keep our eyes fixed on one place, and yet speeding past people who were standing still to admire the coastline from the deck. At some point our stride took us to the back of the boat, where we made our way to the other side and admired the vast Mediterranean sea. I have never been on a cruise before – so this view, for me, of wide open ocean was absolutely breathtaking. We ended up staying outside most of the evening and getting completely whipped around by (felt like) hurricane-force winds that, unbeknownst to either of us, would trail us all the way to the island — and stay with us until the night before we were due to head back to Paris.