My general mood: light pink, soft pastels. I'm yearning for peace as we transition from summer into fall.

1. I chose this particular image because it captures my summer so well. Unpretentious, delightful, peaceful, smiley, and, well, memorable. It started in full swing in June with the World Cup and ran all the way to July 19th — and if I wasn't watching Brazil play in the stadium itself, I was surrounded by some other international community cheering them on. It stretched so long, and it was so beautiful. After July 19th, we hopped onto our classic three-week European bender. It was never a party-centered summer, but it did have a recurring rhythm: where June and July (up to the 19th) were pure excitement, July 20th onward was ultimate peace, a proper exhale. From our chill days in Paris to our lovely time in Copenhagen, our beautifully sunny stretch in Lisbon, our peaceful beach days in Comporta — time passed with an ease that felt almost unrecognizable. I looked at the calendar and watched summer slipping away, but with a heart full of delightful, delicious memories I cannot wait to cultivate, carry, cherish, and, well, return to the daily groove, feeling genuinely inspired. Summer 2026 was really that girl.

2. Fun hair accessories are something I started working into my hair-dos this summer. I normally wear my hair down, but the heat, more often than not, simply wouldn't allow it. A bun can only do so much — a hair accessory, though, adds immense flair to literally anything!!! All summer I wore pieces from my friend Marta's brand, Mosquito, and got some fabulous compliments in Copenhagen for this one in particular. I also recommend this shell piece — if you're someone perpetually chasing summer, it's a genuinely year-round kind of buy. Anyway: let's spice things up in the hair department!!!

3. It's a makeup and beauty brand's job to make its products and messaging desirable — especially now, when we're inundated with options that all seem to offer the same thing. I'm an overly visual person, but before I buy into a beauty brand, I look at the person behind it first: do they have a good vibe? And are they an actual professional makeup artist I can trust to be selling me this, or just a larper from a tech company pretending they know the first thing about beauty? Do they have real know-how? Then, and only then, I move on to the visuals. And on that front, Mary Phillips has exceeded every expectation I had. Beyond the fact that she's a genuine makeup artist whose technique I'd already used myself, it felt only natural that her gradual influence would grow into a brand — and rightfully so. She earned it. Her visuals are amazing, the makeup is sexy, sleek, and well-priced, and dare I say… she and Hailey Bieber have my favorite lineups (Victoria Beckham too), and they all share the same formula: good products, good visuals, product flying off the shelves. Personas who aren't larping and genuinely believe in what they've made. You will not catch me buying from tech companies playing pretend in the beauty space. I've used the M.Ph palette twice, all the way through, with repeat purchases — and I also picked up this foundation, which is absolute perfection, after being influenced by the lovely Phia from !!!

4. Being from the middle of the Amazon and hating reptiles is something of a canon event, but from a safe distance, nature has this beautiful, poetic way of reminding us it's a person's greatest source of inspiration in the endless quest for beauty. I catch myself fearful of a reptile and amazed at its color combination all at once :)

5. I saw the Hilma af Klint exhibit at the Grand Palais in late July. I chose this particular painting, The Swan, No. 24, even though I didn't actually see it in the exhibit, because I love it so much. This woman has provided the Spotify cover images for practically every one of my playlists — imagine saying that sentence to her face, lol. Jokes aside: I've always loved birds in general, and when I first encountered the swan motif in her work, I was instantly fascinated by the duality running through it — beauty and fall from grace, freedom and separation, fight and unity, love. It's all very rooted in Hilma af Klint's symbolism: that no matter how much conflict there is, unity always wins out. Polarity, transformation, and so on — which happens to be the exact theme of my own life as I transition into fall. I confess I've always loved the Swan series more than her others — partly because I simply love swans, and partly, I think, for the same reason the reptiles pull at me: I'm forever drawn to gorgeous, mercurial creatures I'd rather love from a distance. And then, on a much sillier and simpler level: they're beautiful, and they make me happy.

1. I don’t love anything that is remotely conventional. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the basics in life — a good white T-shirt, a simple pair of black loafers, a minimalist feel. What I mean is that I’m always on the lookout for the intricate and unique aspects of life. I’ve always had a rough time planning my birthday ever since I moved to the US ten years ago, especially when it comes to finding decor that actually feels deserving of the occasion and worth my time and attention. I always ended up with some half-assed idea because no one really seemed to get the vision of what I wanted. Then I came across this gorgeous cake by Valeria Gómez, a New York-based baker who goes by @cooking.srta on Instagram, and safe to say, I found EXACTLY what I’ve been looking for all this time? I’m sorry… but CHEETAH PRINT… ON A CAKE??? Sign me tf up!!

2. If you couldn’t tell that I love whimsical things, this collection of pitchers and glasses should give you a very clear idea! Our parents have always been obsessed with Murano pieces, so ofc sooner or later I would find it in me to appreciate them as well. (It only took me 24 years to get there tho lmao.) Naturally, I immediately fell in love with these chic, colorful, fun and design-forward Murano pieces from Laguna B in collaboration with Dusen Dusen. I need them in our apartment ASAP because these pitchers could make the most fun vases ever!!

3. Safe to say that Celine has always been that girl! Whether during Phoebe Philo’s time or Hedi Slimane’s era, we’ve always cherished Celine like the cool cousin that not a lot of people understand. And then, once they get cool enough for everyone else, the herd mentality kicks in and suddenly everyone is like, “Oh my gosh, I’m such a fan!” when, in fact, everyone is larping! Anyway, I just wanted to highlight their beautiful new campaign because my comms design brain kicked in immediately and was like, “Oh hell yeah!!!” It’s so tough these days to find campaigns that can work visually with typography while still balancing a strong creative idea. Kudos to the team at Celine and Michael Rider!!

4. My goal this year was to visit as many “underrated” art-adjacent places as I could — by which I mean more artists’ ateliers, houses, and concrete projects. One that remains firmly at the top of my list is Oscar Niemeyer’s Casa das Canoas in Rio. It’s such a beautiful and serene space that it feels like a glimpse into what a dream life in Brazil could look like in some kind of utopia. That’s really what it is: a beautiful dream. While I’m not the biggest fan of traveling to Rio, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that if I really want to visit this house, I will, in fact, need to go to Rio and temporarily put my soft hatred of the city to the side!

5. Loving needlepoint work lately? I came across Kristin Mallison’s incredible pieces and, safe to say, I need a skirt like this! Such beautiful and intriguing work. It’s something that is totally not my style, but at the same time, there’s something so whimsical, funky and unique about it that somehow makes it completely my style? Like, I can totally picture myself styling this to fit into my personal wardrobe!

I don’t know if it’s the bicycles, the fact that everyone seems to be impossibly well dressed without looking like they’ve tried, the abundance of good food, or simply the general Danish commitment to making life look pleasant, but something about Copenhagen lowers my cortisol almost immediately. By day three, “low cortisol” had become the official vocabulary of the trip. Sitting in the park? Low cortisol. Taking the train to Louisiana? Low cortisol. Drinking wine on a boat through the canals? Extremely low cortisol. Finding Guaraná at a random café? Peak happiness. Very low cortisol.

This was my second time in Copenhagen, and this time I arrived with a small list of things I hadn’t managed to do before, a much longer list of places I wanted to eat, and absolutely no intention of being particularly disciplined about either. We stayed at Bella Grande, wandered through neighborhoods I hadn’t properly explored before, ate an unreasonable amount of food, shopped significantly more than necessary, visited Louisiana, broke a martini glass outside Bird, and somehow ended up meeting a half-Brazilian chef after a night of burgers at Gasoline Grill. In other words: a very successful trip!

I could give you a chronological account of everything we did, but I think Copenhagen deserves something else. The best part of the trip wasn’t really any one restaurant, museum, outfit, or bar. It was the feeling of having nowhere particularly urgent to be, being surrounded by beautiful things, and realizing that I hadn’t once thought, “this is annoying.” For once, my cortisol was on vacation too.

THE OUTFITS

I wish I had a photo of my first outfit, but unfortunately I was wearing it in the airport, so you’re just going to have to take my word for it. It was quite literally what I traveled in: jeans, a Dale Zine merch T-shirt, my green Max Studio light jacket that has somehow become my designated travel jacket, Bottega sneakers and my purple Balenciaga City Bag.

We landed and went straight to breakfast to meet our friends Ben, Alex and Mayra. We were supposed to go to Atelier September, but the 10 a.m. line was already long enough to make us reconsider every decision that had led us there, so we crossed the street to Apotek 57 instead for a well-deserved BMO.

And here’s the thing: for perhaps the first time ever, I didn’t feel weird about my airport outfit. Normally, I somehow feel like the second I land somewhere, I have already arrived dressed incorrectly. But in Copenhagen, I felt completely fine. Maybe it was the city. Maybe it was the lack of schedule. Maybe it was the fact that everyone seemed to understand the beauty of putting on a good pair of jeans and calling it a day. Or maybe Copenhagen was already beginning its low-cortisol magic.

The real outfit dilemma came later that night. My first dinner look was probably one of my favorites from this part of the trip, mostly because it was my attempt at embodying the version of myself I am constantly trying to achieve: “Scandi-adjacent” Hanna. Minimal, effortless, slightly undone, like I had thrown everything on without thinking about it and somehow looked fantastic.

I love Scandinavian style for precisely this reason. There is an ease to it that I desperately want to replicate. The problem is that I am Brazilian, and apparently my personality refuses to cooperate with minimalism. I can wear the same kind of clothes, but somehow they never look quite as effortless on me. There is always something — a color, a silhouette, an accessory, a little bit of drama — that gives me away.

And then, on our last dinner before our friends left Copenhagen, I went in the completely opposite direction. If the first dinner was “Scandi” Hanna, this was Brazilian Hanna. Loud, colorful, maximalist, a little crazy, and very much not interested in looking effortless. It was the version of me that probably makes the most sense when I tell people I am interested in fashion. And, honestly, I loved her just as much.

Maybe that’s what I like most about getting dressed when I travel: you get to try on different versions of yourself without having to commit to any of them. Copenhagen simply gave me a very pretty backdrop for both!

EATING MY WAY THROUGH CPH

If there is one thing I have learned from traveling with my friends, it is that we take eating very seriously. Copenhagen was no exception. I had a list of restaurants before we even landed and somehow still managed to discover some of my favorite meals by complete accident. Olise was one of the new places I was most excited about, and it absolutely delivered. Incredible food, incredible service, and immediately one of those restaurants you want to tell everyone about while simultaneously hoping they don’t become too popular. But Osteria 16 was probably the top contender this time around. There is something about going back to a place you already love and realizing it somehow got even better. It was one of those dinners where nobody at the table needed to say much afterwards because we all knew we’d had a very good meal.

Then there was Bobe, which completely surprised me. It is located in an area that could very easily become a tourist-trap situation, which usually makes me skeptical, but they actually deliver. It reminded me that sometimes the places you expect the least from end up being the ones you remember.

And then, completely by chance, we found Falernum. This was supposed to be a quick stop for lunch. Instead, we had what might have been the best oysters I’ve ever eaten???? Oysters with wasabi that genuinely sent me into an out-of-body experience!!!! We followed them with a charcuterie board curated to perfection and a few vegetable-heavy small plates that were so fresh and well balanced that I briefly considered becoming the kind of person who eats vegetables on purpose. This is perhaps the highest compliment I can give a restaurant: we didn’t plan on going there, and it ended up being one of the meals I was still talking about afterwards. I am, in fact, still thinking about those oysters almost a month later!

Not every meal can be a revelation, of course. Bar Amore was, unfortunately, our reminder that sometimes the places everyone tells you that you have to go to are exactly the places you should have skipped. The food wasn’t necessarily bad, but the portions were so small that we started calling them Ozempic portions, which I think tells you everything you need to know lol. And, as a group, we have officially decided that the more hyped-up a place is, the more likely we are to leave slightly disappointed. Not to be shady or anything, but if you’re having dinner next to Matilda Djerf, perhaps that should have been our first warning!

The real winner of the trip, though, was Bird. Everything about it was fantastic. The service was incredible — we basically became friends with the waiter looking after us — and the drinks were some of the most thoughtful cocktails I’ve ever had. The combinations sounded completely bizarre on paper and then somehow made perfect sense once you tasted them. Every drink felt intentional, like someone had spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about exactly why those ingredients belonged together.

I ordered the Bayside Martini, which was my favorite, followed by a Penicillin and a Dirty Highball. Three drinks at one bar is already unusual for me, but I liked it so much that I went back on our last night for a farewell drink and somehow had another two. For a bar to get me to return twice in the same trip is basically a Michelin star in my personal ranking system.

And, of course, there was everything in between: Juno, Gasoline Grill, Apollo Bar, Pompette, Lido, Orsa, Delphine, Atelier September, Lille Bakery, Apotek 57, The Roe Bar and Dallas. We just kept following whatever sounded good at the moment. Which, honestly, might be the best way to eat in Copenhagen. No schedule. No spreadsheets. Just good food, good company, and the occasional extremely tiny portion. Hehe.

THE SHOPPING PROBLEM

The problem with Copenhagen is that it is extremely difficult to be a person with self-control there. I had no intention of doing any serious shopping on this trip. This is a lie, obviously, but it sounded good in theory (lmao). Copenhagen is just too good at catering to every single one of my very specific interests: Danish fashion, vintage, home objects, beauty, magazines, weird little accessories, and anything that can be described as “very cool but I don’t technically need it.”

Pico was an immediate problem. I went in for hair accessories and left with hairbrushes and hair clips, which I realize sounds like a very boring purchase until you see the hair accessories at Pico. Suddenly, hair maintenance becomes a lifestyle!!

Helle Mardahl was another dangerous stop, especially for anyone who, like me, believes that home decor should be allowed to have a personality. Her whimsical pieces feel like they belong in a house where everyone is having a very good time. I wanted approximately everything. (Last time I did some damage and managed to bring back 2 vases to NY with me hehehe very much worth it!!)

For Danish fashion, Baum und Pferdgarten was a major highlight. I left with a shirt and skirt that I absolutely did not need and absolutely do not regret. Skall was another favorite for those beautifully flowy pieces that make you look like you should be spending the afternoon somewhere in the countryside, even if you’re actually just walking around Copenhagen looking for lunch.

Stoy, Goods and Palmes Tennis all delivered their own version of that very particular Copenhagen cool — minimal, understated, slightly sporty, and very good-looking. Distance became an entirely separate category of problem because apparently I needed Copenhagen running-shop merch? Thanks Alex for the tip! I also bought matcha from Sing Tehus, an embroidered T-shirt from Caro Editions, a linen dress from By Malene Birger, blue bermuda shorts from Arket, and, in what was probably my favorite purchase of the entire trip, a pair of stunning white taffeta pants from my favorite vintage shop!

Ganni, of course, required no explanation. Neither did New Mags, which is essentially a playground for anyone who likes creative books, magazines, and beautiful things to leave lying around the house. I Love Beauty took care of the beauty-essentials portion of the trip, because even on vacation I apparently have errands.

By the end of it all, I had accumulated enough Copenhagen purchases to make the phrase “I wasn’t really shopping” completely indefensible. But that’s the thing about Copenhagen: the shopping never feels particularly aggressive. Nothing is screaming at you to buy something. You just walk into a store, see something beautiful, think “oh, that’s nice”, and 20 minutes later you’re walking down the street carrying a bag. Very carefree. Very tasteful. Financially, however, I cannot confirm the same!

ART, DESIGN & OTHER LOW-CORTISOL ACTIVITIES

One of the reasons I love Copenhagen is that even doing something as simple as going to a museum feels like a low-cortisol activity. On my first trip to Copenhagen, I somehow managed to miss a visit to the Louisiana Museum, which felt almost irresponsible considering how often it comes up whenever people talk about the city’s art and design scene. So this time around, it was at the top of the list.

And it was absolutely worth the trip. The museum itself is one of those places where the building, the collection and the landscape all feel like they’re having a conversation with each other. You can spend time looking at the art and then suddenly find yourself staring out at the water, walking through the sculpture garden or simply sitting somewhere with no particular urgency to move on. Which, I think, was very much the theme of this trip <3

On our last day, I also made it to Copenhagen Contemporary to see the James Turrell installation, which felt like a completely different experience. Turrell’s work has this ability to make you question what you’re actually looking at — light becomes architecture, space becomes part of the artwork, and suddenly you’re thinking about something as basic as color in a completely different way. This was probably where my art-school brain got very happy.

But honestly, some of my favorite cultural experiences in Copenhagen had nothing to do with museums. Taking the train out to Louisiana was part of the fun. Renting a boat and driving ourselves through the canals with wine was even better. Sitting around Kastellet in the park with our friends, doing absolutely nothing, was probably the most Copenhagen activity imaginable. There was no schedule. No “we have to be here by 3:15 because we have a reservation at 4 and then a museum at 5 and drinks at 7”. We were just...there. And that became one of my favorite things about the trip.

Maybe this is why Copenhagen feels so tasteful to me: there is an appreciation for beautiful things without the constant feeling that you need to consume them. You can go to one of the best museums in the country, or you can sit in a park drinking something with your friends, and somehow both feel equally valid.

THE PEOPLE & OTHER VERY IMPORTANT EVENTS

One of the best things about traveling with friends is that, eventually, the itinerary becomes completely irrelevant. You can plan restaurants and museums and shopping lists all you want, but the things you actually remember are usually much smaller: a random conversation, something you ate standing on the street, a drink you didn’t plan on ordering, a completely unnecessary purchase, or the moment someone says something so funny that it becomes the joke of the entire trip. Copenhagen gave us plenty.

For starters, there was the street hot dog situation with Alex and Mayra. There is something about eating a hot dog on the street in Copenhagen that feels like a requirement, so obviously we did it. No notes. Then there was the discovery of Guaraná at a random café. For the non-Brazilians reading this: finding Guaraná while traveling is not simply finding a beverage. It is an emotional event. I saw it, recognized it immediately, and experienced the kind of happiness usually reserved for much more important things. Brazil had found me in Copenhagen.

Bird, of course, deserves another mention — not just because of the drinks, but because of the people. We basically befriended our waiter, which made the whole experience feel less like going to a cocktail bar and more like being invited somewhere. Apparently this was enough to convince me that I needed to return on our final night for one last drink.

That night also gave me one of my favorite accidental moments of the trip: I broke a martini glass outside the bar. I immediately apologized, because obviously I did, and the waiter simply told me not to worry because it was an average occurrence. An average occurrence. I don’t know if that made me feel better or significantly worse (?), but it was very Copenhagen of her to say it laughing.

Then there was Gasoline Grill. We ended up there after drinks at Bird, and somehow met the chef from the restaurant we had eaten at the night before. After talking for a bit, we discovered that he was half-Brazilian (!!) and had worked at several restaurants in New York that we already loved. Of course he had. At this point, Copenhagen was beginning to feel less like a city and more like a series of increasingly specific coincidences designed specifically for us.

There was also the coolest Danish dad I’ve ever encountered. He was outside Bird smoking a cigarette with his wife, who looked absolutely nothing like what I have apparently decided a 41-year-old Danish dad should look like? He was effortlessly cool, smoking his cigarettes and looking like he had walked out of a very specific Scandinavian menswear campaign, and at some point he told us that the godfather of one of his children had introduced him to the brand of cigarettes he was smoking. I don’t know why this interaction has stayed with me, but it has. Maybe because it was the most Copenhagen person I could have possibly met?

Somewhere between the restaurants, the museums, the boat, the shopping, the parks and the extremely specific conversations we somehow managed to have, we also coined the phrase “low cortisol” as the official jargon of the trip. At first it was a joke. Then everything became low cortisol.

A walk through Østerbro? Low cortisol. Kastellet? Low cortisol. Wine on a boat? Extremely low cortisol. Finding Guaraná? Medically significant cortisol reduction. No plans? The lowest cortisol imaginable. And, honestly, I think that was the real luxury of the trip. Not the hotel. Not the restaurants. Not the shopping. Not even the museums. It was having nowhere we urgently needed to be. It was waking up and deciding what sounded good that day. It was wandering around with friends, finding places by accident, sitting in parks, drinking wine, taking trains, eating hot dogs, talking to strangers, and somehow never feeling like we were running out of time. Copenhagen made everything feel easy. And maybe that is why I left feeling like I had actually rested — which, for me, is saying a lot.

LOW CORTISOL, ALWAYS

Looking back at the outfits from this trip, I think I ended up somewhere between the two versions of myself I am always trying to reconcile. There was “trying-to-be-Scandi” Hanna: minimal, effortless, slightly understated, convinced that if I just wore the right clothes I could somehow achieve that very specific Copenhagen cool I admire so much. And then there was Brazilian Hanna: colorful, maximalist, a little loud, completely unwilling to leave the house without adding something. Copenhagen somehow made room for both.

Maybe that’s what I loved most about being there this time around. I wasn’t trying particularly hard to be anything. I wasn’t following a schedule, rushing from one reservation to the next, or worrying about whether I was doing Copenhagen “correctly.” I was just there, with my friends, wearing clothes I liked, eating things I wanted to eat, going wherever the day took us.

Carefree. Straightforward. Tasteful. And, apparently, extremely low cortisol!

I don’t know exactly what it is about Copenhagen that makes everything feel so easy, but I would like to bottle it, bring it home, and ideally never experience a stressful thought again!

Until next time, CPH! <3

It's something I still hear all the time, as if I were committing a crime.

Here’s my confession: I don’t have a clean answer. The point was never novelty. The point is that I love it there. But not only in the consumerist sense — I don’t love Paris just for the shopping and the restaurants. I love it for what it represents beyond what most people see. It’s the place where my childhood ended, and my adulthood began. The place where I learned to rummage around alone and be entirely comfortable in that feeling. It’s home and birthplace to people I no longer call friends but now call family. It’s a place I can land in — any neighborhood, a friend’s house or a hotel, doesn’t matter — and instantly know where to go. It’s the place that, weirdly, embraced me at my weirdest phase and quietly shaped who I am today.

There’s a version of me that exists only in Paris — my persona there is type A, but… not really, not when I’m there. She wakes at an unrushed hour, she never once checks Slack, she believes wholeheartedly that a chèvre chaud salad can heal her, she drinks three whole-milk cappuccinos in a day and never feels sick. Every summer I go looking for her, and every summer she’s exactly where I left her. I packed this trip thinking of her — this freer version of myself — and freedom, in my language, has a very specific ratio. One-third of the suitcase was pre-made outfits, actual thought-out looks I could reach for without overthinking. The other two-thirds? Deliberately, gloriously empty. Reserved for shopping, obviously. You do not go to Europe for three weeks and pack a full suitcase; and if you do, you simply buy another one. You do not stress about the 32kg limit. You don’t believe in limitations.

Because that’s really who I was packing for: not the woman zipping her bag shut in New York at midnight, half-resentful of her own to-do list — resentful that people at work are trying to launch new projects at the very cusp of July into August — but the one who’d unzip it in Saint-Germain. Unbothered. Well-rested. The best version of me, which is to say — the version I always am, and always will be, when I’m in Paris.

July 22nd — Arrival, and Jet Lag Doesn’t Exist… Or Does It?

Jet lag is brutal doing Europe-to-USA, but somehow never the other way around — I think the excitement holds you in place. It helps, of course, when you fly business, which I maintain should be permanently filed under luxuries worth every cent, no debate. I close my eyes through the shaky, disruptive turbulence, thinking about the pain au chocolat at Cyril Lignac, almost as an abstract talisman — proof that I will arrive, and I will taste it. I flutter my eyes open to coffee and orange juice on my tray and the sun raying through the window. I smile.

We land in Paris at the bright and unbothered hour of 10 a.m. And it’s always the strangest thing: the airport heaving with tourists scrambling to decode CDG, while Hanna and I glide past every single one of them, beloved red passports in hand, riding the unexpectedly efficient EU line as we own it. Border control is always a bit of fun with our American first names, Moroccan last names, and weird international-school accents. Globalization, I guess!

Hotel in 45 minutes — a record that would be impressive if it weren’t les vacances d’été. The streets are empty because Europeans have a work-life balance Americans could never, and half of France is already in Aix, Marseille, Biarritz, or Deauville. Paris itself is only just waking up, because even the ones who are working don’t start until the appropriately civilized hour of 11 a.m. We arrive quickly at our hotel — a cute, newly renovated boutique number that’s equal parts charming, spotless, and effortlessly à la cool. Lots of chill tourists, and very, very few of the annoying kind. Only one room is ready, but I must shower, change into something quick to shake off the fatigue, and we’re off. Shopping today. Culture tomorrow. Simple outfit, because who cares?

Hanna, Michael, and I decide that before anything else, we simply must go to Bar Des Prés — an institution, in our books. I was technically working remotely that day, and honestly? It's July, it's post-World Cup, and yet Americans remain pathologically obsessed with their jobs. It's unwell. I receive an annoying Slack in the middle of a gorgeous tomato salad about how shipments in Europe are being delayed. I giggle and reply, "It's the end of July… in Europe. Post-World Cup," and then, of course, have to decode my very obvious argument for them. Almost cosmically, the conversations around us are all about France's poor showing against Spain, everyone's exciting vacation plans, their gloriously emptied-out August, their total, radiant indifference to corporate life. Oh, to have a government-protected holiday. To take PTO and not be quietly punished for it.

We laugh through the whole lunch and eat beautiful sushi with zero urgency, even as it arrives fast — we love Bar Des Prés precisely for that freshness. (And what a joy to eat vegetables the American government cannot personally guarantee are safe to consume for more than a month.) Two hours in, Hanna and Michael are already roasting me for something I said. Cold sake, though only a glass each — Paris wasn’t hot enough to justify a full bottle at lunch. Afterward we stay local, drifting through the little boutiques of Saint-Germain and anchoring the afternoon at Le Bon Marché, where we lose a solid three or four hours browsing, buying, and finally feeling like we’ve landed. Hotel by 18:30 to collect mine and Michael’s room — ready since 15:00, but who’s rushing. We’re seeing la mif tonight.

I change into this Mango set, cozy and breezy, and we head to dinner at Cassaro’s with my best friend Judith and our close friend Marina. Truthfully, I was tired and didn’t want to doll up too much, yet I still put in some effort — because when your bffs are divas, you must always be presentable. The city is empty, the 20-minute walk is all breeze and smiles, and I genuinely ask myself: how could jet lag even dare to impose itself when dinner with friends is waiting?

We arrive, and the restaurant itself barely gets a glance, because the first thing I do is hug my best friend so tightly. I haven’t seen her for what it feels like a lifetime — never mind that I speak to her every single day and spent all of February glued to her side. Finally, I get a chance to look at the restaurant. Cassaro’s is 1960s Italy conjured into a single room; there, I said it. Cool, groovy, and a perfect place for laughing too loudly, having one too many drinks, spilling secrets, and talking shit about people’s tasteless weddings (tea!!!!!).

Marina arrives and speaks Russian with Michael for essentially the entire dinner. Hanna hasn’t seen Judith in a while, so it’s the family fully reunited. The drinks keep coming — everyone’s at least two deep by now — and who cares that Marina flies to Japan tomorrow for her own vacances? The alcohol will dilute itself eventually, won’t it? We’re back at the hotel by 23:00 and do exactly one thing: rest. I slam my laptop shut with the pure glee of a woman three weeks free of corporate America and fully braced for museums, exhibitions, shopping, long stretched-out dinners, and endless laughter. God, it feels good to be home.

July 23rd — Judith Works, and We, Well, Do Our Own Version of Work

We wake around 9:00, because there is no earthly reason to rush anything. Hanna, Michael, and I are on a strictly friends-oriented vacation, and we’d established from the start that this would be as low-cortisol as humanly possible. Loose plans, zero stress — we’ve been here a million times, so it feels less like sightseeing and more like gently touching a few important points. A quick breakfast in the neighborhood (Saint Pearl ofc), then off to Musée de l’Orangerie. I’d wanted to catch the Rousseau exhibit and got genuinely irritated to learn its last day was July 19th. Alas. The morning was chilly, so I threw on something simple but reliable.

We cut across the Tuileries and walked all the way to Timeless Pearly — a must if you’re in Paris — where I got the necklace with my initial. You can lose hours in that showroom, customizing each piece, playing with anything and everything. It’s Polly Pocket world for us, fashion girlies who never quite grew up. A Candy Land of charms, dare I say. An hour and a half later we emerge with unique, funky jewelry and walk to the Bourse de Commerce, where we spend a lovely stretch of time with Fujiko Nakaya’s Fog Sculpture #07156 / Nuage — her fog-sculpture installation, all mist and atmosphere. We sit watching the smoke envelop Michael and us; he jokes that the vape epidemic in Europe is out of control. We giggle.

From there, Stohrer, one of the oldest patisseries in France, birthplace of the Baba au Rhum and once home to Louis XV’s pastry chef. We inhale two baba au rhum because all three of us are big backs. BBB activities - code for Big Back Behavior - and it is entirely true. We walk a bit more towards Nose for a bit of niche fragrance shopping, and onward to Galeries Lafayette at Opéra, heaving with locals and tourists alike, everyone elbowing for the best of the soldes d’été. Then back to the 6th — our haven after the churn of Boulevard Haussmann. Shower, change, and into this lovely dress.

28,000 steps later, we have dinner at what I like to think is every bit as classic as Bar Des Prés: chez Ojii, a spot I love precisely because it’s quiet and cozy. The food is equal parts creative and equal parts delicious. You must order the eel. This time we were seated beside a family whose son was completely unbearable — three straight hours of talking exclusively about himself, refusing to let anyone else get a sentence in. I was live translating the conversation to Michael and Hanna, and we were concerned and entertained at the same time. The moment a family member did speak, he cut them off to redirect to his experience. And then, just as our chocolate mousse arrived — in perfect sync with their meal wrapping up — he chose that moment to finally ask about his sister’s holiday plans. Insane.

It’s been all of one day without Judith, and I’m already having withdrawal, but she assures me over text that the feeling of being together in Paris annuls any day we don’t see each other. I laugh. We pay the bill, walk to the hotel once more, and fall into our beds at 1 a.m.

July 24th — Friday, in Paris, Hits Different

We woke at 10 a.m. with one thing on our minds: it's Friday, and it's going to be sunny. No pretend-chilly weather today. So I prepared my summer groove, already motivated for a beautifully packed day ahead.

We headed to Ten Belles for a quick coffee-and-granola breakfast, and while the coffee was genuinely good, the pastries left me wondering why exactly this place is so hyped. Anyway — the clock hit 11 almost immediately, so we wandered the neighborhood to kill time before our appointment at Maison Gainsbourg, which I'd call a must if you're a Gainsbourg devotee like I am (Charlotte Gainsbourg being my ultimate cool diva). Getting tickets to his house is a war unto itself, but I managed — the night before, at Ojii's table, while the narcissist talked over anything and everything.

The whole experience at Maison Gainsbourg is… let's say interesting. Serge Gainsbourg was a deeply troubled man, and while I fully recognize what an exceptional artist he was, a little sunlight in that home might have done wonders for his behavior (therapy too, frankly). For me, the fascination was in seeing where and how he lived — I learned about his particular habits: how he never wore socks, how he owned remarkably few pieces of clothing, how he existed in near-total darkness. Anyhow… the three of us talked about his music, his life, his legacy — real conversations about the distance between art and artist, and how I might have preferred to know a little less after this visit. Afterward we crossed to the museum opposite his house, and though I'd already been in February, I wanted to bring Hanna and Michael. They were neither shocked nor surprised to learn Monsieur Gainsbourg did not shower. My perception of him: permanently altered.

Then it’s 14:00., and we are late lunchers. The trick is always finding a service continu type of place, but in the last week of July — and all of August — locating an open French establishment is a near-impossible feat. If you don’t know the nooks and crannies, you’ll go hungry. I knew exactly what to do: Le Voltaire, which has saved me in this neighborhood many times over, and that’s where we landed. A glorious, unhurried lunch — a good salad with far too much blue cheese, melon with jamón ibérico, roast chicken, and a classic sole meunière. Plus the profiterole, which is, in my opinion, top 10 in all of Paris.

Then we crossed the bridge to the 1st for a quick stop at the Costes music shop, dedicated to their albums and vinyl in general. We popped into Marni, walked to L’Artisan Parfumeur, then Charvet, bought a couple of things, but ultimately ended up exactly where we’d been headed all along: the Cédric Grolet chocolate boutique. We had to buy two trompe-l’œil cakes — one lemon, one cocoa — because one cannot arrive at Judith’s empty-handed. Obviously, it’s Friday; it’s Shabbat.

We crossed back over the bridge and walked all the way to the 6th, picking up two bottles of wine along the way — because we’d collectively pris conscience that we are a large yapper kind of group who loves to overstay our welcome at dinner tables. Hanna did the passinho do Jamal right there on the street and made a French cop giggle — I think we were just overjoyed to be in our favorite place on Earth. Back to the hotel with a 45-minute window to change for Juju’s; I put on this outfit.

Shabbat is always special chez les Guez. Always joyful, conversations floating in every direction. We are received with open arms, as always. Judith spent her entire WFH day cooking, setting the table, making sure everything was beautiful, cozy, and welcoming. We were all overjoyed to be among people who have always made us feel at home, despite our not being from here. Every time we’re in Paris there’s Shabbat — the usual suspects and a few new faces, all of it bringing me an enormous kind of joy. Conversation flowing all through dinner, smiles, more wine, more food, and always, so much love and gratitude.

In that immense pleasure, it feels like we’ve only just arrived when suddenly it’s been three hours, people start to leave, and Hanna, Michael, and I help Judith débarrasser tout and debrief the night. Judith has always had this gift for making me feel special and included, and so does her entire family. I return to the hotel and, as always when I’m here, I sleep soundly — wrapped in love and gratitude, feeling deeply privileged to be surrounded by my friends. Being welcomed here is something I will never, ever take for granted. It’s why I so incessantly call Paris my home.

July 25th — Saturday is great everywhere, isn’t it?

Even though we'd gone to bed around 1:30 a.m., I woke at 8:30 sharp — Judith and I had solo plans before Michael and Hanna were up. I showered and changed quickly, the excitement for this beautiful day ahead filling me with a do-nothing-but-do-everything kind of groove. Judith — obviously, type A, a true Virgo — planned the entire day. Honorable mention: she arrived dressed in her birthday gift, a combinaison Hanna and I gave her. I dressed in this casual outfit. It seems I am now a Mango ambassador? A pseudo-influencer such as myself can dream.

We chatted until 10:30, yap central. Michael and Hanna come down around 10:45, and we walk all the way to the Grand Palais to see Matisse and Hilma af Klint. Honestly, we bail on Matisse under the very reasonable pretense that we see far too much of him as it is. The line for Matisse is wrapping clean around the Grand Palais’s sumptuous infrastructure, so we turn on our heels — and Hilma’s line is short, which leaves me equal parts pleased (convenience!) and annoyed (why does no one care about this diva, yet everyone flocks to low-key-basic Matisse — whom I love, no shade). Anyway. I pick my battles and decide to be happy. The exhibition is gorgeous; I find my beloved Swan-motif paintings and quietly capture individual moments of Hanna, Judith, and Michael throughout the rooms, each one filling me with joy. We leave, as always, with fresh inspiration for the days ahead and spiritually cleansed.

We stroll a bit along Avenue Montaigne and stop at the brand-new YSL Coffee Concept shop, very Los Angeles (not derogatory) spot — fun and diva-ish, très Zoë Kravitz — for an iced tea and a look at their curatorial concept coffee shop. I love that they banned photos because everyone was filming TikToks in there, but the moment they clocked me speaking French and snapping a picture to send to my mom, they said absolutely nothing. Selective anger, I suppose? We pop into Valentino, where Hanna makes a fabulous purchase, which I’ll let her reveal whenever she feels comfortable doing so.

Then we walk all the way to the 1st — a lovely walk — for lunch at Chez Marc’O, a staple among Parisians that has consistently blessed us with service continu. I'm telling you, this is the key to properly enjoying this city: knowing not to bend your schedule and fall into tourist traps. We almost all order the deliciously fresh chèvre chaud salad. With Judith, somehow, we never run out of things to say — despite the heat, despite seeing each other every single day. We finish rather quickly, and our friend declares she desires a siesta. As we take our pics, Monsieur Marco himself photobombs us. We feel like absolute divas — a photo with the icon in the flesh. Marco was once responsible for the Bar à Eau at chez Colette; vous vous souvenez? He is, imo, the backbone of the 1st arrondissement. And now we have a photo with him.

While Judith takes her well-deserved siesta, Hanna, Misha, and I continue our pilgrimage to Bastille because we are CRAZY and it was roughly 34 degrees Celsius. I tell Michael he’s practically Brazilian, so he simply must push through, and he says not without a drinky-poo. We march vers Folderol — about 40 minutes — the three of us yapping incessantly, as family does. We arrive, get seated, the bartender is Brazilian, and we all have delicious ice cream and great glasses of wine (yes, plural — we walked all the way there after all). We glance at the clock: 7 p.m., dinner in an hour and 45, we must head back. Michael spots Clovis (aka ochinclovis) and takes a pic. Hanna and I go home; Misha decides he’ll bike to Saint-Germain. Girl, whatever. We’re seeing Judith — duh — for dinner at chez Jaïs. I dress knowing the dress code is diva.

Dinner is lovely all around, and I catch myself realizing I did almost this exact restaurant rotation in February. We went to chez Jaïs, which is such a vibe — reserve months in advance, because a same-week resy is simply not happening unless you're a regular, friends with the Jaïs team, someone famous, or some combination of this trifecta. Within 10 minutes, the empty restaurant is packed, loud, and deliciously animated. Tourists and Parisians dining alike, a mix of English, Spanish, and French crowding the small space and making it all the cozier.

It's Michael and Hanna's first time in this restaurant, and they agree the ambiance is unmatched. As our picanha arrives (shocker — the Brazilians ordering picanha abroad) with their frites maison, which are phenomenal, the playlist swells, and our ears perk up at "Teach Me How to Dougie." I genuinely could not explain to a medieval peasant why this is cool — why it's so surreal to be eating a very French mushroom pasta to the sound of "let me see you do that Dougie," and right after that some Bad Bunny? It was such fun, and we don't look at the clock, as one doesn't when the night is good. Our mousse arrives, and suddenly it's already midnight. Outside, the slightly chilly air embraces us, the muffled thump of a Rihanna song trailing after us as the door swings shut. Judith, Hanna, and I take diva pics on the street, and three strangers actually clap and shout "wow, iconic!" with cigarettes and wine glasses in hand. We finish our little photoshoot, and Judith says goodbye. We meant to walk, but my YSL heels forbid it — gorgeous, yes, but brutal. The whole cab ride home, Hanna and Michael lecture me on the importance of making smart choices. I pretend I listen while we pass by Invalides.

July 26th — Cozy last day, but not my last time.

I've stopped counting how many times I've done a last morning in Paris. That's the thing nobody tells you about loving a place properly: eventually you stop arriving and departing and just start returning. This morning is gray and springlike, my eyes are tired, my body knows the adventure has paused — and yet there's no grief in it, because two weeks from now I'll be back, and even if it were two years, the answer would be the same. Some cities you visit. This one I belong to. I dressed in the same base as ever, Hanna's Adrian cashmere sweater thrown on top, just because.

We walked about 15 minutes over to Niwa to meet Judith. Niwa is this fabulous pastry shop that made me genuinely wonder whether I'll spend the rest of my life needing a pain perdu au chocolat. C'était très bon. And don't let the low Google reviews twist your perception — they're mostly down to the staff, who will be rude whether you address them in English or French. Though if you're from New York, you'll almost certainly win the idgaf war between you and whoever's working the counter. We discussed this for a solid 10 to 15 minutes: rudeness will hurt your business, no matter how flaky and delicious the croissant is.

After breakfast we walked all the way to Montparnasse — a fairly long haul, though unassumingly quick by car. It started to rain, as it tends to on my last day in Paris, but unlike in February, this was a quick, harmless rain with no intention of lingering. We finally arrived at Musée Bourdelle, a beautiful sculpture museum dedicated to Monsieur Bourdelle himself, a major collaborator of another rather famous sculptor (guess who? None other than Rodin!). Juju always makes the best itineraries. We took our sweet time and then walked even further, stopping at Aux Merveilles de Fred for a brioche sucrée and a brioche au chocolat. Chocolatey hands and all, we carried on vers the Institut Giacometti like energized children — because goûter time is always a good time. The Giacometti Institute is small, but the place is absolutely gorgeous; the preserved structure of the house makes every corner meaningful, charming, and thoroughly worth the visit.

We then headed to the Marais for a change of scenery and dined at Recoin, where the food was delicious — 38 euros a person for a starter, main, dessert, wine, tea, and whatever else we felt like eating. Time seemed to be skipping faster than usual today, the day shortening, and I avoided looking at the clock at all costs — afraid that if I looked too long, the day would run through my hands like sand. I tried not to dwell on it, but it’s always hard to pretend I don’t adore this place. I asked someone else to check the time, and it was already 15:30. Time, indeed, flew.

We kept wandering through the Marais. We popped into The Frankie Shop, then into every little vintage shop after it, combing through each one’s curation, the beautiful finds. The sun started to come out and, this time, didn’t shy away. We walked all over but found nothing to our taste in the vintage world — though dare I say this simply wasn’t the day we were in the headspace to shop for anything at all? Judith left at 17:00 for her siesta, and the goodbye was bittersweet; she wasn’t dining with us that evening. As we parted, it was more of an à toute than a goodbye in itself — though saying goodbye to friends always leaves a slightly sour taste.

Michael, Hanna, and I got back to the hotel by 19:00 to shower and change. One hour to do it — a recurring theme on vacation, where we stretch our days so long we barely leave time for resting. I was a bit tired. Put on this. Scenes of chaos unfolding as last-minute packing commenced.

Dinner at Kinugawa was great. The food is always good. It was my first time in their new space, the one with Tour Eiffel views — though dare I say I preferred their cozy Vendôme location? I didn’t love that there was a DJ and a whole ordeal. I liked going to Kinu without the dress code (sauf in Ramatuelle) and without all that fluff. Now it somehow feels catered to tourists, influencers, and a crowd that no longer matches my energy. All through dinner, Michael, Hanna, and I dissected just how good our days in Paris had been. And I must make an honorable mention to my bff , who planned everything with such love and care — I cannot thank you ENOUGH for the beautiful days we always have with you (cannot thank you enough for this friendship/sisterhood).

The three of us agreed that this first leg of the trip was delightful, calm, and low-cortisol — exactly what we’d wanted. I looked at the Eiffel Tower through the big restaurant windows; Judith’s brother, Ben, says he passes it every day with total indifference. But dare I say, no matter how many times I come here, I always find her gorgeous (yes, her — it’s la tour, after all). It might be gauche and touristy of me, but I like her!!! Leave me alone. I get sentimental and turn my attention back to whatever Hanna and Mischa are talking about. I remind myself not to get too sentimental, since our flight back to Manhattan on August 10th departs from here anyway.

Even though Judith skipped dinner, the group chat was already buzzing with logistics for our return on the 7th — everyone aggressively planning a future that’s only a couple of weeks away. The next morning we boarded for Copenhagen, absolutely thrilled, because Paris wasn’t the ending. It was just the warm-up. That said — for the August 7th, 8th, and 9th diaries, don’t expect quite the same enthusiasm. By then the departure will be looming, and even I can only bottle so much denial.

Housekeeping, quickly: a few of these links here are affiliate links, so if you buy through them, we earn a small commission — no extra cost to you. Rest assured I'd never gush about a chèvre chaud salad or a YSL heel I didn't actually adore ;) The love is real; the commission is just a bonus.

We were at my grandpa’s house, as we always were for Brazil’s games. It was seven in the morning, and I imagine my mom and dad had woken up the way any average Brazilian does on a game day — with an anxiety so extreme you’d think we were the ones about to step onto the pitch. You can’t eat. You can’t drink. You can only breathe, and even that feels like too much. Every pass, every whistle, every wrong touch sits in your chest like a held breath.

When they won, my uncle Benjamin lifted me so high that I hit my head on the ceiling. And there I was, in the middle of it all — tears of pain streaming down my face — surrounded by tears and smiles and hugs of pure joy. We were penta, Rachel, your head will deal with that later. It doesn’t matter what your nationality is. You can only truly understand this if you are Brazilian.

A Sociological Analysis of Brazil When We Play

There is no such thing as a normal workday when Brazil plays. Stores shut down. The streets empty out. Everyone is home, or with family, or with friends. And this isn’t laziness or a national excuse to skip work — it’s something much deeper. We are the only nation on earth with five World Cups, and that fact is not just a number to us; it is identity, it is inheritance, it is pride. Soccer is woven so tightly into who we are that stepping away from it during a match would feel like stepping away from ourselves. So we take it seriously. Deadly seriously. And here is the thing every foreigner misses: even the Brazilian who swears up and down that they “don’t care about football” will somehow know the lineup, the score, and exactly which referee robbed us in which minute. Indifference is a performance. Underneath it, everyone cares, because caring was never a choice — it’s cultural, passed down from grandparent to parent to child like a surname, like a recipe, like a religion.

So we bend our entire schedule around the match. If the game is at four in the afternoon, lunch starts at noon, and the celebration stretches long past the ninety minutes of play. We call it resenha — that lingering, laughing, food-and-family time that has no real translation into English. If the game is in the morning, we throw a breakfast. And if you find yourself watching from abroad, far from home, you seek out a Brazilian bar, a Brazilian restaurant, a Brazilian anything. You befriend total strangers. You laugh with them, you scream with them, you rejoice with them. For ninety minutes, they are your family too. People pull out their talismans of good fortune — maybe a shirt from 1994, maybe a shirt from 2002, so faded and stiff from years of superstition that it can barely be worn. But who cares? If we don’t wear it, Brazil doesn’t win the game. That’s just how it works.

And notice the language, because language always gives a culture away: we don’t say “Brazil is playing.” We say we. It’s a small word that carries an entire sociology inside it. We have a parasocial bond with these eleven players — we don’t know them, we will never meet them, and yet we have handed them the impossible job of being us for ninety minutes. We expect them to be the best in the world, and we expect them to carry that weight without flinching, because for those ninety minutes they are not athletes, they are our representatives. They are the image of our love, our resilience, our joy, our whole country distilled into eleven bodies on a field. Not our politicians — never our politicians. When we look for something that actually represents Brazil to the world, we don’t look to a government building. We look at a yellow shirt. And so, during the game, we are not even focused on the opponent — we are focused on ourselves, on our players, and the full repertoire of insults comes out: juiz ladrão, juiz filho da puta, and the endless porra and caralho thrown into the air at every wrong move one of ours makes. “Corre atrás da bola!” — run after the ball — is a classic. Parents let their kids, even the ones eight and under, swear freely, because after all, this is a cheat day for all of us. The rules are suspended. The house is loud. It is glorious.

And before any of it begins, we all stand up to sing our anthem — which, by the way, was named the best anthem of the entire 2026 World Cup by The Athletic, The New York Times’ sports publication, out of all forty-eight nations in the tournament. And honestly? We knew that already. Most of us learned to sing it not out of choice but by force — standing in rows in a schoolyard, half-mumbling words like fúlgidos and lábaro that we didn’t understand and still barely do. But somewhere along the way, the obligation curdles into something real. Because while other countries sing about war and blood and battle, ours is basically a love song to itself. Stripped down, it says: we’re independent, we’re resilient, and we are beautiful, hot, and amazing — as we’d put it in Brazil. We are the protagonists of the world, and our anthem knows it. And so by the time it plays before a match, that childhood schoolyard chore transforms — chest full, voice cracking, screaming every word long after the official cut goes silent, because it’s never long enough for us. Did you ever hear the way the stadiums echo when we sing it? We complain endlessly about where we come from — the politics, the corruption, the everyday chaos — but at least we are proud. Fiercely, unreasonably proud. Our current coach isn’t even Brazilian, and yet he sings it with an open chest, hand over heart, like it was written for him. That’s the thing: being Brazilian is fucking contagious. It’s an energy you can’t replicate, can’t recreate, and frankly… It’s just unique.

And yet — there are the ghosts. This year, as always, after being robbed over and over again by Europeans who still claim some kind of superiority over Latin American football, I keep asking why. Why, and why, and why. After twenty years, why does it still feel like Brazil cannot move past the ghosts of its own history? Maybe it’s because we carry 2002 like a treasure and a burden at the same time. Every generation since has been measured against a standard so golden that no team could ever fully live up to it. And so what you really get, every four years, is twenty years’ worth of kids crying in living rooms across the country — kids who don’t fully understand why the adults around them are weeping over a game, but who cry anyway, because grief is contagious too, and because somewhere inside them they already know they’ll be back, hoping for better days. That, more than any trophy, is the inheritance. Not the winning. The hoping. You don’t grieve what you don’t love, and Brazilians love this game the way we love our own families — completely, irrationally, forever. So we’ll be back for the next one. We’ll pull out the old shirts, wake up too early, cook too much food, swear too loudly, and hold our breath all over again. Because for us, it was never really about the trophy. It was about the we.

The 2030 Team — Falta Ser Brasileiro

The Norway game left something sour in my mouth. I watched, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like my team out there. I knew Brazil was losing, solely on vibes. And that’s what unsettled me most — not the scoreline, but the nerves themselves from the players. What are you nervous about? You are Brazilian. Chin up. We are not a people who tiptoe. We don’t play not-to-lose. And yet there they were, eleven men in the sacred yellow, passing sideways like they were apologising for taking up space on the field. That is not us. That has never been us.

I’ve felt this before, and I know precisely where the fear lives, because I keep a ledger of every heartbreak. Croatia, 2022 — the penalties, the hush that fell over the whole country like a power outage. And I’ll admit something that only makes sense to us: I never let these things go. Since 2010, every nation that has knocked us out holds a permanent place on a list I carry, and I root against them the way you root for a rival’s ruin — gleefully, shamelessly, forever. I can tell you the room I was standing in for each elimination. What I was doing. Who cried first? That’s not obsession; that’s just how Brazilian love works. We don’t file losses away. We keep them close enough to sting.

But here’s what I’ve been turning over lately, and it cuts deeper than any one match. When we lose to a European team, it doesn’t feel like sport — it feels historical. We are a former colony. For centuries, the people who looked like the ones in those other jerseys decided what we were worth, extracted what they wanted, and told us to be grateful. Football is the one arena where that whole arrangement gets flipped on its head — where a nation they once treated as raw material can humiliate them at the thing the whole planet is watching. So when a European team eliminates us and their commentators start murmuring again about “discipline” and “structure” and the supposed superiority of their way, something ancient flares up in me. This was never only about a trophy. It’s about proving, ninety minutes at a time, that the ones they underestimated became the most beautiful footballing nation the world has ever produced. Beating them is our reply to five hundred years. Beating them is our obligation.

Which is exactly why the current caution enrages me. Falta raça. Falta garra. What’s missing isn’t talent — we are drowning in talent. What’s missing is the refusal to be tamed. We’ve spent too long trying to play their game, their tidy European chess (they are so dramatic, you can’t even touch them lol) when our whole genius was always improvisation, audacity, the thing that can’t be coached. Dê-lhe carrinho. Bata. Vai pra cima. Slide in, strike it, go at them — go forward with the raw desire to win that lives in the blood and not the tactics board. Falta ser brasileiro. Remember where you come from. Not just the grandpa’s living room and the seven a.m. anxiety, but the whole inheritance: you are the answer a colonised people gives back to its colonisers, and you give it with a ball at your feet.

Let me tell you how we cheer. For us, it's every Latin American nation, every African nation, every Caribbean nation — that's who we throw ourselves behind. We neither cheer for Europeans nor for Argentina. Full stop. There's a famous clip of an interviewer asking a kid whether he'd ever root for Argentina, and the kid says that if it were Argentina versus Satan, we'd want Satan to win 5-0. It's a meme, but it's also basically the constitution. We only ever back a European team as an absolute last resort — like 2026's final, Spain against Argentina, where we're stuck choosing between two teams we can't stand. And even then, it feels sour, nasty, wrong in the mouth, because the Spanish are the ones who colonised half the continent and now act desperate to be counted as Latinos themselves. So we hold our noses, pick a side, and hate every second of it.

And here’s where I land — with Ancelotti. I hope he reads this, and I mean it when I say we believe in him. Maybe the reason a foreigner is what we need is that he’s untouched by our ghosts; he can look at this team without twenty years of grief clouding his eyes. We can forgive that he is Italian, just like we can forgive cheering for Spain as opposed to Argentina. But I’d ask him to understand the one thing no outsider can be taught: this team doesn’t need to be organised into greatness. It needs to be unleashed into it. Permit them to be reckless, to be ours again.

So no — despite the sour taste, I haven’t stopped believing. I was raised to believe against all evidence, and I’m not about to quit now. I believe in 2030. I believe a kid somewhere is about to feel her father lift her to the ceiling for the first time. I believe I’ll be right there when it happens, chin up, chest full, voice already gone. Play com raça, com garra, com amor — play like Brazilians, like the descendants of everyone they said would never amount to anything — and the whole world will feel the ground shake. Vai, Brasil. I believe in you. I always will. I am proud to be from where I am from.

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There’s something in the air. The Knicks are winning (by time this is posted I hope they have won!), the World Cup is coming to North America in just a month, and by July 19, when the biggest sporting event in the world wraps up, Euro Summer will officially be in full swing. Recently, our international friend group got together and compared summer plans. June was easy: most people are staying stateside, embracing the heat and enjoy the World Cup. But when the conversation turned to late July and August, the answers were surprisingly diverse.

A few friends are heading to the Netherlands. Others are skipping the Mykonos crowds altogether and opting for a boat trip through Paros, Antiparos, and Milos before finishing in Athens. A large group is making its way to Croatia, with Split and Hvar firmly on the itinerary. Some are exploring Georgia, venturing well beyond Tbilisi. Others will spend their summer tanning along the coasts of Albania and Montenegro. If France is on the schedule, Biarritz followed by a drive to San Sebastián remains one of the best combinations so far. Comporta is no longer a secret, which almost makes it a mandatory stop even if it is for three or four days.

The reality is that our friend group isn’t 18 anymore. We no longer need Ibiza to define a summer. While plenty of people in New York are still chasing the same high they’ve been chasing for years at La Guérite, we’ve done that repeatedly since our teenage years. Today, those places feel increasingly crowded with people more interested in being seen than actually having fun. The real international crowd is looking elsewhere. They’re discovering new destinations, embracing different cultures, and seeking experiences beyond the obvious choices. That doesn’t mean anyone is completely abandoning the classics. Everyone is still doing their own thing. But the trend is clear: people are trading predictable itineraries and Instagram photo ops for a broader mix of experiences, places, and perspectives. The era of building an entire summer around the same handful of destinations is fading. The new luxury is variety.

These are just a few of the destinations our friend group is heading to this summer, and every look in this curation was inspired by the places, people, and energy that make them worth visiting. Which begs the question: Where are you going?

Because summer is already here, the world is wide open, and the most interesting people we know aren’t following the crowd—they’re finding their own corner of it.

BIARRITZ

The Biarritz person has quietly retired from trying to impress strangers. They used to be a hardcore St. Tropez regular, but now, if you mention Indie Beach they get the chills. Ten years ago, they wanted the table everyone could see. Today, they want the table nobody can find.

They’ll tell you they’re “doing the Basque Coast” rather than saying they’re going to France and that’s intentional, because they do not want you to go there. They check into Hôtel du Palais because it’s legendary, or Regina Experimental because they prefer their luxury with a touch of plausible deniability.

Mornings begin at Miremont overlooking the ocean and drinking a double espresso. Afternoons disappear somewhere between Les Halles, a surf lesson they’ll never admit they enjoyed, and a lunch that was supposed to last an hour but somehow stretches into sunset with the same group of friends they started the day with. Europemaxxing at its finest! Dinner is at Chistera & Coquillages, Chez Albert, or, more likely, across the border in San Sebastián because someone from the group suddenly decided the group absolutely needed cheesecake from La Viña.

Nobody is rushing anything in Biarritz. Nobody is shouting. Nobody is ordering bottle service. Nobody is doing the frat flick on a table. It is peaceful. The local luxury is appearing completely unavailable despite having absolutely nothing to do.

The giveaway: They will return with a fabulous tan and pretend they didn’t bust their ass during the surfing lessons.

TBILISI

Tbilisi is where people go after they’ve become bored of telling everyone they’re going to Lisbon.

The city attracts a very specific character: the friend who always seems to know something six months before everyone else. The one sending restaurant recommendations nobody can pronounce and dropping pin locations without explanation, as if guidance would be insulting. This is the friend who knows their wine—not because a TikTok sommelier explained Château Margaux to them in a photo dump, but because their parents’ best friend owns a vineyard in Saint-Émilion and once poured them something they were too young to understand but never forgot. So yes, they’ll politely tell you to get on with the program.

They also know that Saperavi is not something you “discover” on a menu in Dalston with a natural wine list and a €14 glass. It’s something you respect. This is also the same friend who started wearing Salomons before they were “styled” on the Lower East Side, back when they were still just hiking shoes and not a personality trait.

They’re staying at Stamba Hotel or Rooms Hotel. Officially because they appreciate the design. Unofficially because everyone they know whose taste they trust has already stayed there first. Officially also because they somehow know 20 Georgian people—and every single one of them, without coordination or hesitation, has recommended the exact same two hotels.

Coffee becomes lunch and there is always a cigarette involved. Lunch becomes wine. Wine becomes dinner. Dinner easily transforms into a 2 AM type of event.

They begin at Shavi Lomi, somehow end up at Barbarestan, and spend the rest of the trip chasing recommendations from locals who immediately dismiss every recommendation they received the day before.

Every bar feels like a hidden gem. Every gallery visited feels accidental. Every conversation lasts longer than indented. The city is full of architects, photographers, founders, artists, and people who claim they’re “between projects.” and that is why your friend going there loves it.

By the time everyone else arrives in Tbilisi, they’ve already moved on—probably to a place you can’t pronounce yet, and won’t be able to find on Google Maps until next summer.

The giveaway: They come home talking about orange wine as if they personally discovered it.

MILOS

Milos is where former Mykonos people go to recover.

This is your friend whose Instagram Stories at 18 years old consisted of IV recovery drips, yacht parties, Scorpios seven days a week, and a villa large enough to require its own transportation plan. Today, they are a self-proclaimed health and wellness enthusiast who suddenly won’t stop talking about magnesium, sleep optimization, cold plunges, and the importance of protecting their peace. In reality, they’re recovering from what ten consecutive Julys and Augusts can do to a person. They arrive after one too many summers paying absurd amounts of money for beach clubs they secretly hated, standing next to people they didn’t particularly like, listening to music they weren’t even sure they enjoyed.

They’re staying at Skinopi Lodge or Domes White Coast, where every room looks suspiciously like it was designed specifically for a travel magazine cover. If not, they’re staying at the house of a childhood friend from TASIS whose family bought in Milos before anyone knew where Milos was.

The itinerary is refreshingly simple: Boat. Swim. Lunch. Change. Dinner. Repeat.

A skipper takes them to Kleftiko. Somebody immediately announces it’s the most beautiful place they’ve ever seen. Nobody argues because, frankly, it is what it is. Lunch happens at Medusa in Mandrakia. Dinner drifts between O! Hamos! and whichever taverna was recommended by the captain, a fisherman, somebody’s cousin, or a local whose directions consisted entirely of hand gestures.

Nobody dresses up and everyone somehow looks incredible. The group chat goes quiet. Instagram stories become suspiciously infrequent. Nobody is documenting every second because for the first time in years, nobody feels the need to prove they’re having fun. There is little care in the world because Milos feels like an actual vacation. Not a performance. Not a networking event disguised as a holiday. Not a competition to see who can spend the most money in a twenty-four-hour period.

You lose track of what day it is…Nobody seems to know. Nobody seems to care.

The giveaway: They suddenly begin using the word “authentic” in every conversation.

THE ALBANIAN RIVIERA

The Albanian Riviera attracts the thrill-seekers of luxury travel. Not because it’s dangerous, but because they enjoy feeling like modern-day explorers.

These are the same people who arrive home and tell stories as if they personally discovered the destination. Pedro Álvares Cabral landing in Brazil. Vasco da Gama finding India. Their version just happens to involve an EasyJet flight and a WhatsApp recommendation.

They secretly love saying, “You should go now before everyone finds out and ruins it.” The “low-key” at the end is important. It helps them feel less responsible for what they’re about to do.

The trip begins in Dhërmi and slowly drifts south. They’re staying at Zoe Hora, La Brisa, or whichever boutique hotel was forwarded into the group chat by the one friend who’s always six months ahead of everyone else and somehow never wrong. Days disappear between Drymades Beach, Gjipe Beach, hidden coves, beach clubs that still feel relaxed, and lunches that accidentally consume entire afternoons. This is the same excitement that once consumed tables at Casa Jondal. The difference is that nobody is fighting for reservations, nobody is checking who just walked in, and nobody is pretending they’re having the best summer of their life. They’ve traded paella for tavë kosi and the trade has been well received.

At dinner, half the table is discussing how beautiful Albania is. The other half is calculating how many summers remain before Condé Nast writes a feature about it and a direct flight from New York appears.

Everyone agrees on one thing: No geotags. No hotel tags. No restaurant tags. No location sharing. Someone inevitably posts anyway. The group chat responds immediately: “Delete this.”

The Albanian Riviera is what happens when people who claim not to care about exclusivity suddenly discover they care about exclusivity very, very much.

The giveaway: Their Instagram captions suddenly become elusive.

MILAN

Milan is not a vacation. It’s a personality test (which many do not pass!).

The people who love Milan are deeply suspicious of people who don’t. They hear someone say they prefer Rome, Florence, or the Amalfi Coast and immediately conclude that person simply doesn’t get it.

The people who love Milan don’t need sunsets. They need excellent shopping, great museums, an espresso that changes their mood, and somewhere to be in forty-five minutes.

Milan is for people who appreciate the finer things in life and understand that the perfect summer consists of half city, half beach. A few days of civilization before disappearing to the Mediterranean. Their agenda is packed with plans that tourists and first-timers simply wouldn’t understand. They’re having lunch somewhere nobody can get a reservation. They’re seeing an exhibition nobody has heard of yet. They’re meeting friends of friends for aperitivo and somehow ending up at dinner with twelve people from six different countries.

A night at Yapa turns into the bartender recognizing them from previous summers. Before long, menus are irrelevant and custom cocktails begin arriving at the table (Guilty!!!).

They’re staying at Portrait Milano or Casa Cipriani. Not because they’re trying to impress anyone, but because they appreciate operational excellence.If not, they’re staying in their own apartment. It’s perfectly located, immaculately furnished, and they’ve somehow managed to mention it exactly zero times despite owning it for years.

Breakfast is at Marchesi. Lunch is at Langosteria. Aperitivo starts at Bar Basso and inevitably destroys whatever plans existed afterward. After all, you are too tipsy and all you can do is bask in the noise consuming the sidewalk.

Every afternoon includes a pilgrimage through the Quadrilatero (not necessarily to buy…just to check!). You maybe pop at Loro Piana. Maybe Bottega. Maybe Larusmiani. Maybe all three?Milan rewards people who understand that style is less about what you buy and more about how quickly you pretend you didn’t buy it.

The city is full of people who claim they don’t care what others think while spending an extraordinary amount of time perfecting exactly how little they appear to care. And somehow, against all odds, it works.

The giveaway: They return home referring to New York as “a little chaotic.”

1. La Bonne Brosse n’est pas une nouveauté, but it’s a classic for a reason. My friend Vivi gifted me a gift card, and naturally, I purchased one. Yet little did I know my sister-in-law had already bought one for me as a Hanukkah gift in my favorite color: burgundy. Thankfully, they are all different ones. I have this one and this one, and I love them! These brushes are magical for two reasons. First, and foremost, they are beautiful — and they work as a fashionable accessory, as beauty objects should. I like that they are heavy in your hand. They feel handmade, artisanal, delightful to touch and to look at. Shouldn’t we crave beautiful things in our bathrooms? Besides, this is an amazing gift to give any woman in your life. A little luxury that is equal parts practical and equal parts personal. Secondly, I saw the founders explaining their whole purpose: to bring back this savoir-faire into the modern-day world. I felt compelled by their story, but truthfully, I think La Bonne Brosse touches on something more emotional. The act of brushing your hair is so overlooked in our daily lives. Because of the fast-paced, career-centered world that women now live in, we are running. We are going to work and brush our hair quickly, and at times, forget about it entirely. But when I was younger, part of the fun of my day involved brushing my hair and figuring out a hairdo. Even better, it was communal — my girlfriends and I brushing each other’s hair, braiding it, doing ridiculous hairdos that none of us would ever wear outside but that made us laugh until we couldn’t breathe. Every time I use my Bonne Brosse, I spend at least a solid twenty minutes doing it. It transports me back to a time when things were simpler, and intentionality was more intuitive rather than a buzzword people use to draw you in. This item revived intentionality in an act I so often overlooked or treated as less important than putting my moisturizer on. The bristles detangle my hair, massage my scalp, and consequently make my hair healthier. But the real gift is that the act of brushing forces me to pause and appreciate a ritual that should be taken seriously, the way our younger selves did.

2. Are we defrosting our Pucci items yet? Mine are ready to be trotting around wherever I am on the globe. I am a sucker for Pucci — new and vintage. A bit of storytelling on both. Vintage: The vintage gods rarely smile at me. In fact, they think I am their biggest sinner, as if I had climbed the Acropolis and mocked them in Ancient Greece. My quest for vintage is always rough. First, I am not a scavenger, not a treasure hunter. I have very limited patience, so vintage shopping for me must happen in a curated space — otherwise, going through racks of clothing, even in department stores, bores me to death. But occasionally, when I am in a good mood, and I venture out, I come across a rare diamond in the rough. And when I do, I feel something close to what Icarus must have felt flying toward the sun — that delirious, impossible high. But like Icarus, my happiness drops at a devastating rate when I don’t find anything else for the next year. I guess this is vintage shopping? Regardless, back in February, I found a vintage Pucci dress for two hundred and fifty dollars, which I authenticated, and I felt like the luckiest girl alive. The dress needed a complete makeover. I did it. Now the Pucci dress looks phenomenal — I will write more about this — and I gave new meaning to a garment that someone else had let go of. I cannot wait to wear it. New: New-age Pucci screams fashion girl in the best way possible. It is bold, powerful, a little bot-ish at times, but it gives you an insane boost of confidence that only powerful colors can. I love new-age Pucci, and I am utterly devoted to it. When April comes, I am always on their website purchasing items, and come July, as my mom says, my summer luggage looks like a replica of Carnaval. She sometimes means it as “too much.” Alas, my mom is a Taurus, so she gets over it pretty quickly and then realizes it is cute. I think everyone should be Puccimaxxing this summer, and here is how you can. The standalone items: this sheer top, which can be worn with jeans, with silk black bermudas, and is literally perfect for a night out in New York on a hot summer day. Then there’s the standalone skirt, which, as styled on the website, is marvelous, but a white t-shirt will do too. Perfect for a night out in Miami. The sets: The Pucci sets are endless, marvelous, delightful, and well, the desire of us all. I only chose two that I thought were perfect for Eurosummer. This baby blue skirt and top are perfect for a night out in Capri in August, but also work as standalone pieces for a little Miami getaway in February. Then, this fantastic wrap-around top and skirt set is very stunning and works perfectly for Ibiza, but also great to dine at JNcQUOI Asia in Lisbon.

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I saw someone wearing hot pink Juicy Couture pants in Argentina, and one of my family members — I won’t out you, don’t worry — casually mentioned that I cared way too much about brands. This family member said I was such a consumerist and my parents should worry because that couldn’t be good, right? Now, my twenty-eight-year-old self simply reassures my inner child: I have always been a diva and a lover of fashion. Am I a bit materialistic? Sure, but who isn’t? I don’t claim to be above wanting and desiring things. I am writing this to soothe that ten-year-old self that felt deeply embarrassed to point out Juicy Couture pants. My statement was pure and had good intentions.

People called me materialistic and consumerist under the pretense that this would cause commotion in my insides, that I would feel ashamed. Yet most people didn’t understand that my love for brands, fashion, and garments was intrinsically a philosophical and artistic endeavor, moved by love rather than the desire to show others what I could possess. I do love shopping, but this is neither a defining characteristic of me nor some sort of death sentence people think it is. Shopping as a way into understanding beauty, understanding the craft, and understanding why a certain silhouette moves you — that is something else entirely. And yes, if shopping is all you think about, that’s a problem. But that was never the point for me.

Just a quick side note, because it matters: when my male cousins were interested in Hot Wheels and had plenty of all the models, nobody called them consumerists at all. A boy who collects is a hobbyist. A girl who curates a wardrobe is a problem. It’s rough for a girl — especially for a mini diva in her formative years of becoming a full one.

I have always loved getting dressed, and somewhere along the way, the judgment of being obsessed with fashion got automatically fused with being deemed vapid and shallow. It felt like a Salem Witch Trial allegation — an accusation so disproportionate to the crime that defending yourself only makes you look guiltier. When you are a kid, you are still understanding the world around you, but when your life is populated by people who judge your every move, every skirt choice, who clock whether the bag you are carrying is Celine, you become coy. It disrupts your sense of discovery. It interrupts the quiet, private process of figuring out what you actually like. While it is easy to say, as an adult, that none of that should matter, judgment still very much shapes your choices when you’re young enough to believe the adults around you might be right.

Thankfully, I am Jewish, so Yom Kippur always comes around — and I can repent for my materialistic sins. As for the ones who judged me, I am not entirely sure you can repent for your sins because your wardrobe is a sin of its own!!! Tea!!!

For a good chunk of my time, succumbing to that judgment made me shy to fully explore what I actually liked. Most of it remained in the realm of Pinterest. A young girl in Manaus scrolling through pictures, saving everything posted. Then begging my parents for a Proenza Schouler PS1 bag, not only because Leandra had it, but because it was an homage to what the cool kids in the downtown New York scene were wearing. And because I liked how the PS1 came to be. The first time I came across it, I researched obsessively. Why was it created? What was the intention? The inception of the item fascinated me — the desire to be the anti-it-bag. I thought the concept was brilliant. I was always drawn to stories, to the idea behind a garment, its structure, and sometimes, its functionality.

Partially, being under scrutiny helped. Since I couldn't play around in Vivienne Westwood skirts without being judged, I could still research, spend hours studying, figuring out what I loved. Tumblr, Pinterest, YouTube, Teen Vogue, i-D — I used everything within my reach to understand my own taste and perhaps imagine myself wearing these garments that I would one day possess. My parents, ever supportive of my diva endeavors — they've always known, thankfully — would gift me something interesting when I traveled. A reward for pristine grades was always something I had saved on Pinterest. Getting a new garment, a new bag, a new shoe was a joy, not because I would wear it in Brazil, for what, to be deemed consumerist again? — but because I would wear it abroad, with love and respect for the history of the item. I didn't have a blog, didn't have an aspiring influencer career, didn't live in Paris or New York — not yet. I collected these things to wear in places away from the eyes of people who did not understand. I collected these things knowing that I was working toward my future wardrobe in the cities I desired to live in. Manifestation, I guess.

This cumulative experience had its pros and cons. The con: it took me a long time to understand what I liked, and because of that, I felt I needed to be trapped in a box — a defining style, a definitive sense of taste, something very square and legible to make sense. The pro: I grew up and realized that it's not at all what style and taste are about. I decided at the ripe age of twenty-eight that putting myself in a box of stylistic choice is reductive and pointless. Why not deep-dive into everything I like and let the intersection of it all represent me?

My style cannot be defined by words. It is inherently me.

Now I look at my diva closet in Manhattan. My mom’s vintage JPG tops, low-rise Escada pants — she rocked those — her vintage denim LV, because she is a diva who always knows trends before they become ones, and many other treasures. My mother-in-law’s vintage D&G suits, Alexander McQueen blazers, Chanel shirts, fun foulards, and so many others. And my own collection: the bags I purchased when I was younger, which I still wear with pride and love. Garments I bought then and some with my adult money, which makes me extra happy. I look at all of it with joy, because the fear of being deemed materialistic no longer scares me. Because I know I am not. I wear these things around my diva friends, and they say “I love your outfit” with genuine delight, and we exchange brands, styling tips, and love for each other rather than judgment. We trade histories of garments the way other people trade book recommendations — with enthusiasm and without apology.

What is my style and how do I define it?

The quote "Maddy knew who she was from a very young age" in Euphoria tickled something in my brain when I heard it for the first time — not because it taught me something, but because it named something I already felt. I never had a quest for finding myself because I know who I am. I know where I come from. I know my roots, my values, and everything that has culminated for me to become me. When my ground gets shaky, unstable, I am quickly reminded — gently and oftentimes not so gently — where I am from and where I am going. Naturally, clothes have been part of this narrative as well.

There was no major style transition; I just matured. Again: I always knew what I liked. But I was certainly an embarrassing teen, trying to figure out who I was in the midst of Hervé Léger wearers in the tropics, girls who thought Doc Martens were embarrassing, didn't understand that Girls was the best TV show ever made, and who Eve Babitz was. My style was obviously, simply put, not conducive — and still isn't — to what most Brazilians deem tasteful.

A girl who went to middle school with me once giggled because I wore Converse to school and because I wore my school T-shirt aggressively oversized, as a way to be nonconformist within the code. I always had a big problem with authority. I shrugged, while her little minion giggled. At the end of the day, I came back home to myself — and that was enough. That was always the difference: I had somewhere to come back to. (P.S. they get to live with their botched faces from fillers and wear matching blazers for the past ten years as if they were still perpetually trapped in 2016!!!!)

When I moved countries, I found myself more at ease in my own skin. I could play around with the items that were collecting dust in my closet because people abroad, especially in the States, are trained to be respectful of people’s free will. From embarrassment to being surrounded by people who understand and love fashion as I do — that is a real pleasure. An immense delight. Because yes, embarrassment shapes you, but so does love, kindness, and being around people who call you cool, tastemaker, iconic, diva. Thanks to all of those who have kindly bestowed these titles upon me, even if I don’t think I deserve them. That is quite a big transition for the fashion girl.

Yet if I know myself so well — if my style has remained quintessentially myself — why can’t I quite name it?

I found the question “What is your style?” upsetting, revolting, and honestly, difficult. Not because I don’t know what I like — I know exactly what I like, down to the stitching — but because the question assumes that style is something you can flatten into a word. Minimalist. Maximalist. Boho. Classic. As if the whole point of getting dressed every morning is to be legible to strangers. As if you owe people a label so they can file you away and stop thinking about it. It’s like being asked what my favorite color is. A death sentence. Can’t I choose all of them? If the rainbow exists, why should I limit myself to a single color when I can adore every one of them equally?

So when someone asks, I just list brands I like and make them guess. Draw your own conclusion from what I said. Aren’t we in a critical thinking crisis? I am just forcing people to think harder.

I’m joking. But it is a genuinely hard question to answer. The best, most annoying, most cliché answer is that I dress like myself and for myself. And the most honest thing I can say is that this answer used to frustrate me too — it felt like a cop-out, a thing people say when they haven’t done the work. But I have done the work. Years of it. Pinterest boards and Teen Vogue deep dives and garments worn only abroad and a closet that spans three generations of divas. And after all of that, the answer is still: I dress like myself. The difference is that now I know what that means.

Venn Diagram

When I gave Claude the prompt to help me create a Venn Diagram, nothing really felt right. I wrote it down, conceptualized it, and drew it several times. Threw several pages of my Louise Carmen notebook in the trash, until this one came to be!!!!

The leftmost circle holds The Row, Khaite, and Prada: brands that have restraint, impeccable cut, and the idea that the fabric should do the talking. I like them. I respect the craft, but they don’t make my pulse quicken. It’s not something that I must acquire, something that tickles my fancy all the time. I speak the language of minimalism in my personality; I love a good quality jean, a black blazer, and a good skirt, but while it is an amazing base for my wardrobe, it doesn’t fully express who I am. It’s like dreaming in Spanish, but my mother tongue is Portuguese. I feel connected to it, I love it, but I don’t do it all the time.

Then, the overlap — Toteme, Loulou Studio, Kallmeyer — is where minimalism starts to get personal for me. These brands share the clean-line DNA of The Row and Khaite, but they’re warmer and slightly more idiosyncratic. Toteme has that Scandinavian precision with unexpected proportions. Loulou Studio does cashmere and volume in a way that feels sensual rather than austere. Kallmeyer brings a quiet New York ease, the fluidity of deconstructed skirts that pair brilliantly — strategically, even — with a simple cashmere sweater. This is where I embrace minimalism; I don’t reject it, I just need a bit more spice.

Then comes the middle zone — Saint Laurent, Alaïa, Lanvin — and this is where the diagram gets interesting, because these three brands are the hinge of my entire taste. Saint Laurent is minimalism that learned to smoke at sixteen years old in the back of Lycée Janson de Sailly (is this too specific lol). Alaïa is minimalism that learned the body and lives for Salone del Mobile. Lanvin is minimalism that learned romance and moves like a contemporary dancer. They sit in that overlap where structure meets expression, where a garment can be architecturally precise and still feel incredibly dramatic. Where a cheetah print is not bold but inevitable — woven into skirts, bags, coats, as if it were part of the brand’s moral code. This zone connects back to the clean cuts I appreciate, but tilts toward the maximalism I adore. It’s the intersection, the Golden Gate Bridge of my tastes.

Then, there is my girl Isabel Marant. Floating in her own boho pocket, ever so slightly overlapping the middle zone and brushing the maximalist side. She’s the wildcard — the one that doesn’t follow the same logic as the rest. Boho is about ease and a kind of studied nonchalance, which is philosophically different from both the minimalist precision on the left and the conceptual maximalism on the right. Isabel Marant represents the part of me shaped by my years in France, but my Brazilian personality, a love of freedom and fluidity over rigor, in life and in the way I dress. The Aquarius in me, if you will.

And then the rightmost circle — Dries Van Noten, Maison Margiela, Patou — is where the hearts are, literally. These are brands built on storytelling, deconstruction, and the idea that a garment should provoke something. Dries layers prints and textures like a painter; I like to think of my outfits as canvases in the same way. Margiela questions what a garment even is, which matches my inquisitive and philosophically leaning personality. Patou, especially under Guillaume Henry, plays with heritage in a way that’s joyful and slightly irreverent. That this is my adore zone says everything. I am drawn to fashion that thinks, that provokes, that makes me feel something. In all this craziness, is there composure? Or does the craziness never produce composure, and we just pretend it does? How beautifully philosophical. That is what I live for: fashion that tickles my brain, provokes my mind, body, and soul. Fashion that references something that has a concept behind it, that has life behind it.

What does the whole diagram say about me? Truthfully, I am neither a minimalist who occasionally goes bold nor a maximalist who cleans up sometimes. I am someone who moves fluidly across the entire spectrum. Much like my personality, I overlap, I jump around, because what I am actually drawn to isn’t a look — it’s intention, a feeling, a sense of joy. For something to belong to me, it must move me, even if it is a simple pair of jeans. I must say wow. I must be swept off my feet. Every brand in my map, from The Row to Margiela, shares one quality: a clear point of view. This gradient from left to right isn’t really quiet-to-loud. It’s where I live — as a ghost, in between all of these concepts, at all times. My heart lives in every circle because for me, getting dressed has always been a form of saying something. Not to signal that I am the best dressed, but so that when you see me, you think: this is who Rachel is — even if you can’t quite put a finger on it. And how joyful that is. To be someone who never gets to be fully decoded, but is loved either way :)

For so much of my life, people tried to put me in a box. Consumerist. Materialistic. Too much. And for a long time, I believed them, or at least I let their boxes shrink the space I allowed myself to move in. But boxes are only as strong as the person standing inside them. At some point — maybe at twenty-eight, maybe right now, writing this — I decided to stop standing still. I wear The Row on Monday, Dries on Tuesday, and Isabel Marant on Wednesday when I’m feeling particularly free and French about the whole thing. None of it cancels anything out. All of it is me. Boxes can always be broken. I am free to dress as my own, live as my own, always.

Wellness to us is not biohacking, packing yourself with creatine, and pretending you're Immortal Unc on TikTok. Wellness to us is a holistic approach — it's taking care of both the mind and the body. What nurtures your belly? Yes, a quinoa salad is delicious, but so is ice cream. What nurtures your soul? Probably taking a flight from LGA to MIA in the depths of winter, landing, and hearing Spanish and Portuguese. But yes, going to a yoga class puts us at ease as well.

Miami has had a questionable reputation, but like in life — and in our true meaning of wellness — it's all about balance. Sure, you can party at Space until the sunlight reminds you that it is, in fact, 7 AM, your hair is frizzy from the humidity, your white tank top, skirt, and black boots are somehow not as dirty as you thought they'd be, and you go get a Cubano to either wake you up or put you straight to sleep. But you can also wake up at 8 AM, feel the breeze at the beach, grab a smoothie, and go to a Pilates class before spending the rest of the day in Bal Harbour. Wellness is about understanding where you are in life and what your body requires. A bit of drinking won't kill you. A bit of partying won't kill you. Because I'm pretty sure only eating kale and taking magnesium will make you, well…boring? And that’s not exactly wellness, is it?

And that’s the beautiful thing about Miami — much like the immigrants from Cuba, Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Brazil, and many others — it has a constant resilience and an ability to reinvent itself. Miami's transformation is itself an act of wellness, a city healing its own reputation. The Miami we've come to know is outgrowing its messy phase without losing its personality. It’s not becoming LA. It’s still Miami. But it also has cold plunges now. The velvet ropes are still there, but so are the yoga mats, and somehow that contradiction is exactly what makes it work.

Then there’s the energy you can’t bottle and replicate anywhere else — the cultural richness that feeds you in ways no supplement ever could. You eat Venezuelan arepa for breakfast, take a yoga class taught in Spanglish, and end the night hearing infinite pero, like, and bro in the same sentence. That blend of cultures isn’t just atmosphere — it’s a form of nourishment. It makes you feel like the world is bigger than your routine, and that alone is healing. That, mis amigos, is wellness. Also, let's not pretend the sunshine isn’t doing half the work lol. There’s a reason people fly south in the depths of winter, and it’s not vanity — it’s survival. Warmth on your skin, salt in the air, the ocean reminding you that you’re a small, beautiful speck. Natural Vitamin D absorbance. That’s wellness no studio can replicate.

Miami is no longer the city where you lose yourself — it’s becoming a city where you find yourself, too. New spaces are opening with intention. Studios, cafés, and spots that understand you don’t have to choose between a night out and a morning ritual. The city is renewing, and with it comes more nuance, more meaning, and a growing reputation as one of the wellness capitals of the Americas.

Miami’s motto, and ours, is simple: have fun, but take care of yourself. Here are four places that let us do both.

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This weather is destroying anyone's ability to get dressed properly — the rain is quite annoying, and the sudden temperature drops are actually abysmal. Everyone is sick, sneezing, and kids and adults are sharing the same runny noses, crunchy coughs, and well, it's a warzone out there. Nonetheless, we remain inspired!! For the first time in so many springs, we've had old friends visit, and how wonderful it is to have old friends form new memories in a city we both once shared. Our spring schedule lacks time for even ourselves — in between dinners, drinks, yoga, lunches, museum dates, and every packed week with esteemed guests from Brazil, France, Argentina, London, and well, all over the world coming to visit, it makes our hearts extra full. It makes us realize that even if the skies are gray, the flowers are blooming, and our lives continue to be rich in the things that matter — love and light.

1. Yellow and purple. A combination I love and adore so much I even based my entire room in this color combo (yes, my bed and side tables are purple and my wallpaper is mustard yellow with some purple/lilac/burgundy details)! But when it comes to clothing, it just comes alive in the best way possible. There’s something very confident about wearing chartreuse on purpose. Not as an accent — as a decision. It feels a little theatrical, a little impractical, which makes it perfect. The kind of choice that says you dress for your own amusement first. Color like this doesn’t whisper; it stretches, it poses, it insists. If you want to recreate it: I love that Falke has this amazing bright yellow pair but also this gorgeous lilac, and Swedish Stockings has this dusty lilac that looks great if you want just a subtle hint of color.

2. There’s nothing I love more than visiting a museum or an art gallery during my free time, and about two weeks ago, thanks to my dear friend Marina, I visited my new favorite museum and ended up with a newfound love for Soutine’s works. He painted fish and carcasses with such intensity they almost look like they’re shifting on the canvas. There’s a story that when he was working on his famous sides of beef, he kept the raw meat in his studio until it began to decay — neighbors complained about the smell, but he refused to remove it because he wanted to capture it “alive.” His work feels urgent, unsettled, slightly feverish. A reminder that beauty doesn’t have to be tidy to be powerful. Sometimes it’s better when it’s a little undone. Can’t wait to start reading his biography!

3. Jane B. by Agnès V. The film is a beautiful birthday present/tribute from Agnès Varda to her dear friend Jane Birkin, where she allows Jane to slip between versions of herself — romantic, bored, theatrical, impossibly charming. It’s not about authenticity; it’s about fluidity. About understanding that identity can be playful. That you can try on moods like outfits. There’s something deeply comforting about that. The film feels intimate but slightly theatrical, like you’re aware of the lighting. A reminder that we’re always, in some small way, staging ourselves — and that can be beautiful. Not fake. Softness as performance. Just intentional.

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I never take anything personally, which is very Brazilian of me and probably one of my most admirable qualities. If someone doesn’t like me, I move on. If someone is rude to me, I complain a little — maybe vent over a coffee, maybe send a voice note to my best friend — but eventually, I move on. I have a motto: live with as much levity as humanly possible. Life is already hard enough, so why overcomplicate things for no reason?

I carry this same energy into friendships. If a friend no longer fits, I move on. There’s no need for a sit-down, a conversation, a dramatic explanation. Go live your life and let me live mine. That’s always been the deal. Let me get this out of the way: if you are my friend at this stage of my life and you stop talking to me, I will probably not care. It is most likely your problem, and you are most likely not a long-standing friend, so there isn’t much for me to mourn. I also don’t expect friendship to be anything other than friendship, so if you don’t understand the concept, it probably means we were never meant to be friends in the first place. And that’s okay. I move on quickly. I have enough friends to give my life meaning.

But there’s always an exception.

There is only one friendship estrangement I have taken deeply, almost unbearably, personally. It left an emptiness that has been difficult to name, though thankfully, others have helped fill it. I doubt this person will ever read this. But if they do — tant pis.

Past

I was in France in the summer of 2017 for almost two months, taking a Sociology course at the Sorbonne that would count heavily toward my university credits. I was always fluent in French and had always felt at home there, so I figured — why not? While I was there, I kept a very tight routine: wake up, class, see friends, go to bed. My best friend — who is still my best friend to this day — hosted a big Shabbat and introduced me to all of her nearest and dearest. That’s when I met the person who would become my ride or die for a good chunk of my transitional adulthood.

Let’s call him Joseph.

I met Joseph that night, and we clicked over a sarcastic joke and a commentary about a cake. We spoke briefly, but he struck me as very calm, cool, and collected. Placid, taciturn, and intelligent. We couldn’t talk for long because at a party you have to cater to different people, and I was eager to be more involved in my best friend’s life, so I had to do my rounds. Seeing that I had to split my attention, he invited me to get coffee in a couple of days, before he left for his holiday. Most of the people at that party were phenomenal, but they would become the kind of sporadic friends I cherish yet only see once a year. Joseph and I, though, both studied in Boston, which meant I’d get to keep a piece of that part of Paris close enough to me.

When we went for coffee, his demeanor didn’t really change, but he was less concerned with keeping up appearances. He seemed more relaxed — not totally, but more. I could sense he didn’t feel entirely comfortable around me, and that was okay. We didn’t really know each other yet.

We both agreed that our university friends were mostly flaky, obsessed with the wrong things — clubs, drinking, all the performative rituals of being young and abroad. We knew what it felt like to crave something semi-familiar: quiet weekends, movies, playing cards, a bottle of wine. A more pared-down existence. That was our first point of connection. After coffee, we promised to stay in touch over the vacation. We didn’t. And when we ran into each other again in Boston, we laughed at the predictability of it.

When I tell this story, conclusions are drawn — they always are. So let me address it: in Brazil, and apparently in France, friendships across gender lines aren’t strange. They’re just friendships. We both expected this to translate to the US, and it didn’t — people were cliquey in ways that felt foreign to us, and I think we were both quietly relieved to find someone who didn’t think our friendship required an explanation.

While we didn’t start as best friends, we became close without noticing it. We started seeing each other more and more — every weekend, eventually. I’d do Shabbat with him. He’d introduce me to his friends. I started speaking solely French and English; my brain fogged out Portuguese entirely. One day, I was speaking French in my sleep, and we laughed a disgusting amount about it over ice cream. We’d do exactly the kind of plans I had always craved in college. Go to someone’s house, drink wine, play a game, have dinner, and see a movie. Relaxed plans that didn’t involve going out, posting on Instagram, or doing anything remotely performative.

For example, I have a very fond memory of a crisp afternoon when we had nothing to do. Joseph said, "I will teach you a life skill. Let's go to my house." I genuinely thought he was going to teach me how to make an omelette. When I got there, he told me to sit down, arranged some cards on the table — it looked like we were about to play Solitaire. I told him how confused I was, and he said he was going to teach me Crapette, which is a French card game, a kind of competitive solitaire. I said, "How is that a life skill?" He said, "Party entertainment is a life skill — but you can talk to a tree, so I'm guessing you'll never need this." He shrugged. "Besides, you're always around French people. Impress them with this niche knowledge." We laughed, opened a bottle of wine, and played for hours. He got pleasantly annoyed when I beat him. Those were our kind of plans. Nothing was ever performative — and again, not a video, not a picture taken.

In fact, looking back, I only have one picture with Joseph — a blurred selfie. All there is are memories. Which, given how this ends, is a betrayal on its own.

There was a lot of levity in our friendship, which is why I enjoyed it so much. While our bond deepened and our conversations became more abstract, philosophical, and complicated, the friendship itself became lighter. If I couldn’t come, no problem — we’d see each other next week. If we just wanted to get ice cream and sit in silence for the rest of the day, that was fine too. Sometimes I’ll be scrolling through TikTok and see one of those memes that says something like “best friend so hard the hangout doesn’t matter.” That was our friendship. The reason I liked being around Joseph so much is that he mimicked the friendships I was used to back in Brazil. Levity. No pressure to perform. No pressure to do anything at all.

Furthermore, Joseph was like a sibling to me. I am more than content with my diva sister, but I had always wanted a brother, and Joseph filled those shoes in what was, admittedly, a quite egotistical endeavor on my part.

After 2017, even with our ups and downs — our disagreements, our distinct political views, our very distinct opinions on favorite painters, philosophers, and life in general — we became a unit. I have a friend who, to this day, says she doesn’t understand how someone so different from me could end up as my best friend. When she raised this concern to him back in 2019, he just shrugged in that very French way that is so stereotypical I won’t even bother describing it.

I’m glossing over a lot — for his privacy, for your patience, and frankly, for mine. If I told you everything, you’d be exhausted. But I want to be honest about what I’m leaving out, because what I’m leaving out is the point. Friendship is not linear. The people who stay in your life are not the ones you never fight with. They’re the ones you fight with and then show up for anyway. I believed that the way you believe in something you’ve seen proven over and over again — not as a theory, but as a fact of your life.

I also believed this: that the friendships that last are the ones that can break and yet choose repair over pride. Every single time. Not because it’s easy, but because somewhere along the way, the friendship stops being a choice and starts being a fact. Like gravity. You don’t decide to believe in it. It just holds. And what no one tells you is that gravity can fail. That the thing you built your understanding of a feeling on can just — stop. And you’re left standing there, still believing in the physics of it, while the ground beneath you is already gone.

Joseph filled a part of my life that I desperately needed during my transitional adulthood: a friend who was a constant when everything else wasn’t. I’d call him late at night for advice on the stupidest things. I leaned on his shoulder and cried on the disgustingly gross steps in front of someone’s dorm when I had a silly crush on someone who did not reciprocate. Joseph was the first person who told me my writing was good — that I should continue, sharpen it, make something of it. That it deserved, at the very least, to exist somewhere beyond the confines of my own mind. And, as a sibling would, he was also the first person who would call me out on my bullshit. Debate with me. Piss me off. Give me unprompted, unsolicited advice, and then eventually say something like, “but you do whatever you want to do,” or, “You are being stupid.”

I thought our friendship would change when I started dating my partner, and it did — but for the best. Joseph and I's friendship became much more mature. He helped me navigate the complexities of having a proper boyfriend, and my partner eventually became my best friend. While Joseph still remained my best friend, he operated that role with much more care and served in a different capacity. Without much explanation, he understood my loyalty to him even if my time was now more limited. I didn't need to mince words — my friend understood what was left unsaid. And now, with a half-joke, he'd say, "Now it's time for you and Michael to set me up."

He was the second friend to meet my partner, and he gave me his stamp of approval: "He is great. So calm. You need someone like that. Cherish him deeply." Then, naturally, we integrated Joseph as part of our lives. He would come over to our apartment, hang out, and — as he always did — continuously be there for me.

In 2020, when the world felt bleak, Joseph went back to France — and something life-altering happened to him. I won’t share what, out of respect for our friendship, but I will say this: I was stuck in the US, going through sleepless nights, doing everything I could to make sure he was okay from a distance. I felt horrific about not being physically present, but I didn’t have time to absorb my own feelings because I was too busy being there for him. After the whole situation passed, our friendship solidified. COVID came, and our friendship adapted — to Zoom, to WhatsApp, to FaceTime.

But I watched my friend change through a screen. Joseph always had a sense of deep ennui that plagued him — when we were younger, I just thought he was French. Yet what I had written off as a cultural characteristic was something more endemic, and now it had nowhere to hide. There were days I’d feel mentally drained from our calls, but I owed it to him. Or maybe I didn’t, and I felt like I did. Wearing the best friend hat for this period was rough. But levity was always our language, and even when the conversation turned morose, we found our way back to it.

It wasn’t helpful that my life had taken on a stark contrast to his. I had friends in New York, a good relationship, a new job — it seemed like my life was taking shape while his was stuck in a waiting room. So I did what I could: I took his existential dread and tried to transform it into drive. I offered guidance like a family member would — with levity, nuance, kindness, but also a hint of “bro, wake the fuck up.” As he would tell me later, it wasn’t therapy — it was just me being me.

At the end of 2021, right when he made a life-altering decision, he paid the quickest visit to the US known to man. Yet, we still made time to see each other.

We spent a couple of days together, and as we cruised through Central Park, conversing about where we both were in life, we came to a realization: we had been friends for almost six years. How crazy. How life had changed. How much we had changed. Joseph told me he was ready for a girlfriend, and I told him the universe would tell him when he was ready; he called me insane on a Central Park bench. He said I shouldn’t get a dog because I travel too much. He told me how he feared his English was going badly and felt embarrassed that he couldn’t properly communicate with Michael this time around.

I could tell this was the same person who had taught me, six years ago, how to play Crapette. The friend who once corrected my French and then admitted, “I’m being an asshole and playing tricks on you — what you said was right.” The person who hated his second-year roommate so much that we came up with a stupid nickname to refer to him in his presence. The same person who taught me a collection of newly renovated French swear words, which he deemed “useful to scream when you hit your toe on the table” or “in traffic, anywhere in the world.” I could see all of that in him still — and yet, a new, more mature person sitting beside me, with more pressing problems than grades.

As we walked, the wind was cold, mildly hitting our faces. My friend said something I don’t think ever needed to be said: “Rachel, I strangely think you are my best friend, and it’s a shame we aren’t neighbors.” It was such a poignant moment. I didn’t need the reassurance — I had always had a feeling, and it had always held its ground. “Bro, you are my best friend too,” I said. He added, “It’s hard having a friend who lives far away. Time is always a constraint. Time is always limited.” And he lit a pensive cigarette.

When I got a message that Michael was done with his hangout, I hugged Joseph goodbye. And I felt a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach, as if this weren’t a see-you-later but a farewell.

When we said goodbye, one of us said, “Why do I have a feeling we won’t see each other in a very long time?” And truthfully, I think that was the omen that haunts us to this day.

Where it all broke

2022 passed, and my friend and I were in very different spaces in our lives — living on oddly parallel lines that seemed to remain parallel. My life continued as it was, while his — the life he had mourned so deeply a year ago — was finally starting to take shape. But even if we didn’t feel it at first, time zones had quietly become an excuse for our busy lives getting in the way. The geographical distance started to pose obstacles in what we had prided ourselves on in 2020 for handling with such diligence. We both drifted — a cancelled FaceTime by me, a cancelled one by him — and yet, as our lives took shape in ways that no longer fit into each other’s, I didn’t really know this yet. All I thought was that it was merely a scheduling conflict.

The year passed quickly, and I had too much fun to care about anything external to my NYC bubble. But I had noticed that our exchanges had diminished abruptly — the songs stopped being shared, the podcast episodes and recommendations, the random videos, and worst, our messages where we actually understood the state of each other’s lives. By the end of 2022, I would reach out one day, and the message landed a couple of hours, if not days, after. I knew not to bother, I knew better than to ask, I wanted to respect my friend — but why wasn’t he respecting me?

Then came 2023. While I didn’t get radio silence, I got something almost worse: odd intervals of signs of life, here and there, just enough to keep me from calling it what it was. It wasn’t enough to sustain a friendship that had once been so solid. I knew better than to press on this wound, but I could feel something building in my stomach — something off, something I didn’t want to name yet.

Here is the part that hurts the most. 2023 was a very disturbing year for me, for reasons I won’t dive deeper into. The problems I’d had at seventeen were nothing compared to the ones I was having at twenty-five, and I needed my friend. Yet it seemed like the door had been closed, quite abruptly, onto my face — and I felt, at times, as if I kept knocking into the void.

July was an absolute horror show for my emotions. I was in Paris with a person who was turning what should have been a joyful trip into the worst nightmare of my life, all while having to stay cheery for an upcoming friend’s birthday. On top of all of this, two of my friends were going through breakups. I felt myself being pulled in multiple directions, across time zones, and my mind was taking turns I couldn’t keep up with. I couldn’t properly sleep. So I caved and texted my friend. What was the worst that could happen?

Then, as I was getting a blowout in Paris, I decided to pause and look at my messages. The bomb had been dropped. But it wasn’t really a bomb, was it? I knew it was coming. I had known for months — maybe longer — in that quiet, back-of-the-throat way you know something before you let yourself think it. My friend sent me a message that blurred between the lines of “we can no longer be friends,” with a half-assed apology. It felt like a great load of bullshit, but also carried an underlying notion of knowing. Deep inside of me, I knew exactly what this was about. I didn’t need him to spell it out. The friendship had been dying in increments — in unreturned attention, in shorter messages, in the growing silence between us that I kept filling with excuses. And now here it was, in writing, on my phone, while a woman blow-dried my hair in the 2nd arrondissement as if the world hadn’t just tilted slightly on its axis.

I read the message twice. Not because I didn’t understand it, but because I wanted to give myself the chance to feel something other than what I was feeling, which was, absurdly, relief. Not the good kind. The kind that comes when you’ve been holding your breath for so long that the exhale feels like collapse. I took a deep breath, adjusted my gaze in the mirror, and typed, “Alright.” One word. That was all I gave him. Not because I didn’t have more to say — I had years of things to say — but because I knew that anything I wrote in that moment would either be too much or not enough. I refused to beg someone to stay in my life who had already decided to leave. “Alright” was the most dignified thing I could muster. It was also, if I’m being honest, the saddest.

To make matters worse, the person sitting beside me at the salon — who knew exactly how much this friendship meant to me — watched the color drain from my face. She saw Rachel disappear in real time. When I handed her the phone, she gave a dismissive shrug and said something so stupidly reductive that I can't bring myself to write it here, because putting it into words would make the whole thing more real than I can bear. I suddenly felt oddly claustrophobic — it didn't help that this very famous salon has very vibrant wallpaper, which made me feel inexplicably annoyed. The sound of blow dryers echoed in my brain, and the ambient music was way too loud — some pop song I can't even remember now. I told her I needed air. Outside, the weather was strangely, almost poetically gloomy for July. I stood there silently bargaining with the sky, hoping rain would fall and take whatever I was feeling with it.

The cruelest part? I still don’t know why it ended. And I don’t mean that in the abstract, philosophical way people say it when they’re trying to sound evolved. I mean, I have replayed every conversation from that last year — every cancelled FaceTime, every message that arrived a day late — and I cannot locate the moment where this became inevitable. There is no scene I can point to and say, “there.”

My friends and I picked the situation apart like a crime scene, turning over every message until we landed on the most straightforward conclusion: someone, external, had decided my presence was no longer wanted — or needed, that my friendship had become a threat to something I wasn’t supposed to know about. But what if we got it wrong? What if the real reason was something else entirely — something quieter, stranger, less satisfying as an explanation? I sat with that question for longer than I’d like to admit. Not because I thought the answer would change anything, but because the absence of an answer had its own weight — the kind that settles into your posture, your sleep, the way you read a text from someone new and instinctively brace for subtext that isn’t there.

Eventually, I decided it didn’t matter. Not because I’ve made peace with it, but because chasing the dubious when you already have the obvious is just another way of letting something keep eating you alive. And I’ve given it enough of me already.

At times, I used to blame myself for not saving this. But truthfully, I don’t think this was my fault at all. I was drained. I had no willpower to fight for the friendship, given my mental capacity at the time. But I had felt it coming for so long that the arrival of it almost felt redundant — like mourning someone whose funeral you’d already attended in your head a hundred times.

As I do in my life, I kept going. I put my phone in my bag, took a deep breath, and moved on. I was set to depart for my friend’s birthday in a couple of hours. So I smiled, put on my armor, and — as always — performed the role that was bestowed upon me and that I carry with pride: being a good fucking friend. A regret I will never have.

Present

The months after were disorienting. I kept waiting for the grief to arrive properly — a definitive moment, something cinematic, something I could point to and say, “that was the worst of it.” Instead, it showed up sideways. I’d hear a dry joke in French and feel my stomach drop for no reason. I’d reach for my phone to send him a song and then stop, thumb hovering, remembering. I walked past the ice cream place near our old campus once and crossed the street without thinking about it — my body deciding before my mind caught up. The loss didn’t announce itself. It moved in quietly, rearranged small things, and waited for me to notice.

There’s a specific kind of grief reserved for people who are still alive but have chosen not to be in your life. It doesn’t behave like regular grief. It doesn’t have a funeral, a date, or a casserole from a neighbor. It just lingers in the background like a low hum you can’t locate.

For the entirety of 2023, I kept trying to name what this was. Mourning? Grief? Disappointment? At times, it was easy — it felt like the release of deadweight, a friendship I no longer had to carry. My partner, when this all first went down, said, “You know what? People like this don’t deserve you.” It seemed like such a simple sentence, but it was true, and I held onto it like a handrail. But other times — when something needed further analysis, when I needed a leaning shoulder — I could count on other people, thankfully. And yet there was still a part of me that missed what was gone. The feeling of letting go but still missing sometimes is very much like muscle memory. Ligaments that contract and de-contract, push and pull like bubblegum, but never seem to fully break.

It took longer than I expected before I could talk about this without my chest tightening. But I am at the mercy of being Brazilian, someone who does everything intensely. If I am your friend, I am your friend intensely. For a long time, I wore this like a punishment — something too heavy, too much, too loud for the world to comfortably hold. And now I see it for what it truly is: an immense reward. What a pleasure it is to feel. To love your friends. To be loved by your friends.

Regardless of how this friendship ended, regardless of who walked away and why — I was the one who showed up fully. I was the one who loved without apology, without reservation, without measuring out my warmth in careful, calculated doses. And if that’s losing, then I want no part of winning. I feel very much as if I keep winning this battle — not despite my intensity, but because of it. The capacity to grieve a friendship this deeply is just the shadow that love casts. And I would rather live in that shadow than never have stood in the light at all. This story was once a latent wound that pulsed, hurt, to the rhythm of my veins. Now, it is merely an invisible scar — something I can show people, the way I once showed off my cast when I broke my arm in seventh grade. A sign that I tried. Of my resilience — and of the lengths I went to be someone good to the people I love.

Later, once the rawness had passed, my partner said something else that stayed with me longer: “Just because this person brought you levity doesn’t mean they get to take it away. Bring back levity to your world without being dependent on this person.” That was the harder truth. And the one I needed more.

I speak about this as a life experience. I don’t regret ever being friends with Joseph — it gave me a lot of skills on, well, life. This experience has made me more cautious around the people I have yet to know. It takes more time to earn my trust now. My healing process was also due to my amazing friends. It helped immensely that I have a very solid base of people I can rely on — people who showed me that my true self was never Joseph’s to give or take. It was always mine. And if anything, this made me cherish even more the people who stayed — the people I still give my heart and soul to, fully, even if with more care. I remain intact. Proud, even, to be that friend who stands fiercely by you. Nothing breaks my spirit. I’ve come to that realization.

We ceased communication with each other, and what once was a latent wound is now a funny story I tell over dinner. I shrug, and it becomes part of my lore, but it no longer impacts my days. I don’t expect my friend to reach back out. Last time I heard news about him and his life, I smiled and said, “Good for him” — because truthfully, I wish him all the best. I do miss our rapport, our banter, the good and bad advice, the incessant debates over Picasso, Klee, Plato, and Godard, and all of the futile and silly memories we once shared. Yet, I no longer allow myself to feel broken by a choice made by another person.

Earlier, I said that the friendships that last are the ones that choose repair over pride. I believed that — and part of me still does. But I’ve learned two things since then, things no one really prepares you for. The first: that sometimes the most loving thing you can do for yourself is to stop showing up for someone who has already left the room. It hurts, yes. But not as much as lingering — that slow, borderline torturous ache of waiting for someone to turn around when they’ve already decided not to. The second, and probably the more important one: gravity can fail. And when it does, you don’t keep falling. You find new ground. You stand on it. And eventually, without really noticing, it holds. And the fact that I can sit here, type this, write about all of it, having loved every minute of it — that makes me feel like a putain winner, after all.

1. Dries Van Noten Printed Leather Top Handle Bag (Rachel): When I saw this bag at Dries, I was stunned. It’s the perfect day-to-night transitional piece—ideal for strutting around during the day, yet just as fitting for dinner. I love the snakeskin texture, which adds flair; it’s not overly basic, but still extremely neutral. Everything about this bag makes you look like you’ve just returned from an impossibly chic trip to Les Puces de Saint-Ouen—except it’s brand new and crafted in Italy. The printed leather, the sculptural yellow handle, the fact that it’s Dries…this is the kind of bag that starts conversations with strangers, and we are absolutely here for it. It’s playful yet refined, which is exactly the sweet spot we’re always chasing. I, of course, already bought it, because I essentially treat the things I love like bratty children—I scream ‘I want it!’ and they materialize in my closet!

2. Fara Homidi Essential Eye Compact (Rachel): I’ve been obsessed with Fara Homidi’s approach to beauty ever since she launched her first product—the hand-mixed shades, the refillable lacquered compact, and the formula designed to look lived-in rather than perfectly set. Every SKU she releases has that effortlessly cool, slightly smudged, ‘I woke up like this, but better’ energy. The Trio No. 61, with that pop of blue? Chef’s kiss. This is the kind of compact that lives in your bag and makes you feel cool without trying too hard.

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1. Fruity Booty is my new obsession, and I will not be taking questions at this time!! I will admit it freely: I used to dread shopping for lingerie. But in this new wave of brands surging to the surface, something has shifted — and I have found myself increasingly drawn to funky, playful pieces that double as accessories in their own right. A cheetah bra peeking out in the summertime? Je m’en fous. I think it is, frankly, quite charming. Fruity Booty caught my attention first by name alone, which already made me giggle, which is honestly all it takes. But what kept me there is the brand’s entire ethos: lingerie that simply refuses to take itself too seriously. Let’s have fun with this, it says — and then it has perhaps a little too much fun, which I mean as the highest possible compliment. In the lingerie department, this cheetah bra and briefs set has been on my wishlist since the moment I laid eyes on it — restocking cannot come soon enough. This cheeky bra and brief set is equally irresistible and feels tailor-made for summer. And beyond lingerie, their take on the double-layered shirt deserves its own moment — this one in particular is so adorable I had to include it.

2. Remember this old article here where Hanna and I gave our tips on how to elevate your fashion girlie world/ecosystem/life? Well, packing has just gotten considerably more cutesie — and the culprit is Heimat Atlantica. This brand is simply adorable, and I mean that in the most elevated sense of the word. From perfect summer accessories like shell earrings and necklaces, to raffia bags that make the ideal gift for your friend with a summer birthday — our Cancer, Leo, and even Virgo friends will find something here that feels entirely made for them. It is that kind of brand. Now, buying several pieces at once may not be the most practical decision — but as a gift? Unbeatable. These packing bags in particular are a thoughtful, chic way for your loved ones to store special items while traveling; scarves, gloves, silk tops, the things that deserve a little extra care. This one here feels like one of the perfect finds for that specific friend in your life — you know the one. She follows Vic Montanari, Barbara Santiago, and all the Portuguese girlies. She has a linen set for every occasion and considers packing an art form. She will thank you, and you will wink at me!

3. International It Girls 5ever. We are going to say something that may ruffle a few feathers, and we are entirely at peace with that: if your style icon is CBK, we are not sure we can help you. And we mean that with the gentlest possible love. There is something so distinctly West Village white American girl from Connecticut about that choice — and we say Connecticut very specifically, and very deliberately. Now, Jane Birkin, we understand. Jane Birkin, we respect. The world has made its case, and the case holds. Duh, icon daughters Lou Dillon and my ultimate DIVA CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG? Idol. But can someone please explain to us why, in the United States, the conversation begins and ends there? Where is the Brigitte Bardot discourse? Our French diva who wanted to be Brazilian, who tied a foulard better than anyone who has ever lived, who was simultaneously the most desired woman in the world and deeply unbothered by it? And while we are at it, why are you not obsessed with Catherine Deneuve? With Sophia Loren? With Françoise Hardy? With Marisa Berenson, who existed at the intersection of art, fashion, and Old Hollywood glamour as if it were simply her birthright? With Gogoosh, one of the most iconic women to have ever graced a stage? With Ofra Haza, whose voice could rearrange something inside of you? The international divas are right there. They have always been right there. CBK had a certain charm, and we will absolutely let her soul rest in peace — but let us be honest with ourselves: the appeal was, in large part, that everything looked good because everything was, well, relatively simple. There is a difference between effortless and iconography. We are simply asking you to know the difference — and to broaden the vision board accordingly…Now, please, you can go search everyone's name :) Expand your references, broaden your worldview. Enough thinking that everything only exists in the US.

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Jonathan Anderson made our winter considerably brighter by celebrating the classics, and we are grateful. Though we will admit — there is something quietly tragic about knowing these will eventually end up at La Guérite or Il Pellicano, in the hands of a Russian bot who has absolutely never opened Crime and Punishment and, more devastatingly, couldn’t tell you who wrote it. The joke, as they say, writes itself.

And yet — we still stop at Dior windows everywhere we go, genuinely excited to see which title each city chose to spotlight. For the US, we imagine something a little more audience-friendly: In Cold Blood, perhaps, or Wuthering Heights. Equally beautiful. Equally deserved.

Reading for fun in the US has dropped by 40% , which is, frankly, alarming. The United States has long been a country we associate with exceedingly high intellect, avid readers, devoted moviegoers, and genuine lovers of culture and entertainment. This piece is not as deep as we would love it to be. Still, it offers a glimpse of a steady and concerning decline, and of just how dependent we have all become on digital media as a substitute for genuine curiosity.

Rachel always tells this story that lives rent-free in both our heads: at a workplace dinner, she found herself seated among C-level and SVP executives and asked, almost innocently, what everyone had been reading lately. A habit fostered in our family for decades, and a relatively low-stakes topic one could reasonably expect at any dinner table — someone would mention a book about art, perhaps, or a recent autobiography. Instead, Rachel was met with either silence or uncomfortable, quietly shameful variations of ‘nothing interesting as of late.’ She remembers thinking: How do these people not have time for even ten pages?

Then they turned it around on her. Being the youngest at the table, they were clearly expecting something unremarkable — something easily dismissible. Instead, Rachel mentioned she had recently finished a remarkable book by Bella Freud, even if the prose was a touch labyrinthine at times. She was currently reading a Nobel Prize winner, Le Charlatan, in French, because it simply felt better that way. And next on her list? A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros, which she was already eager to get to. The table was visibly stunned. They asked how she possibly had time for all of it. Her answer was simple and, frankly, a little devastating in its logic process: less time on the phone, more time with a book. One executive, impressed despite himself, asked ‘why?’ She said ‘why not?’

And honestly — why not indeed.

As we scroll through the headlines, it’s hard not to feel a little discouraged. But then — and this is the thing — you spot someone on the subway, at a café, on a flight, pulling out Les Fleurs du Mal, and something in you lifts immediately. It doesn’t matter how painful that read was in our early teenage years. There is an unspoken wink exchanged in those moments, a quiet, shared devotion to reading and discovering that reminds you it is not entirely lost. Not yet.

As part of our curation, we have decided to condense our book reviews and organize them by season rather than as standalone pieces. Because for us, reading has never left — it simply never had the chance to. For those of us who love it and carve out the time for it, it is less of a habit and more of a lifeline. In that spirit, enjoy our reading curation — the books that made our winter a little easier, and the ones we are already recommending for spring.

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When I asked Alex to be a guest for By Benchis, she was absolutely giddy — and even though it wasn’t her first time supporting what we do here, she showed up with the same excitement as if it were. That tells you everything you need to know about her.

I met Alex in 2022, and our friendship was established almost instantly, cemented by a shared, completely unironic love for Harry Potter. The two of us, at our respective ages, giggling at a table in the West Village and debating Snape’s moral code — who cares? I liked her immediately, and naturally, things progressed from there.

It's hard for me to describe Alex without getting a little teary-eyed. It's one thing to find someone who thinks like you — it's another thing entirely to feel seen. And I think that's the core of our friendship. It lives in the small things: the songs we share, the memes, the podcast suggestions, the mini-podcasts (read: my very long voice notes — sorry, Alex…), the thoughts on the most recent Métier d'Arts exchanged like dispatches. We jump from subject to subject, trade life updates, and somehow our feelings always manage to stitch themselves into the critique of the fashion show of it all. We make each other nod — that slow, knowing 'yes, girl' or 'I think exactly like that too' — and even when we don't agree, we manage to make each other's world a little bigger. We share similar tastes and interests, and while our personal styles don’t perfectly mirror each other, our references somehow always meet in the middle of the same Venn diagram.

Alex is the kind of person who makes you feel like the most important person in the room. She’s reserved at first, but once she finds her footing, she gives you her whole self. I can count on her across any geographical distance — not just for a dinner reservation, but to dissect Sofia Coppola’s Marc Jacobs documentary and to pick up the phone when I say, ‘I’m in a funk, and I need a friend.’ Alex is incredibly deep and deeply in tune with her emotions — very much on the cusp of Cancer and Leo, and she manages to embody the best of both. Loyal, kind, intuitive, compassionate, generous, supportive, and fiercely protective. And nothing illustrated that better than this past birthday. Spent far from home, Alex did something I don’t think she fully grasps the magnitude of — she built an entire day from scratch, counted the hours, thought of everything, and gave me one of the best birthdays I have ever had. Little to very few people have ever done that for me. If that doesn’t speak volumes about a person, I genuinely don’t know what does.

Alex is a writer and a tastemaker at her core. Her newsletter, Hyperbole For Breakfast, is not only fantastic in its content but serves as a constant reminder that her talent with words is genuinely one-of-a-kind. At a dinner table once, among friends, I said Alex is our modern-day J.D. Salinger meets Joan Didion — and I meant every word. She can write a chronicle of her day and make it simultaneously deep, witty, and effortlessly fun, as if she had always had a magazine column — very much in the spirit of Eve Babitz’s heyday — lacing it with references that only land for the trained eye. And obviously, my friend is significantly cooler than any of her predecessors. What sets Alex apart is this fantastic, almost unfair ability to write about absolutely anything and leave you with an existential feeling you didn’t know you needed. That is not only compelling — it’s commendable. In a world that feels increasingly algorithmic, where blog posts are reduced to prompts and content to checklists, her writing feels like a breath of fresh air — like stumbling into Aix-en-Provence on a quiet morning. Thoughtful as Proust, and truly tasteful in every edge, every syllable, every word chosen.

It is no coincidence, then, that Alex is a devoted J.D. Salinger fan and loves all things Americana — California, especially, and the concept of it. I find it fascinating, yet I entirely understand why. It speaks to something very specific about her character and her taste. When she says ‘It’s the American in me!’ she isn’t just being charming — she is tapping into that particular vein of American culture that feels quietly overlooked, almost hidden, unless you know exactly where to look. And here's a thing about Alex: she always knows where to look.

Without further ado, enjoy Alex's itinerary — thoughtfully crafted for those with 72 hours in Paris and the good sense to spend them well.

Check out Alex’s newsletter, Hyperbole for Breakfast, and make sure to subscribe; you will get extremely inspired.

Day 1

“Good morning! The alarm rings at 7:15, and I make my first coffee of the day along with a green juice! I sip these while I feed my dog, whom I carry out of bed each morning, though perks up at the sound of the fridge opening. I take my pup out quickly; the first walk is barely a walk and only really exists to avoid an accident from happening while I go work out. If it isn’t raining, I will go out for a run on the quais, though if it is raining, I will go for a pilates class at Paris Pilates Society. I get back around 9:00, which is when I shower, get ready, and have a quick bite to eat before doing some work until lunch. Paris has so many cafes, though I am a creature of habit and like to rotate between places when I’m here. I take my dog with me, and we walk out the door! I get another coffee at Certified (Beaupassage) on the way and may stop for lunch at Cafe Varenne or Judy, one of the few ‘healthy’ cafes that doesn’t let you down in Paris. OR, I may meet my sister at the Rose Bakery.”

“Now, it is my belief that there is very little more satisfying than having a cappuccino and a salad at a mall. That’s just the American in me. Here, the mall in question is the Bon Marché, so that should settle everyone, and their food is always delicious and fresh. Great pastries, too! Because this conveniently brings us to the Bon Marché, what are we to do but to window shop a little? Since I have my dog with me, I can’t walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, but you should! I like to walk through, towards one of my favourite English-speaking bookstores, the Red Wheelbarrow. (Galignani is too far, and Shakespeare and Co. just gets too crowded (though I’ll order from Shakespeare and Co. in an attempt to stop ordering from a certain giant). My favourite dinner spot is Le Voltaire. I would go for their mushroom salad alone. If we want something a little more relaxed, I like La Fontaine de Mars or Jaïs.”

Day 2

“Today we are going to Talmaris, my most favourite homeware shop in Paris. I grab coffee on the way from Dialogues (192 rue de Grenelle) or Saint Pearl (they have multiple locations and the best matcha in Paris, in my opinion!). My dog pulls when she understands where we’re going. After all, it is her favourite shop, too (you may even spot her immortalised on a porcelain plate). There are no words to describe Talmaris, so you’ll have to go see it for yourself (by appointment!). Think aisles and aisles of Murano glasses, hand-painted plates from floor to ceiling, and porcelain flowers that will make you do a double-take. On the way out, I may stop at the bookstore of the Palais de Tokyo, which always has interesting selections of magazines, books about art and critical theory. I will also stop at La Pistacherie, the best place to get a jar of the most delicious nuts in Paris. They have quite an eclectic selection, too, and so much better than getting someone a candle. (My favourites are the lemon almonds and spicy pistachio).”

“Lunch is at Em Sherif Café, bustling with people, power or family lunches alike, delicious and luminous! You might want to take a digestive walk to Parc Monceau and then head home for a rest! If I wanted to get work done, I’d go to the coffee shop of the Finnish institute (60 rue des écoles) (not to be mistaken with the Swedish institute, which is also a great option but in a different neighbourhood entirely!). Not only does the cafe allow laptops, but the space is exactly what you’d expect it to be: clean lines, warm woods, and respectful & focused people! Aside from coffee, they also serve open face sandwich and buns. Although save space for dinner, because we are going to Ojji, not only for the fabulous Lynchean setting but for the delicious Japanese food, too!”

Day 3

“I do leave my neighbourhood sometimes, too. Though I tend to get horribly car sick, so when I cross town, I make it worth my while. If it is the weekend, I love going to the Puces de Saint-Ouen, but on my imaginary itinerary, it is not the weekend!!! Which means it is the PERFECT day to go to the 3rd/11th arrondissement, which gets quite crowded on the weekend. I start at Café Partisan, a cafe so cool that, to me is the closest slice of New York in Paris (my eternal search). I get a coffee and a few cookies to-go, stuffing them in my tote bag to bring home. I walk around and catch up on the neighbourhood. There are always fun new things opening around here, and I vow to come more often.”

“Ideally, I have an appointment booked with Elaine Huntzinger for an acupuncture facial. From there, I then stop by my favourite running shop, Distance. Even if I don’t need anything. I, at the very least, end up buying a pair of socks, because socks always go missing and their’s are the best. I go right next door to Yvon Lambert, a gallery and bookstore. I emerge inspired! Other shops I like are The Broken Arm and 0fr. Another thing I love to do in the neighbourhood is go to Off-campus, a cafe-librairie with a classroom at the back of it where you can take classes about anything from film to literature, to astronomy, topics in geopolitics and so on. The concept of this sounds fab, and I can confirm it is just as good in execution. I like the literature classes best, and always order a sobacha tea to sip during the class. It is dark and rainy by the time class finishes, so we’re getting into a cab and crossing town again, nausea be damned! I tell myself not to look at my phone, but I do and arrive at the restaurant at the very edge of vom. Don’t worry about me! Dinner is at the Grand Cafe in the Grand Palais, and the butter & bread basket and a Perrier citron bring me back to life.”

All I see are hauls. Endless hauls. Luxury hauls. Fast fashion hauls. “Resetting my aesthetic.” “Becoming a new era.” “Rebranding my closet.” To make matters worse, all of these were bot and bot-adjacent hauls, and if they weren't, they featured beige Khaite sweaters, basic Toteme jeans, which are great, but far from interesting. Why are these self-proclaimed fashion girlies not buying a chartreuse coat from Saint Laurent? Hm. I wonder why. The algorithm began equating “fashion girlie” with volume; more bags, more boxes, more beige sets arriving in cardboard waves. To each their own. I’m not here to police joy or consumption. But I wouldn’t call them fashion girlie. I would call that consumerism with a better pr.

A fashion girlie, à mon avis, is not measured by the number of Chanel bags in her closet. She is measured by her sensibility.

Fashion girlie is a spiritually enveloping concept. It is far more about being than about acquiring. It is a state of mind. A way of moving through the world. An attunement.

The fashion girlies in my orbit? Their closets are fabulous, yes. Enviable, even. But truthfully, their closets are the least interesting thing about them.

They are intelligent, curious, and referential. When we talk, we don’t only discuss what we bought — we discuss what we saw, what we read, what we felt. Yes, we might analyze Chanel's Métiers d’Art show staged in a New York City subway station — the theatrics of it, the politics of it, the romance of craftsmanship transported underground — but within minutes, we’re pivoting to the Venice Biennale and which edition moved us most. Someone will mention the latest issue of The Paris Review. We will definitely talk about Eve Babitz. Someone else will recommend a tailor in New York who understands shoulder structure like a sculptor, or a genius artisan in Rome who saved a vintage jacket from mediocrity.

At lunch, my fashion girlie friends recommend unglamorous things with equal fervor: Homeoplasmine for the lips. Mouth tape for sleep. A herbal tea that can only be found in a specific pharmacy in Paris for digestion. A specific detergent for silk. There is reverence for the practical. Prada sunglasses may be admired, but so is orthopedic wisdom for our vacations. We speak about comfort as devotion — about how these Marni shoes are on the wishlist not just for their silhouette, but for how they will survive cobblestones in Lisbon and airport sprints in CDG (or Barajas, because summer is coming). We will spend ten minutes dissecting the new Rimowa trunks — not as trophies, but as tools for practicality. Are they practical for a three-week summer? Do they glide well? Will they endure the airport staff in Milan?

There is no frantic need for proof amongst real fashion girlies. No urgency to document every purchase as validation, no compulsion to turn every new acquisition into content. The performance is unnecessary when the identity is internal.

There is also no obsessive need to speak only about fashion. In fact, that would almost feel reductive. If you truly love fashion, you inevitably love everything that surrounds it — art, cinema, architecture, literature, travel, people-watching, history, even the ritual of getting dressed itself. You understand that fashion does not exist in isolation; it is in conversation with the world. Most importantly, you love yourself within it.

You take care of your clothes. You mend them, steam them, store them properly. You understand fabric the way others understand language; you notice construction, lining, drape, the quiet architecture of a shoulder. You re-wear without apology and tailor instead of tossing. You don’t discard something simply because something new has arrived. You build a wardrobe the way one builds a library — slowly, thoughtfully, with intention — loving what you already own and adding only what deepens the story. Because the most powerful room you enter is rarely impressed by logos, but it always responds to presence.

The vibe exists whether or not it is posted. It doesn’t rely on external affirmation or algorithmic applause; it isn’t fragile, and it doesn’t expire in 24 hours. Fashion girlie is not about constant consumption but about curation — about discernment, depth, and fluency. It’s being the kind of woman who can discuss the Venice Biennale and lip balm in the same breath, who values a well-cut blazer and a well-argued essay equally.

Anyway — a few tips below, gathered from the collective wisdom of the fashion girlies in my life, and from me.

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Apparently, that annoying little mammal was right, six more weeks of winter. Dreadful. I, Rachel, am typing this while watching snowflakes fall, only to be swept upward again by the wind, as if even gravity is confused. It feels never-ending. The cold reasserts itself just when you thought you could mentally pivot to linen and light. We long for summer. We romanticize it. And yet, we try — we really try — to relish the goodness of having seasons. Still, it’s nearly impossible when a meteorologist calmly announces, “Northeast, brace yourselves for another blizzard.” Thank you, but respectfully… no.

Hanna is in Brazil. I was in Paris. Now I’m back in New York. Three different climates, three different skies, one shared question over Zoom: what is our mood? Between humid warmth, Parisian grey, and Manhattan frost, we found it.

Starting this month, our moodboards will be partially paid. Free subscribers will still get a taste — a window, a glimpse — but we’ve decided to keep more of our curation within a closer circle. Not out of secrecy, but out of intention. Taste, when overexposed, dilutes. We want to protect the depth of what we’re building. For paid subscribers, this means more access than ever before. We’re partnering with select shops all over Europe to offer exclusive discount codes, treatments, and even priority appointments in spaces that usually come with waiting lists. This is the direction we envision for By Benchis: thoughtful exclusivity for those who value it. The crème de la crème. A curated orbit :)

This month’s moodboard is about surviving winter while looking forward to spring — about holding both at once. It’s about embracing small rituals that make the cold feel poetic rather than punishing. It’s about gratitude for where we’ve been.

1. Croc-embossed Toteme heels. I am a Toteme girl. And yes — it feels particularly good saying I went to the O.G. location in Sweden and went absolutely ham. There is something delicious about shopping at a brand in its birthplace! It feels extra special. What I love most, though, is my buyer evolution. The shift from being a mere accessory buyer — the safe scarf, the dependable bag — to investing in tops, trousers, matching sets, pieces that feel like me. There’s an extra flare knowing my mom and Rachel are in this groove too — three women, same rhythm, slightly different interpretations. Regardless, let’s be honest, it feels good to receive princess treatment in a place you frequent. Associates who remember your sizing, your taste, your aura, and ultimately what you will like. Case in point: when the black croc-embossed kitten heels arrived in stores, I received messages from sales associates in Copenhagen, Stockholm, and both New York locations. It was almost comical. A small, niche shoe — and suddenly I had an international alert system. It felt funny. I ended up purchasing the black pair in New York purely out of proximity, but the fact that I had options across three cities? That’s relationship-building.

   And by the way, this is a masterclass in pristine customer service! When sales associates understand your preferences well enough to proactively reach out, you feel seen. They are an absolute cutie, and you should buy them too. If Farfetch is your thing, they have it, but in limited quantities. Moda seems to have this dark green iteration that looks gorgeous. Last, but not least, Net-a-Porter has this beige one, which I believe is nice for summer.

2. Layering. I love this layering methodology. It feels very 90s skater boy — Avril Lavigne-core in the best way, and honestly, I’m into it. Layering is easy because you can do it with what you already own, which is partially why I find it so cool. You don’t need to spend; you just need to rethink! A tank over a tee. A ribbed long sleeve under a slightly shrunken knit. Two tanks, different necklines, intentionally peeking out. An effort that looks accidental.

   I actually called this trend last year — when I saw SSENSE and Rachel's favorite brand, Flore Flore, team up on this layered top. And then there’s Adrien Cashmere. Last year, I went to a pop-up and met the creative minds behind the brand — and bought a few sweaters before, well, they became mainstream, and the bots started wearing them (lol). But what I love is that their whole identity leans into this idea. Cashmere, but not polite. Soft, but with attitude. Layered, slightly undone, intentionally off. It’s such a fun way to make cashmere feel less bland and predictable. Right now, I’m loving this pink one (cutie), and this skater-vibes one.

3. Indulging in pink makeup. I’m loving this era of indulging in pink eyeshadow. Whether it’s matte or something glowy, sparkly, and borderline molten — I’m down to explore more with makeup this year. There’s something about pink on the eyes that feels playful and a nod to my childhood self. Victoria Beckham’s matte option is perfect for that super editorial, almost undone matte look. It feels cool when paired with an equally cool outfit. Very, very, very into it. Then there’s the Vesuvio palette from Byredo — inspired by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Here’s a painting of it, and you’ll understand immediately. The smoldering pinks, the ashier undertones, the oppressive warmth. The storytelling behind it genuinely makes the palette more compelling. It’s not just pink — it’s volcanic, dramatic, and cinematic. And honestly? Byredo’s makeup is underrated and underhyped. If you want something more practical, this Chanel palette is incredibly versatile. But if palettes don’t excite you, do what I do: use a dramatic pink blush as eyeshadow.

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Angela, of course, went and posted one of the chicest packing diaries known to Substack (her Paris luggage spread was suuuper elegant!). I happily accompanied her throughout her trip on Instagram, fully overdosing on her good taste wherever she went. Inspired, I decided to do something adjacent — not what I packed, but what I actually wore. Because here’s the truth: I am a professionally fabulous packer and simultaneously a victim of my own excellence.

I do everything perfectly. The packing pouches. The outfit formulas. The correct quantities. The “emergency” extra bag for shopping. The sensible outfits. The chic outfits for a potentially elegant dinner that may or may not happen. I even pack for low-probability events: snow, rain, extreme comfort, sudden sophistication. Every variable accounted for; NASA-level logistics, after all, I work in A.I. operations. That means my methodical self is in a constant turf war with my spiritual self. “This Prada skirt isn't efficient, but is it cute?” These types of sentences echo through my apartment while I prepare my suitcase, no matter where I am traveling to. Because at heart, I am a mood dresser. My wardrobe choices operate on emotional patterns. So while the packing is technically flawless, the version of Rachel who packed is rarely the same Rachel who arrives at her final destination. She has evolved! She has shifted! She no longer believes in the power of those Louboutin shoes as she once did when she was back in New York.

Can you control this? Absolutely not. You simply close your suitcase, whisper a prayer, and hope the version of you who shows up is aligned with the outfits you packed…lol. This time, miraculously, I wore almost everything. Barely any resentment toward my past self. No suitcase regret spiral. A rare victory, so I thought I'd share it with you.

Feb 7th - Arrival in Paris, dinner at Jaïs

I arrived later than anticipated, which already royally pissed me off (thank you, Air France). The flight was supposed to leave at 9:30 p.m. It left at 1 a.m. — of course it did. I didn’t eat the entire flight. I am currently using my body as a lab rat in a highly unregulated jet lag experiment. The theory: fasting + exhaustion + strategic pharmacology = European time zone dominance. Truthfully, I may already be too conditioned to this continent, but still, I must test a theory. I landed in Paris delirious. My best friend had planned breakfast and a full day. Instead, I arrived feral. So hungry I could’ve eaten the plane itself.

I dragged myself to the hotel, showered immediately (I fundamentally reject the physical concept of airplanes), and headed out to meet her for a very late lunch at L’Esplanade. For reasons I cannot explain, in the culinary capital of the world, I was craving a club sandwich. One of my best friends growing up, Gabriel Bernardino, used to insist that Coke Zero cancels out the calories of any heavy meal. In the spirit of friendship — and science — I ordered one. The club sandwich arrived. I honored the hypothesis, and that meal brought me back to life.

I met my friend already dressed for dinner because Jaïs is a chic hot spot, and my beloved Alex secured this reservation months ago. Months. That level of commitment demands effort. The mere fact that she was locked in for this resy made me put on a cute outfit. And yet — no outfit picture taken. I was in bed by 11 p.m.

Jet lag conquered. Seven-hour fasted flight. Sleeping pill (very RHONY). Ate only upon arrival. YOLO. Or as the French would say, ça roule!

Feb 8th - Jet lag cured (?), pre-bday dinner at Gloria

I have a beautiful day ahead, fully dedicated to Alex — because I barely get to see her, and when I do, it’s an event. Alex is always sharply dressed. She somehow makes J.Crew cashmere sweaters look like the most expensive sweaters in the world. Much like her style, our hangouts contain multitudes. I’ll tell her about a recent exhibit that left me feeling deeply existential. Then, we will pivot to books that have been interesting to us. Then, without warning, we’ll pivot to Real Housewives and Anderson’s debut at Dior. The best vibes! Today I don’t expect it to be that cold, so I'm going with jeans and a fur jacket. It’s 13°C — which is nothing for me, who was surviving -16 °C just two weeks ago. I am seasoned. I am resilient. I got this. I say this as a morning affirmation.

After yapping, walking, shopping, and truly enjoying my day with my friend, I need a battery recharge. In Brazilian terms, I need a shower and a full outfit change. I decide to celebrate my birthday dinner la veille — not to be dramatic (I am), but to properly extend the festivities. Having a Monday birthday is inconvenient for my French crew, so on Monday, there will be a celebration, but only for the most subversive of us. Sunday night is for this big dinner. Dinner is at Gloria’s, a new restaurant all over my Instagram. I wear this ALAÏA dress that is very much the moment, paired with my heart bag from the same fashion house, because I believe in thematic consistency. Carel shoes, obviously. What else would I wear?

Feb 9th - My birthday, so I needed to dress up the whole day.

I do, allegedly, have work to do — the primary reason for this trip. Leisure is secondary…ugh, as if! Work matters, yes. I am responsible. I show up. I prepare. I take meetings on my birthday, which feels both nasty and deeply rude. But at least they’re in French, with French people, which means I am spared the sacred American trifecta of small talk: dogs, weather, etc. Instead, I get something else entirely. For about thirty minutes, there is always a moment of collective fascination as to why and how I speak French. They tilt their heads. They recalibrate. They are shocked — genuinely shocked — that I am Brazilian. And then I have to give them the lore. The continents. The schools. My whole lore. The full origin story. Every time and every interaction with a French person involves this. I don’t even take a picture of my work outfit. Which feels unlike me. Suspicious, even. But I wrap the meetings by 10 or 11 a.m., which means the rest of the day belongs to me.

My best friend Judith took the day off work to celebrate me. This sentence alone makes me cry. I love her in a way that feels cellular and molecular. She is my French clone — or perhaps I am her Brazilian one. We have lived most of our lives on entirely different continents, in different languages, in different rhythms, and yet she has always been present. Not in a passive, “we’ll catch up someday” way — but actively, intentionally, and perpetually woven into my life. Because of Judith, I took French even more seriously. Not academically-seriously. Emotionally-seriously. She planned the most special day for me. In her words, I must honor the diva title she bestowed upon me ten years ago. And this title, once bestowed, cannot be neglected! So I dress accordingly.

Judith planned the most special day imaginable. At lunch, I was surprised by one of my best friends — and her best friend — Audrey, who now lives in New York. The transatlantic symmetry of it all was almost too on the nose. I actually cried at Chez Marc’o (iykyk and I don't wanna sound pretentious, but we have special treatment there lol), which is not something many people can say in their lifetime. Public tears and zero shame. I felt so loved. Not in a casual, birthday card kind of way — but in a deliberate, embodied, “we showed up for you” way. The day before, in a slightly wine-induced speech, I had said that I finally feel chosen and seen by my real friends. Chosen. Welcomed everywhere I land. It sounds dramatic when written down, but it is true. After lunch, we wandered. Beautiful shopping. Discovery. The kind of aimless luxury that only works when you’re not checking the time. The entire day slowly began to feel like my birthday — not just technically, but spiritually. Which is both fun and deeply existential in that slightly unhinged way birthdays can be.

Then I went home to change because there was another birthday dinner — this one thrown by the superb crowd that does not believe in weekdays. We went to Le Grand Café inside the Grand Palais. Somewhere between outfit number two and the second round of hugs, I felt this strange sense of cosmic evolution happening inside me. A quiet internal shift. Growth mixed with celebration. I love and hate the feeling. It’s unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but freeing? Like shedding something you didn’t realize you’d outgrown.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I am happy. This is 28.

Feb 10th - One of my college's best friends is arriving, dinner at Ojii

Hectic workday. Don’t make me talk about it. I finally free up around 3:00 pm — which, for the French, is basically the end of the day. Thank God for European culture!!! The team invites me to an apero, and I politely decline. I don't need to befriend more French people. The outfit is corporate-ish. I stop by a relative's house and give my kudos. I honestly don't even feel like sharing this outfit. Nobody cares. Anyway, being free at 4 means I squeeze in a workout class (zero outfit content, sorry). I’m back by 6, quick change, and that’s it: no corporate talk allowed for the rest of the day.

One of my college best friends, Carolyn, arrives — and the vibe immediately shifts. The moment I see her, I’m already laughing. No warm-up required! She is my college best friend and, in fact, my first college friend. Her energy lights up the damn room in that effortless way that makes you realize some people are just built differently. It’s time to yap, and I mean, properly. About absolutely nothing and somehow everything. Drinks in hand, sushi on the table, stories flying at a speed only three women with shared lore can sustain (Leah is obvi with us and joining us). We’re going to Ojii.

There’s something about being with these people that always pulls me toward the Rive Gauche — or at least makes it feel that way. Even when we’re not technically there, the energy is Left Bank: slightly intellectual, heavy on opinions, light on consequences. We obviously have a 20:30 reservation and end up being the last one to leave the establishment; yapanomics of it all. We laugh the whole dinner.

Feb 11th - Roaming around, doing nothing; dinner at Kubaba.

I have one meeting and it gets moved to virtual — the WFH gods working shamelessly in my favor — so by 10:30 a.m. my day is suddenly, deliciously free, which means the wool sweater (but absolutely not the sweats) I wore on Zoom might earn a second, more respectable life; Leah is deep in her sleep, immune even to the operatic Parisian ambulances, so I let her rest, and in an aggressively good mood I text Carolyn — who has already gone for a damn run, overachiever energy — and declare it a Marais day; Rue de Rivoli stretches out before me exactly as it did in the old days when I lived here and walked this same route to this same destination, a quiet déjà vu threading through the morning, and I head toward the Marais — Musée Picasso, Musée Carnavalet — a little art, a little history, a lot of walking, and that rare, intoxicating thrill of having absolutely nowhere urgent to be.

I eat a big-ass falafel plate at 3 or maybe 4 p.m. — because when you are in the Marais, you stop at L’As du Falafel. That’s not a suggestion; it’s la base. And if you’re one of those people who says it’s touristy or basic, you simply don’t get it. It’s foundational. Especially before a night out. We get home around 4:30, and my friends insist I am an elderly woman who requires scheduled rest. I shrug — girl, whatever — but they’re not entirely wrong. We have a late dinner ahead, and I need a nap, a shower, a full neurological reset. Is this an elderly habit or just strategic stamina? Jury’s out. Somewhere between falafel and REM sleep, I feel inexplicably compelled to buy a Marcel Proust book, which feels either deeply intellectual or aggressively pretentious — we table that existential spiral for later. By evening, Carolyn and I met Judith at Kubaba, a beautiful Mediterranean spot that just opened. I’ve spoken so much French that I start speaking English with a French accent, which is either immersive dedication or a cry for help.

Feb 12th - Roaming around pt.III, dinner at Brasserie l'Émil

Carolyn and I grabbed pastries at Cyril Lignac — la base — and coffee at Café Nuances, because if you’re going to roam Paris all day, you fortify properly. The drizzle lingered in that inconsistent, romantic way, never committing fully, just enough to make the city glisten. We left Leah asleep, heroically recovering while packing her aggressive shopping — her carte bleue truly moved and grooved this trip. While she negotiated suitcase physics, Carolyn and I went to Palais de Tokyo and the Musée d’Art Moderne, soaking in just enough art to feel as if we absorbed something from the exhibitions. Carolyn sketched her version of a Condo collage, and we had so much fun dissecting her version and Condo's work. I love my friends. Naturally, we then walked all the way to the Rive Gauche — because why wouldn’t we — and the rain stopped the moment we crossed over, as if rewarded for commitment. Lunch at Bar des Prés, then onward to Saint-Germain for shopping, drifting in and out of boutiques with that particular rhythm: a matcha, popping in galleries, walking, buying something you absolutely do not need but spiritually require.

We headed back to the hotel at that perfect in-between hour, which gave us just enough time to reset, to change for dinner at Brasserie L’Émil at Château Voltaire. It was Leah’s last night in Paris with us, and we wanted to take her somewhere special: proper French brasserie food, deeply traditional but with that subtle, knowing twist that makes it feel current. A little butter, a little theatrics, a lot of sauce. Carolyn and I leaned into something funkier outfit-wise because the night wasn’t ending at dinner. We were meeting friends at MishMish — vinyl spinning, natural wine, very bobo parisien quartier energy — and the vibe demanded intention. And then, obviously, we ended up at Silencio. The last time I had been there was 2017, which feels like a different lifetime, a different person. This time, instead of just dancing and getting pleasantly tipsy, we pretended the night was a quiet tribute to David Lynch — dim lights, surreal corners, conversations that felt slightly cinematic, like we were aware we were inside one of his movies lol. We still danced, of course. And Carolyn lost her phone, which added an extra layer of flare to the night.

Feb 13th - I have Shabbat dinner at the Guez's and a day running errands.

Carolyn losing her phone at Silencio meant we had to go back there the next day at 11 pm to retrieve it. Thank God we found it. Leah laughed the whole night about it and left early in the morning, still thinking about the whole ordeal.

Somehow, seven days never feel like enough here. Paris always stretches itself into something both long and short at the same time. Carolyn did a forced digital detox, and we started in Sentier to go to Patisserie Stohrer, because we needed to. We also went down Rue Danielle Casanova and I immediately felt emotional — like the city knows it’s my last day. I spend the morning running errands before Shabbat and packing my suitcase, making sure everything is in order. This is where the last-minute rituals happen: pharmacies, the herboriste, et tout ça. A stop at La Grande Épicerie for the poissonnière assemblage spice blend I refuse to leave without. Michael will actually kill me if I don't bring it back. I pass by my old cheese shop, and the woman at the counter recognizes me instantly. She tells me I haven’t been in two years — which is true, the last time was 2023. She remembers me because I always insisted on speaking French instead of switching to English. Today, she smiles and says my French has gotten substantially better. This woman has known me for ten years. She slips an extra stick of butter into my bag because, she says, she likes me. I almost cry. I have two sticks of my favorite butter in my Khaite bag.

I walk past my old apartment, and it hits me in a way I was never quite prepared for. Every time I leave Paris, a piece of me stays behind — not metaphorically, but physically, like the city has claimed permanent residency in my nervous system. It’s stitched into my life in quiet, invisible seams. I try to brush off the sentimentality, to intellectualize it, to act composed — but I can’t. I go to Passy, my old neighborhood, and the feeling is even stranger there. Every time I return, something has changed — a café gone, a storefront renamed — yet nothing has. The light hits the buildings the same way. The streets curve in the same rhythm. It feels both unfamiliar and completely mine. I love it here. I really, really do. Carolyn, who has also lived here before, stays attached to my arm all day, hugging me intermittently like she knows exactly what’s happening inside me. She understands. Some cities don’t just host you — they imprint you.

After running every last errand, we go back to the hotel and collapse into that sacred pre-departure bubble — two full hours of laughing, drinking wine out of whatever glassware exists, eating chocolate like it’s medicinal, while I pack and Carolyn stretches diagonally across my bed. I’m folding my purchases with mild delusion about luggage weight distribution, and she’s unpacking the real cargo: the trip lore, the international gossip, the micro-drama we’ve collected across continents. My suitcase is absolutely over 30 kg. Criminal, honestly. Whatever. I changed for Shabbat at the Guez’s — my family here. The outfit is simple, understated, soft. Cute enough for Shabbat at home, respectful but still me. There’s something about ending a Paris trip this way — not at a club, not at a brasserie, not in transit — but at a table, candles lit, surrounded by people I love. It steadies me, and it brings me immense joy! I am forever connected to this city and the people who live in it.

And I know, as I sit there — and now, as I write this from New York — what a privilege it is to carry this memory of Paris with me until the next time I return.

Birthdays have a funny way of holding up a mirror. They make me think about what this past year looked like — what I learned, what surprised me — and what I want more (or less) of going forward.

This year (so far), I’m noticing I feel a little… uninspired. Not in a dramatic way. Just in that soft, subtle way where everything feels fine, but nothing feels electric. So instead of wishing for “stuff,” my wishlist is really about energy.

Here’s what I say I want for my birthday: A morning routine I don’t dread. A creative idea I actually follow through on. A month where I don’t feel vaguely behind on my own life. A general sense of “ah yes, this is aligned.” You know. Growth. Evolution. Inner peace. Very mature. Very enlightened.

But let’s be honest. I would also like: Cute clothes I absolutely did not need. A candle that smells like a version of me who has her life together. A new book even though I have a stack I haven’t read. And at least one beautifully unnecessary purchase that makes zero practical sense but sparks immediate joy. Because while I would love to transcend material desire… I am, unfortunately, still human. I’m not at the “minimalist monk” stage of personal development. I am at the “add to cart and reflect later” stage.

So yes, I want alignment. I want clarity. I want to feel excited about my own life again. But I also want the package. With the ribbon. And the little gasp when I open it.

Another year older. Slightly wiser. Still very much craving cute things. And honestly? I think that’s a healthy balance. Here’s to another trip around the sun, hopefully with a little more sparkle!

1. Denise Cassou Necklace - If you know, you know. Denise Cassou is that Brazilian jewelry designer whose pieces feel like they belong in a gallery but somehow also with a white tank and vintage jeans. The Arums necklace is equal parts sculptural and effortless — like you didn’t try, but your taste is just… elevated. It’s cool-girl forward without screaming for attention. I can fully picture someone like wearing this with something unexpected and making it look inevitable. It’s artistic, wearable, timeless — the kind of piece that makes an outfit feel intentional without doing the most. It doesn’t ask for attention — it just assumes you’ll notice.

2. Alas Silk Layering Skirt - This skirt isn’t just a piece — it’s a statement. Perfect for layering, perfect for mixing the vintage with the modern, perfect for the fashion crowd that wants their outfit to whisper “I know what I’m doing” without shouting. It’s a collab with my Insta friend Kriste Stankeviciute (a phenomenal artist btw), who somehow manages to make every timeline scroll feel like a museum visit — her style could only be described as European je ne sais quoi meets playful artistry meets serious style cred. Wearing this skirt feels like joining the club of tastemakers: effortless, intentional, and a little bit magical.

3. Nou Zebra Mule - This shoe haunts me. A limited edition zebra-print ponyhair mule that somehow makes every outfit feel like a moment — chic, effortless, and yes, zebra is a neutral forever. The subtle light blue undertone is everything I didn’t know I needed. I missed my chance, and honestly, I’m still crying about it. But here’s to hoping for a restock… because if it ever comes back, I’m definitely not missing my chance again! (pls 😭)

4. The Anteros Saga Shirt - I loooooove this shirt. Truly, I met the founder at the Merci C’est Vintage pop-up back in December, and she is the absolute sweetest human — which somehow makes the shirt feel even better. Her button-downs are honestly some of the best out there: perfectly tailored, crisp, and effortless. This yellow Saga shirt gets an extra chic upgrade thanks to its “inverted” collar — I’m already mentally styling it with an opera necklace draped down the back, sleek black tailored pants, and a crisp pair of white heels. Basically, it’s the kind of piece that turns everyday dressing into a little personal runway moment.

5. Aunu Beauty Barrier + Repair Kit - Put me on record: this kit has changed my skin. Our facialist Casey at Ställe Studios recommended Aunu to us, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s been a game changer over the past two months. My skin feels calmer, stronger, and way less dramatic (which is more than I can say for myself sometimes). If you care about barrier health — and you should — this is the kind of product that quietly does the work. Truly one of those “why didn’t I start this sooner?” additions to my routine. Could not recommend it more.

6. Merci C’est Vintage Fish Brooch - This one feels extra special. A vintage fish brooch sourced by my dear friend Mariana — the mastermind behind Merci C’est Vintage and my personal favorite place for both inspiration and “accidental” shopping. Mariana has the most incredible eye for pieces that feel rare, sculptural, and a little bit magical. Every time she drops something, it’s like she’s curating a tiny museum of wearable history. I admire her work so much — not just the sourcing, but the intention and love she pours into it. There’s something really beautiful about watching your friends build something meaningful and do it exceptionally well. Wearing this feels like carrying a little piece of that energy with me.

7. Mains de Vapeur Benito’s Beret - Another gem I discovered at the Merci C’est Vintage pop-up — and I have not stopped thinking about it since. Mariela’s hats are beautifully made, structured in that effortless-but-intentional way that instantly elevates whatever you’re wearing. This specific beret? Recently worn by none other than Bad Bunny for an editorial in Vogue Brasil. Casual. No big deal. Talk about a special piece. Seeing it in Vogue Brasil just confirmed what I already knew — it’s that good.

8. Valentino Embroidered Bag - I’ve been eyeing this bag since the second it launched. Alessandro Michele has this genius way of taking something that borders on camp and turning it into high fashion — suddenly what feels theatrical becomes completely chic. This floral embroidery moment is giving, “my grandma had the most fabulous closet in the ’50s and ’60s and I inherited the best pieces.” It’s vintage revival in the most intentional way. Not everyone can pull this off — it requires commitment, confidence, and a little bit of drama. But in the right hands? It’s iconic.

9. By Malene Birger Faux Fur Collar - I blame my Insta friend for this one — she’s been fully influencing me with her obsession over their bibs and collars. And honestly? She’s right. I’m still thinking about the caped collar I saw at their Copenhagen store back in July that I didn’t buy (a mistake I revisit often). Collars like this are such an underrated power move — you can throw one over the simplest knit or coat and suddenly the entire outfit has drama. It’s fall/winter/spring magic. Effortless pizzazz. A little extra in the best way.

10. VINH LE Dzi Necklace - A fellow Parsons grad? Say less. Supporting talented alumni will always feel right. VINH LE captures the designer’s Vietnamese roots in such an effortless, elevated way — each piece feels thoughtful, intentional, and deeply personal. It feels like wearing a piece of heritage interpreted through a modern, fashion-forward lens. I’ve been gravitating toward longer necklaces lately, and this one feels like the perfect addition to my collection — statement-making but still refined.

11. Björk and Berries White Forest Eau de Parfum - Think Scandinavian cool meets main-character energy. White Forest is crisp, fresh, and quietly magnetic — the kind of scent that makes it feel like you just stepped off the pages of a fashion editorial, even if you’re really just walking to your local café. It’s elegant without trying too hard, soft without disappearing, and somehow feels like it was designed for the person who overthinks their coffee order and their wardrobe. Basically: effortless chic, with a tiny bit of “please notice me” energy.

12. Susana Vega Earrings - These earrings are like tiny sculptures for your ears — modern, bold, and effortlessly cool. They add just the right amount of drama to any outfit without screaming for attention, which, let’s be honest, is basically the dream. They’re playful, sculptural, and instantly make your ears the centerpiece of the look.

13. Aflalo Skirt in Ponyhair - This skirt is everything: tactile, edgy, and unapologetically playful. Ponyhair gives it that cool-girl texture that instantly elevates even the simplest top, while the silhouette feels modern and wearable. It’s the kind of piece that’s as at home at a gallery opening as it is styled for a slightly dramatic coffee run. Bold without trying too hard, it’s a statement skirt that somehow manages to feel effortless.

14. Dieter Rams Braun SK5/SK55 sound system - I may have shed actual tears when I found this vintage piece in perfect condition — no shame. Dieter Rams’ designs are the stuff of design-student legend: minimal, timeless, and nearly impossible to track down in usable form. Owning one feels like finally reaching a lifelong holy grail. Every song sounds better, every object in the room suddenly feels intentional, and honestly… it’s a little reminder that some dreams are worth the hunt. Sleek, iconic, and infinitely satisfying — basically, my perfect design moment, in audio form. This is the kind of piece you live with, cherish, and never want to let go.

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What’s especially striking about this moment is that I don’t actually need anything. I feel full in the ways that matter. And yet, here I am, celebrating three times over: Paris with my French family and friends, and two moments in New York with my people and my partner. To be surrounded like this feels like the real gift. To be celebrated, fed, toasted, and held by the people you love is something I don’t take lightly. It’s a privilege.

I’m also consciously taking a small break from shopping, which makes this list slightly ironic. But I was lovingly — and persistently — harassed by everyone in my life to produce a birthday wishlist. Twenty items, apparently. I didn’t even know I wanted twenty things? I settled on fourteen. This list was carefully curated over the past months. It is thoughtful, intentional, and reflective of where my taste is right now. Nothing urgent. Nothing impulsive. Just pieces I genuinely admire. Sharing this here felt natural. By Benchis has always been about curation rather than consumption. About intention rather than excess. About appreciating beautiful objects, craftsmanship, and design — not accumulating for the sake of it. This community understands that, and I’m endlessly grateful to be surrounded by people who value taste, detail, and thoughtfulness the way I do.

So here it is: a small birthday edit. A snapshot of my taste at twenty-eight. Thank you for being here, for trusting my eye, and for making this space feel so special. And somewhere in all of this, the little Rachel at twelve years old — the one writing about her Barbie fashion shows and staging imaginary runways in her bedroom — is absolutely giggling every time I sit down at this computer to write for this page. It feels full circle in the best way. Proof that the things we love early on don’t disappear, they just evolve, and sharpen.

Love every single one of you here. It means more to me than you know :)

Luv u loads,
Rach

1. Cano Niqsa Earrings - These sit somewhere between wearable sculpture and cultural artifact. Cano has been around since the 70s, and there’s something generationally timeless about their design — like a piece your grandmother could have worn, but in the chicest possible way. Cano doesn’t rely on sparkles, but I’d classify their jewelry as calculated/intentional excess, if that makes sense. These earrings are stunning, to brush it off from the category of statement and call them simple doesn’t do justice. I want these earrings because they add an extra layer of visual intelligence that elevates any outfit concoction. To be honest, every Cano piece has that effect: authority, power, and immediate impact. I’d wear these with a crisp black blazer, a white t-shirt, low-rise denim, kitten heels, and slicked-back hair, letting the earrings carry the visual focus. They shift the energy of an outfit without overpowering it, that is why I want them.

2. Soho Home Marble Candle - This is less about the fragrance and more about the object value. The weight, the marble, the quiet heaviness of it on a table — it immediately shifts the atmosphere of a room. It feels like the perfect detail to elevate the mood of any room; the perfect blend of cozy, whilst maintaining the elegance of a space. You light it, but you also just let it exist.

3. Cowhide Leather Laptop Case - Let’s leave the ugly, teenager-adjacent computer cases in 2025. It’s time to elevate where we carry our laptops, because it doesn’t matter how beautiful your bag is if the things inside feel aggressively corporate. I love cowhide everything, but what I love even more is the power of this print. Its transformational ability to give character to a generic tech accessory doesn’t go unnoticed. I love the handmade aspect as well, it adds warmth to something inherently cold and utilitarian. Someone will absolutely stop you in the TSA line, not for inspection, but for compliments (and that’s the energy we need!) I like accessories that aren’t soulless. I like objects that carry personality and purpose :)

4. Gigi Burris Hat - Classic shape, sharp execution. Gigi Burris has carved out a very specific lane in fashion — bringing hats back into relevance at a moment when personal style is having a resurgence. Accessories are no longer an afterthought, and headwear is becoming part of the visual language again.

   Every cool girl should own multiple hats; I stand firm by that. This one works because it’s neutral in the right ways: the silhouette is timeless, the construction feels modern, and the color integrates effortlessly into almost any wardrobe. It’s the kind of piece you buy once and keep for decades. You take care of it, wear it often, let it soften with time, and eventually pass it down. That’s how good accessories should live: long, evolving, personal, and with loads of stories to tell for generations to come.

5. Vincent Boulevard Camille Sunglasses - If you know, you know. That’s the energy for 2026. This brand sits quietly under the radar, with 3k followers on Instagram, which somehow makes it even better. Still niche, still focused, still speaking directly to a very specific kind of cool demographic. The Camille sunglasses carry that exact tone. Retro in spirit, but flexible enough to work in a modern wardrobe.. I see them paired with a Vivienne Westwood tartan skirt, sheer black tights, combat boots, and a white t-shirt. Or paired with a vintage Pucci set. Either way, they bring that intangible quality: confidence and ease.

6. Grand Cru Ashtray - Small chaos in object form! When I saw this in person in Dallas, Texas, I panicked. I need this! This isn’t about functionality, it’s about atmosphere. Graphic, sculptural, slightly absurd in the best way? I want this on my bedside table, not because I need it, but because it adds personality to a space. It creates visual interest, a little disorder, a lot of attitude. Sometimes, décor doesn’t need a purpose. Sometimes it just needs to be a vibe lol.

7. Carelli Dolly Jacket - This is the brand all my Parisian girls are obsessed with — merci Juju Guez for the introduction. Carelli has quietly built a reputation as faux-fur heaven, delivering statement outerwear that feels substantial, intentional, and fun. The Dolly jacket doesn’t need much explanation. The texture creates movement, depth, and visual interest without relying on loud color or exaggerated proportions. There’s a slight nostalgia to it — which I’m always drawn to — but it still fits seamlessly into a modern wardrobe. It works best when everything else stays simple: denim, a white t-shirt, and simple shoes. Let the jacket do the talking! (You heard it here before, this jacket will be all over your Instagram feed in February and March).

8. Puerta Negra Isadora Pants - These sit perfectly between playful and architectural, which feels very on brand for everything my dearest Catalina creates. Puerta Negra is a Venezuelan brand I rep with genuine pride and love. Part of it is personal: I spent time in Venezuela when I was younger and feel a deep connection to my Venezuelan friends and community. But beyond that, Catalina is simply one of the most compelling contemporary designers working right now. Her work carries a sense of permanence that’s increasingly rare. I don’t just admire from afar — I buy, wear, and champion this brand wherever I go. I own several pieces and can confidently attest to the quality, craftsmanship, and thoughtful construction behind each one. The contrast panels add visual interest that feels deliberate and decorative. Isadora pants always work best with simple tops — crisp shirts, tanks, simple sweaters — allowing the structure and details to lead the conversation. They photograph beautifully, yes, but more importantly, they live well in real life.

9. All My Love Cashmere Pants - Okay so…lately I’ve been living in and loving the cashmere + fur combination — mostly because it’s the most comfortable way to survive this dreadful winter. My friend bought these pants and they feel ultra-soft and genuinely cozy, and you might be saying “obvi girl, it’s cashmere” but not all cashmere is created equal! Softness has levels and its origin matters. Anyway, I love the clean yet slightly slouchy silhouette. It’s what I call elevated comfort. Nothing novel, nothing overly styled, just good proportions and good fabric doing the work. The kind of piece you reach for repeatedly. The kind of stuff you can wear for your casual tech job, travel with, run errands, and most importantly, even grab a glass of wine with your friend. Which, ultimately, is what real luxury looks like. And that’s exactly why…

10. I must complete the look with the All my Love Cashmere Top !

11. Pointe Milou Leopard Pouch - I’ve been gatekeeping this brand for months, but the entire point of By Benchis is to share — so here we are (sigh). Pointe Milou has quietly become one of my current obsessions. I want the skirts, the shirts, and absolutely need this pouch. The brand understands that the best pieces are often the simplest ones when executed properly, and this pouch is exactly that. Straightforward, well-proportioned, and visually strong. And yes, leopard, my forever print. A neutral, a statement, and a personality marker all at once. If you can wear leopard effortlessly, you understand styling, restraint, and taste! Leopard works best when it’s treated like a neutral, and this does exactly that. It moves easily between functions: clutch, travel pouch, bag organizer, personality insert. It adds texture and visual interest without demanding too much attention. Sharp, practical, dinner-appropriate. The kind of piece you end up reaching for far more than you ever expected to.

12. L’Artisan Parfumeur Fables D’Orient - This is not a crowd-pleasing scent — and that’s exactly the point (maybe why I love it so much! so Aquarius of me!). It’s the kind of fragrance that creates immense curiosity, the kind that makes people stop mid-conversation to ask, “Wait… what are you wearing?” Warm, layered, and quietly elegant, it avoids sweetness and never feels aggressive. Instead, it’s soft, sultry, and refined. What makes it remarkable is how unfamiliar it feels, it doesn’t smell like anything else you already own, one of the primary reasons I loved it at first sight. I first encountered it in Las Vegas and was immediately captivated. Everything from the brand is beautifully done, but this one stayed with me long enough that I had to snap a photo and remind myself that I need this.

13. Mosquito Cande Comb - I love Marta’s work deeply (as I adore her!). Every accessory she creates feels elegant, thoughtful, and impeccably crafted. I already own a few of her pieces — all compliment magnets, obvi — and this year I’ve found myself naturally gravitating toward hair and head accessories. It feels like the next logical step for someone who loves necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. At some point you start asking: where else can I add more accessories? My head, I guess… This comb is small, but impactful. It transforms something as simple as a messy bun into a beautifully crafted look. It’s the kind of object you don’t technically need — but immediately understand its function once you own it. Sometimes, luxury lives in the unnecessary things done beautifully. I picture this worn in Provence, glass of wine in hand, sundress catching the breeze, sunlight hitting my skin, hair loosely pinned back with this exact piece. Effortless, romantic, and quietly styled. Exactly the mood I am trying to perpetually emulate.

14. Hebert Levine satin mules - My sister is the shoe authority. Hanna is the kind of person who casually references fashion history mid-conversation and somehow makes you rethink your entire wardrobe. I’m always on the hunt for good shoes — mostly because I’m not naturally a shoe person — so I consulted my personal Carrie Bradshaw, my sister. She immediately shut down my impulse to default to Chanel slingbacks or buy another pair of Tabis. Instead, she introduced me to Herbert Levine and explained that this is the kind of brand you invest in when you actually care about fashion history. Legacy shoes. If-you-know-you-know shoes. The kind worn by people who don’t need to signal they are wearing The Row to prove taste. Hanna, naturally, told me not to prioritize comfort because “heels exist to serve fashion, not practicality.” This is coming from someone who casually walks around in Jil Sander and Dries sculptural heels and treats Stella McCartney platforms like sneakers, which was slightly terrifying. She picked these for me and said they’re very “me” — understated, elegant, but still a clear nod to the brand’s design language. The heel is sharp but wearable (which I insisted on and she rolled her eyes at). They move easily between day and night without feeling overly styled. Which, realistically, is exactly what I need.

1. Do you remember Chanel’s Ombre Première cream eyeshadows? I do, and quite vividly. In many ways, they mark the infancy of my makeup obsession. Back when shopping for beauty felt thrilling and extra special. I had just landed in Miami after a long flight from Brazil and made a beeline for Neiman Marcus at Aventura Mall, where I spotted them and immediately lost all composure. I bought two! At the time, my mother had very firm rules about makeup pre–bat mitzvah (which I only had at fourteen), so I negotiated my way into owning the gold and blush pink shades under the respectable disguise of “muted down.” I wore those shadows constantly while teaching myself how to do makeup — experimenting, borrowing from friends, lending them out like sacred artifacts. They lasted all night, survived humidity, teenage parties, and sleepovers. I still remember borrowing my friend Bea’s purple shade (she’s still my friend to this day), and how that tiny pot of color felt like a gateway into self-expression. When I stumbled across them on Pinterest recently, the nostalgia hit hard. Chanel Beauty, to me, has always represented something precise, minimal, and quietly powerful. But beyond the aesthetic, those eyeshadows carry something deeper: girlhood, curiosity, softness, and the early realization that beauty would become part of my identity, my work, and my creative world. I loved the packaging, the weight of the glass, the texture, the ritual of opening the lid, and spreading those mindlessly around my eyelids with my fingertips — paralleling much of how I still do my makeup today. It wasn’t just makeup — it was the beginning of a relationship with an industry that would later shape me. And now someone is selling them on eBay!

2. Journals have been having a moment lately, mostly fueled by the collective obsession with organization, intention-setting, and manifestation (love!). I’ve always loved writing things down, but the habit truly became part of my life after a long summer in England, when I started carrying a small notebook in my bag everywhere I went — all thanks to my friend Marta. She always had a tiny notebook with her: a space to jot down thoughts about artwork we saw in museums, sketch little drawings, or, most memorably, craft extremely elaborate plans to steal Biscoff cookies after curfew. When I last saw Marta in 2018, she still carried one — only this time with a softer, more grown-up purpose: to write about her feelings. That year, she gave me one for my birthday from a beautiful brand called Louise Carmen. It instantly became one of my favorite objects — chic, understated, elegant, and meaningful. Since then, I’ve made a tradition of buying one every year. It’s my way of reminding myself to seek beauty and inspiration wherever I go, to write and be honest with my feelings, to sit with my emotions, and to honor my friendship with Marta — and the version of myself that first learned to pay attention to the world around me.

3. I am a museum of everything I have loved — beauty, pain, laughter, joy — all archived inside me, perpetually shaping who I am.

4. It’s been below freezing in New York, which inevitably triggers the annual existential question: Did it ever make sense to set up shop here? Regardless, this has become my personal resistance formula against the cold. Inspired partly by my partner Michael’s very Slavic logic, “Evidently, why do you think women in Russia only wear fur?” I’ve fully embraced strategic layering as both a survival tactic and a style philosophy. The formula is simple but powerful: a cashmere beanie, COS wool sweatpants (a true lifesaver), Intimissimi cashmere base layer, cashmere sweater, cashmere socks, combat boots, and — obviously — a fur coat. Thankfully, I’m well stocked in fur coats thanks to the women in my life: my mom, my mother-in-law, and my grandmother, all of whom have always been effortlessly cool and generous with their vintage treasures. If you’re going to invest in one, I strongly recommend going vintage. The wear is beautiful, the craftsmanship often superior, and if it’s leather-lined on the inside, the softness is unmatched (and sustainable). If vintage isn’t your thing, Nour Hammour is a top choice amongst my friends — exceptional quality, warm, beautifully cut, and surprisingly well-priced for real fur. This IRO style (on sale !) is also a favorite, especially if you’re around 5’4” (1.62 m): it hits at just the right length and covers a decent portion of your legs (important, obviously). For a more traditional silhouette, L. Cuppini is beloved by my London friends and delivers classic, old-school fur excellence.

5. Athleisure and athletic clothing have always been my personal nightmare — shopping for them gives me an instant headache. I went through a brief (and regrettable) era of wearing leggings everywhere — not just to workouts — until my mom finally looked at me and said, “You need to stop.” Fair. Thank you for your service, Mom. Now I belong to a very chic workout studio where barely anyone wears matching sets, and it feels like I’m breathing the freshest air ever. I’m officially over Alo, Split 59, Set Active, and every other hyper-logo’d, overly compressed uniform. What I actually crave are workout clothes that breathe — pieces that feel light, intentional, and slightly undone. Indigo Luna has been my safe place for this, but lately I’ve been expanding my vision. This energy is what I’m trying to emulate this year: sheer tights, tiny shorts, leg warmers, soft layers — ballet-core meets off-duty model running to Pilates but accidentally looking cute. Functional, breathable, and effortlessly cool without screaming “I’m wearing performance fabric.” This is exactly the direction I want my workout wardrobe to move in: clothes I can sweat in and then attach real-life plans to afterward without needing a full outfit reset. The search for chic, breathable, quietly stylish movement wear has officially begun.

1. Yoshitomo Nara has been one of my favorite artists since I was about 13 years old. I was always drawn to his work because I thought the “little girls” he painted were both cute and angry all the time — and my sister always said I kind of looked like them. Honestly, that still stands true today, lol. I’d love to get a tattoo dedicated to his work at some point in my life :)

2. I’ve probably said this before, but I still haven’t found a new pair of Chanel flats that can beat the ones I’ve had for the past 10 years. I literally came across this gorgeous denim pair yesterday, and honestly… this might take the top spot on my list of “replacement” contenders. I’d love a colorful pair since mine are a beautiful navy blue with the most subtle sparkles, but I’ll happily take a cool, edgy denim shoe any day. Similar options include this Mary Jane style, this navy blue suede flat, and this modern-day version of Toms!

3. My best purchase of 2025 was a vintage Cartier Tank Louis watch. I wear mine nonstop — seriously, it’s basically on my wrist 24/7. The only time it stays home is for safety reasons, like when I travel to Brazil. I never bring anything too nice because I’m not trying to get my arm cut off at a traffic light! It’s the perfect watch for civilized spaces where everyone is wearing something of a similar caliber, so you actually feel safe (most places in the U.S., for example). It’s not a watch meant to flex or flaunt — definitely not for wannabes who scream new money and make every expensive purchase their entire personality (cough cough everyone in Brazil… lol).

4. Loving this outfit vibe for winter! Statement jackets are pretty much my thing — especially for days when you don’t feel like fully dressing up but still want something that instantly elevates your look, no matter the time of day. I love how one good jacket can do all the work for you, even if the rest of the outfit is super simple. Throw it on with jeans, boots, or even something more unexpected, and suddenly it feels styled. Cozy, cool, and low-effort… exactly how winter dressing should be. I love this style of jacket and this suede version is everything! Another great option is to go for cowhide if you want something fun but neutral. This denim down jacket with a little fur is also another great play on function and fun. For those that need a color pop, Lanvin has this stunning wool blend jacket (on sale btw!!) that will turn the most basic outfit into a chic masterpiece.

5. Mood for the year! I live in what I like to call organized chaos, and honestly? It works for me. I’m taking meditation more seriously this year — I’ve already bought candles, grounding stones, and the whole shebang to create the right vibe in my room. I’ve also stocked up on wellness essentials like body and face oils, masks, and even a LED light therapy mask as my first steps on this little self-care journey. You’ll definitely catch me manifesting and meditating at some point during the day, just like Lindsay Lohan in the pic above!

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