To which I replied, “Fair.”

At Tell&Co., we don’t typically advise clients to call attention to what they haven’t been doing unless it’s been a very long time, but in this case I’ll make an exception.

Hi all! If you’ve been following along on Instagram, it probably looked like I disappeared into a summer of travel. The truth is a little more nuanced: work essentially changed locations. Sure, there were picnics on Shelter Island, boat days in Malta, Comporta sunsets, a few Ibiza dance parties, and enough Greyhound buses in the sky to make me long for a middle seat on JetBlue.

What those photos didn't capture were the deadlines between destinations: stories filed from the road, client work from airport lounges and hotel rooms, late-night Zoom calls with my team. This has been one of the busiest and most meaningful seasons in Tell&Co. history, with exciting projects for brands like 1 Hotels, Pura Vida Miami, Leading Hotels of the World, Baccarat, Assouline and, most recently, The Wesley Mittman LePatner Foundation.

That last project has occupied my mind more than any other. I, like so many, find myself thinking about Wesley all the time.

Whenever I was lucky enough to sit beside Wesley at a dinner or event, our conversations often turned to ambition, leadership and the constant balancing act of trying to do meaningful work while building a meaningful life.

Wesley and I worked in very different worlds. She was Global Head of Core+ Real Estate at Blackstone and CEO of BREIT, which is one of the world's largest real estate investment vehicles. I run a boutique brand content agency and get to write about amazing people and places. But as disparate as our paths were, I recognized something familiar in the way Wesley approached her work. She held herself to an exceptionally high standard and wasn’t interested in making a spectacle of it.

Last spring, when Wesley’s husband, Evan and I first sat down to talk about the Foundation, offering my services felt like the most authentic way I knew to honor her. Even writing that gives me pause because Wesley was so humble that drawing any attention to my involvement feels at odds with who she was.

But perhaps that's what made the project feel so fitting. The truest way to honor someone who believed so deeply in doing the work was to do the work, and to do it with the same rigor she brought to everything she touched.

Building a brand is an exercise in defining boundaries. It’s clarifying who you are, what you stand for, why you exist. With the Foundation, we weren’t building a brand so much as trying to capture the legacy of someone whose impact couldn’t possibly fit inside a framework. Every conversation with Evan, every draft, every revision pushed us to ask better questions, stripping away the expected until we arrived at something that felt like Wesley.

Wesley believed in investing in people. She had a remarkable way of opening doors, of bringing others up with her and leaving them more confident and energized than she found them. Helping tell that story became one of the greatest privileges of my career. It also challenged me to think about the kind of leader I want to become.

Tell&Co. is entering a new chapter. We’re expanding our team and taking on more complex engagements with our clients. As exciting as that is, I’ve realized the questions keeping me up at night have changed. They’re no longer just about the work we’re producing. They’re about the culture I’m building, the people I’m investing in and the example I want to set as we grow.

I’ve worked for brilliant editors and executives. But I’ve also worked for leaders who relied on fear and ego — who barked orders and treated burnout like a badge of honor and believed great work had to come at the expense of others. I remember thinking there had to be another way.

More than once over the past few months, I've found myself wishing I could talk about these things with Wesley. She had a way of asking questions that could reframe an entire conversation. It wasn't that she had all the answers. It was that she had an uncanny ability to help you find your own. I imagine she'd be asking me some now —about how to build something that reflects my values as much as my ambitions. That’s what she did so beautifully.

I met Debra in the fall of 2020 at one of those first post-lockdown ladies’ nights, when nobody was entirely sure what the rules were anymore. Masks came on, masks came off. A mutual friend whispered, “You’re going to love Debra.” Four hours later, we were doubled over laughing on a Manhattan street corner and, the next morning, trying to remember how we’d gotten ourselves into taxis.

The friendship was cemented a few months later when we invited ourselves to their Passover Seder in Miami. We arrived promptly at 8pm; the food wasn’t ready until after 10pm. By 2:30 a.m., the Haggadah had inspired hours of spirited debate about patriarchy, tradition and everything in between—much of it led by their three brilliant daughters. My kids could barely keep their eyes open. Evan and I could have stayed another three hours.

That night explained Debs and Gids better than I ever could: They’re the kind of people who make everywhere they go more interesting.

Over the next few years there were ski trips, marathon dinners and parties where the DJ had somehow flown in from London or Stockholm just because. They’d spent decades immersed in Europe’s music and cultural scene, from Glastonbury to Ibiza, where they first started going in the mid-’90s.

Eventually, they moved back to London, leaving New York a little less colorful in their absence. Then, in 2025, they bought a home in Ibiza.

Which brings us to this guide.

This isn’t Ibiza by Instagram save. It’s the island according to two spirited Brits who’ve been coming for more than 30 years—and aren’t afraid to tell you what’s overrated. The beach clubs actually worth it. The restaurants they return to year after year. The clubs that still deliver. And the places they’d send their closest friends.

Peep the guide, below.

Long Lunches & Beach Days

Amante

A perennial favorite perched on the cliffs above Sol d’en Serra. Come for a long lunch and settle in for the afternoon.

CBbC Cala Bassa

Set directly on Cala Bassa, this sprawling beach club is made for settling in and spending the day. Arrive early, get comfortable and don’t plan much afterward.

El Chiringuito

Set on the shores of Es Cavallet, El Chiringuito is all about long lunches, barefoot afternoons and food by the sea.

Beachouse

A toes-in-the-sand restaurant and beach hangout on Playa d’en Bossa that moves easily from morning yoga and leisurely lunches to music and moonlit dinners.

Blue Marlin

The longtime Cala Jondal beach club is all about the scene, with food, drinks and music carrying into the night. Go when you’re in the mood for energy; skip it if you’re looking for peace and quiet.

Dinner

Amalur

An Ibiza institution since 1981, set in a striking blue finca near Santa Gertrudis. Come for Italian-influenced fine dining in a more grown-up setting.

La Paloma

A family-run restaurant in the tiny village of San Lorenzo, where tables spill into gardens and citrus orchards. Open since 2004, it’s a classic for good reason.

Jul’s

Contemporary Mediterranean cooking, elaborate cocktails and a serious wine program, with much of the produce coming from the restaurant’s own two-hectare organic farm. Come for dinner and make a night of it.

Casa Maca

A countryside hotel and restaurant just outside Ibiza Town, with open-air dining and views toward Dalt Vila. Time dinner for golden hour.

Schiano

One of Debs and Gids’ more under-the-radar picks. Come for the food rather than a big Ibiza scene.

Fish Shack

No reservations, no fuss: simply prepared fresh fish served at tables perched on the rocks at the far end of Talamanca Bay. Bring cash and be prepared to wait for a table.

Can Curreu

A rural hotel, spa and restaurant set in the Ibizan countryside near Sant Carles. Beautiful, timeless and worth leaving the coast for.

Santa Marta

A relaxed restaurant on Playa Niu Blau near Santa Eulària, with tables overlooking the water. An easy choice for a long lunch by the sea.

CLAP HOUSE

A sprawling lifestyle destination in Talamanca combining a Japanese restaurant, bar and pool club. Come for lunch and stay through golden hour.

After Dark

Pacha

The Ibiza icon. Open since 1973, Pacha has been part of the island’s nightlife for more than half a century—and remains an essential stop for Debs and Gids.

Hï Ibiza

The high-production superclub in Playa d’en Bossa was voted the world’s No. 1 club by DJ Mag four years running, from 2022 through 2025. Expect headline DJs, multiple dance floors and a very big night.

UNVRS

Ibiza’s new generation of superclub. Opened in 2025, the massive venue quickly made its mark—and was voted the world’s No. 1 club in DJ Mag’s 2026 poll.

Do

Wander Dalt Vila

Skip the itinerary and just wander. Enter through Portal de ses Taules and make your way through the cobbled lanes of Ibiza’s UNESCO-listed Old Town, stopping into little shops and galleries before climbing toward the cathedral for views over the port. Then wind back down through La Marina.

Hike Sa Talaia

For the best panoramic views on the island, hike to Ibiza’s highest point. Sa Talaia rises 475 meters above Sant Josep, with views across the island to Formentera—and, on a clear day, all the way to mainland Spain.

Walk Ses Salines to Torre de Ses Portes

An easy coastal walk through Ses Salines Natural Park, passing little coves and rocky outcrops before reaching the 16th-century Torre de Ses Portes. Keep going and you can connect toward Es Cavallet.

Cala Llonga to Sol d’en Serra

A beautiful 4-kilometer loop along the cliffs above the east coast, ending at the tiny cove of Sol d’en Serra—conveniently close to Amante for a very civilized post-hike lunch. Allow around 90 minutes.

Get Out on the Water

Charter a boat for the day and see the island from the sea—or make the run over to Formentera for lunch, a swim and some of the clearest water in the Balearics.

Between the Knicks’ playoff run and the recent Subway Takes video in which Jennifer Lopez suggested that only people born in New York can actually be New Yorkers, the city has spent weeks litigating one of its favorite subjects: who belongs.

Can you root for the Knicks if you moved here as an adult? Can you call yourself a New Yorker if you weren’t born here? What if you grew up here but spent the last 30 years living elsewhere? Is there a statute of limitations on New York identity?

Everyone seems to have an opinion.

Growing up in New Jersey, I was New York-adjacent long before I called it home. I had family in the city, so we came in often, but it wasn’t integral to my suburban experience. In high school, New York began to interest me thanks, in large part, to my city-based camp friends. I’d spend weekends in the city with them digging through racks at Andy's Chee-Pees or Urban Outfitters on Lower Broadway or grabbing burgers back uptown at Jackson Hole. They’d say things like, “I live at 83rd and Third” or “69th and Lex” as if everyone in the world knew what they meant. The addresses rolled off their tongues like a secret language.

It’s not that I wanted their childhood. I loved mine. But I was intrigued by the confidence that seemed to come with growing up in New York. The city wasn’t somewhere they visited. It was simply theirs.

Fast forward to the summer after college. I came here and never left. Which raises the question: after 20+ years, am I a New Yorker?

The answer depends on how you define the term. Because if we’re talking about where I’m from, the answer is easy. I’m from New Jersey. I always will be.

But if we’re talking about the place where I became me, that’s a different conversation. It happened gradually and yet all at once. In a crappy fourth-floor walk-up in the East Village. In a Midtown office where I’d cry in a bathroom stall after being berated by my boss. In a crowded nightclub where I met my husband, a bonafide Queens boy. In a cab seven years later, where I almost delivered our first child.

New York is where I spent my 20s trying to figure out who I was and my 30s becoming her. Where I learned how to live alongside millions of other people without losing myself in the process.

Today, I own an apartment here. My children are growing up here. They navigate the city with a confidence that amazes me. They memorize subway lines. They’re constantly interacting with people of different ages and experiences. They know the doormen, the guy at their favorite food cart. They thank bus drivers when they hop off and make polite elevator conversation with other residents in our building. The city requires a certain level of engagement with humanity, and in return, it teaches it.

Watching them has reinforced my belief that being a New Yorker isn’t just geography. It's about the way the city shapes you. Maybe that’s why I struggle with the idea that New York identity begins and ends with a birthplace.

Being from New York is a fact. Being a New Yorker is something else.

Being a New Yorker is developing an almost irrational tolerance for inconvenience. Garbage trucks at dawn. Alternate-side parking. Co-op boards. Endless scaffolding. Apartments that cost too much and somehow still don’t have enough closet space. And the fact that none of it ever seems quite bad enough to make you want to leave.

It’s knowing which train car will line up with the exit before the train arrives. It’s having fiercely held opinions about bagels, neighborhoods and grocery stores that no amount of evidence will change.

It’s learning how to share space. How to mind your business. How to help someone carry a stroller down the subway stairs without making a big deal out of it afterward. It’s becoming comfortable with friction, density, noise and humanity.

I may not be from New York, but after nearly 25 years, New York is the place that made me. It has humbled me, challenged me, broken my heart and expanded it. It has given me the greatest gifts of my life.

I wasn’t born here, but I’ve built my life here. And at a certain point, that feels like its own kind of belonging.

So rather than tell you what to buy, I thought I’d turn the microphone over to you.

Consider this a crowdsourced guide to the Taste Bag: brands sourced entirely from your recommendations. Under the radar, beautifully made, and under $1,000.

(Shop the entire assortment here).

Turns out when the conversation moves beyond logos and waitlists, people have excellent taste.

Clockwise from top left: bags by Hunting Season, Veronica Beard, DeMellier, Oroton, Mansur Gavriel, Aesther Ekme

• Hunting Season — The anti-status status bag. Few logos, never overexposed, and quietly beloved by the fashion industry's most connected women.

  My pick: The Leather Trimmed Rafia Tote

• Polène — Parisian without trying too hard. Sculptural shapes, exceptional value, and perhaps the closest thing this list has to a modern cult favorite.

  My pick: The Mokki Mini Bag

• Strathberry — Known for its signature bar hardware, but still refreshingly under the radar compared to its larger European counterparts.

  My pick: The Mini Tote Bag

• Veronica Beard — Polished, practical, and designed for women with actual lives. The bags feel like a natural extension of the brand’s effortless uniform.

  My Pick: The Swing Clutch

• Lindquist — Handmade, vegetable-tanned leather pieces that get better with age. More art-school cool than fashion-week cool.

  My Pick: The Little Lee Bag

• Oroton — Australian heritage with surprisingly chic leather goods.

  My Pick: The Mica Mini Zip Bag

• Quince — The ultimate value play. Not groundbreaking, but remarkably well made for the price point.

  My Pick: The Italian Leather and Raffia Bag

• Stow — Best known for travel accessories, but the bags have that rare combination of elegance and utility.

  My Pick: The Mini Bowling Bag

• Il Bisonte — Old-school Italian craftsmanship. The leather is the point, and it only gets more beautiful the longer you own it. (I still love mine!)

  My Pick: Women’s Crossbody Bag

• DeMellier — Smart, structured, and quietly polished. Feels far more expensive than it is.

  My Pick: The New York Large Leather Tote

• Fleuron — The Paris brand fashion people whisper about before it inevitably becomes impossible to buy.

  My Pick: The Medium Swann Bag

• Aesther Ekme — For people who think the most interesting thing in the room shouldn't be their handbag.

  My Pick: The Phantom Tote Bag

• Mansur Gavriel — The original anti-It bag. A decade later, it still hits.

  My Pick: Small Everyday Cabas Bag

As someone who spent years covering handbags and accessories at Women’s Wear Daily, I had thoughts. Mainly: yes, prices are insane. Somewhere along the way, a beautiful leather bag became the down payment on a small car.

The video clearly touched a nerve. But this morning, a friend pushed me a bit further. Is it really just about price?

I don’t think so.

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I think something larger has shifted culturally, particularly among younger generations. We are living through a moment where experiences hold more social and emotional currency than objects do. In the late ’90s and early aughts, the ultimate aspiration was ownership. The bag mattered because what you carried signaled who you were becoming. Fashion itself was and will always be about identity. But with the handbag specifically, at least in New York, it functioned the way cars do in Los Angeles: status symbol, personality marker, aspirational object.

Today, travel has taken over that role. Travel is the new handbag.

Not because people suddenly stopped caring about aesthetics. But the aspiration moved from possession to participation. It’s less “look what I bought” and more “look where I went.” The modern status symbol is no longer sitting in your closet. It’s movement. Perspective. Access. Experience. A dinner reservation in San Sebastián. A week in Japan. A perfectly photographed swim off the coast of Sardinia.

Part of the reason I transitioned so heavily from fashion writing into travel writing is because my heart simply wasn’t in writing about luxury goods anymore. I still love fashion. I always will. But over time, I became far more interested in how people wanted to live than what they wanted to own.

I grew up traveling, so my relationship to it formed early. But I distinctly remember that being somewhat unusual. Not because people didn’t vacation, but because travel itself — especially international travel — still felt aspirational and occasional, not necessarily embedded into everyday culture the way it is now.

Obviously, like handbags, class shapes all of this. Who gets to travel, how often, and under what circumstances still depends enormously on financial reality. But culturally, priorities have shifted. Families now talk about travel differently. They budget for it differently. They view it less as an extra and more as an essential part of life, identity, even parenting. Experiences have moved to the center in ways material accumulation once did.

People will delay renovating a kitchen to take their children to Italy. They’ll buy fewer things in exchange for a trip abroad. Younger consumers, especially, seem less interested in building lives around acquisition alone. The fantasy shifted.

And maybe part of that is practical. A bag can feel oddly tone-deaf in a moment when housing feels impossible, student debt lingers, and everyone is acutely aware of economic instability. Spending $5,000 on a handbag doesn’t land the way it once might have, even among people who can afford it.

But I also think people are craving memories because so much of modern life feels flattened by screens. Travel offers something increasingly rare: presence, surprise, texture. Actual stories.

Which is not to say the handbag disappears entirely. Fashion never really dies. It just loses and regains relevance in cycles. There will always be beautiful objects people covet. There will always be the return of glamour, excess, adornment. But the emotional center of aspiration has moved.

The trip is the trophy now.

Take the Mara Hoffman cover-up I bought in 2008. I wore it throughout my wedding weekend in Jamaica and on my honeymoon. I still wear it now. There was a brief period where I considered getting rid of it, but I held on.

Or the clay-hued Eres caftan I bought two summers ago with the matching swimsuit. A real grown-up purchase. The kind where you stare at the total silently for a moment before pressing confirm. Wearing them together makes me feel like the sort of woman who orders another bottle of rosé for the table before asking if everyone’s okay with it.

A cover-up can signal restrained, old-school glamour — Grace Kelly on a terrace somewhere — or it can skew slightly slutty in the best possible way: sheer crochet, tiny hemlines, ready to dance on banquettes with the Real Housewives in St. Barths. Summer requires both energies.

I also love the boyish sets. Who doesn’t want to look like the newest member of a men’s bowling team upon stepping foot in Ibiza? No one I’m interested in knowing.

And then there’s the perfection of a shirt dress. Throw it on, head downstairs for breakfast, wander to the market, maybe accidentally acquire a tiny woven basket you absolutely do not need. None of it feels consequential because none of it is. That’s the point.

A great cover-up should suggest you have nowhere urgent to be and haven’t checked your email in days. Whether or not this is true is irrelevant.

It’s what you throw on half-wet after swimming. What you wear walking back from the beach barefoot and salty, un peu washed up. What you sit in through a lunch that accidentally turns into sunset drinks and then grilled fish at 10 p.m. because nobody could bear to leave.

It is the uniform of vacation inertia, in the very best way.

And because I clearly have strong opinions on the matter, I rounded up a few favorite categories — the ones I return to every summer, along with a few new contenders.

The Caftan

For when you want to look vaguely wealthy, deeply moisturized and unavailable for Zoom calls.

The caftan is the grande dame of beach cover-ups. Slightly dramatic. Slightly eccentric. The sort of thing you wear while insisting everyone come back to your suite for “an after-party” at 7:30 pm despite nobody knowing where their room key is.

I personally prefer ones that feel a little sun-faded and collected over time rather than aggressively “Resort.” The danger with caftans is entering rich-aunt-who-owns-many-parrots territory. A delicate balance. Proceed with caution.

The Two-Piece Set

The two-piece set typically falls into one of two categories. There’s the men’s bowling shirt and short/pant combo, and the preppier striped or solid variation, usually involving a long-sleeve button-down and shorts.

I like to mix and match the pieces. I’ll wear that long-sleeve button-down all year with jeans. It also makes an excellent plane outfit with cozy pants because you feel relatively civilized. Then, once you get hit with an aggressive blast of Mediterranean heat on the tarmac, throw the shorts on and you’re a woman who uses summer as a verb.

Whatever your look, make sure the shorts are slightly billowy and the shirt a touch oversized. Anything too fitted defeats the emotional purpose.

The Crochet

Crochet is the least versatile member of the cover-up family. It does not transition seamlessly to dinner. It does not become an airport outfit. It is not interested in errands. Its sole purpose is beach.

And frankly, I respect the clarity of that.

Crochet is looking to party. It wants a second bottle of rosé at lunch. It wants salt on your skin and sand in your sandals. It wants to end up dancing on a table at Club 55 at 6 p.m. while a deeply bronzed man in linen orders another round.

Crochet has no interest in practicality. It aspires to long lunches, beautiful mistakes, and stories that begin with, “Omg remember when we….” (Spoiler: You don’t remember).

The Button Down Shirt Dress

The great equalizer.

Crisp, easy, faintly aristocratic. Best worn slightly wrinkled with wet hair and absolutely no statement anything. Just some Oliver Peoples tortoise sunglasses. A watch. Zero makeup. A linen hat perched atop tousled waves that suggest either exceptional genetics or a committed relationship with Kerastase.

A great shirt dress says: yes, I woke up looking like this, mostly because I threw on my husband’s button-down and wandered downstairs for coffee, toast and a tiny dish of aggressively good jam.

It’s less “look at my outfit” and more “I’ve been sitting under this umbrella for three hours discussing nothing of consequence.” Which, to me, is the highest form of summer dressing.

The Pareo

There are certain pieces that instantly transport a look, and the pareo is one of them.

Partly because it carries an effortless confidence. The sort of thing women knot around themselves seconds before lunch, somehow looking both bohemian and jet-set.

What I love most about a pareo is that it allows for a touch of that spirit without fully committing to resort maximalism. A pop of Pucci. Pop of the ‘Pucc. A flash of color and print against a monochromatic swimsuit. Enough personality to shift an entire look.

I love one paired with an oversized white or chambray button-down, a terry sweatshirt or simple white tee, flat sandals, and chunky beads — relaxed but intentional.

And then there’s the practicality. A pareo can be a cover-up, towel, scarf, shawl, skirt, dress, blanket, or something casually thrown over your shoulders when the breeze picks up at dinner. The ultimate multitasker.

The best ones make you feel slightly more interesting the moment you put them on. Like the kind of person who instinctively knows how to tie fabric around her body in a flattering way, and somehow always ends up looking editorial rather than overly styled.

Which, frankly, is exactly the energy I want all summer.

You get the drift.

If you worked in fashion during that era, you absolutely have your own The Devil Wears Prada moments. Mine began mere weeks after the book came out, when I landed my first job out of college working for a powerhouse publicist at a luxury fashion house. Before I started, someone told me to “have my Xanax prescription ready” before stepping foot into her office.

I arrived the week before Fashion Week carrying a notebook and sharpened pencils, frantically scribbling down instructions I barely understood.

“Call Alex at Bureau Betak.”

“Book the sound meeting with Michel Gaubert.”

“Call Aerin and reserve Doubles for 7 p.m.”

I remember thinking: Doubles? As in tennis?

A week earlier, I’d been dancing barefoot at a Phish festival in Maine. Suddenly I was in Midtown in a BCBG floral dress and pointy sandals, organizing the life of an Upper East Side thoroughbred who lived somewhere around 68th Street and embodied a very specific species of New York glamour: cigarettes, white jeans, cashmere crewnecks, long straight brown hair, towering heels, chunky gold jewelry. Women who moved through the city like they owned not just the room, but the lighting inside it.

I messed up constantly. Truly constantly. But for whatever reason, she decided she liked me. I was her own Andi Sachs. I wasn’t polished in the way many of the girls around me were. I wasn’t trying to become one of them either. I think she sensed that. Beneath the anxiety and occasional incompetence was someone observant, hungry, and willing to work. Except the time I wore nude hose with peep-toes, which was apparently a moral failing.

There were too many Devil Wears Prada moments to count. And honestly, it was fun. I even met the real devil herself: Anna Wintour.

One morning - and with zero warning - I was tasked with waiting downstairs before her private collection viewing, making absolutely certain there were no issues with building security. Her coffee order had already been sent upstairs, the espresso carefully separated from the foam so it could be assembled the moment she arrived.

She was nearly thirty minutes late because an assistant had given her the wrong address. By the time she finally swept through the doors in oversized sunglasses and perfect composure, the entire office was vibrating with panic.

I ushered her into the elevator and suddenly it was just the two of us, ascending floor by agonizing floor in silence. I became acutely aware of every sound my body could possibly make. My breathing. My less-than-amazing outfit (I really would’ve loved a heads up). The humiliating possibility that my stomach might growl.

She stared straight ahead. I stared at the glowing elevator numbers as if they personally held the key to my survival. It was probably forty-five seconds total, though it remains one of the longest experiences of my life.

There were MET Gala moments, too. My job involved taking town cars across Manhattan collecting jewelry from Fred Leighton and delivering gowns to celebrities seated at the table. One night I found myself in the Fifth Avenue apartment of the Richards family—Patti and her daughters—watching them dance around to Prince inside what felt like a bohemian palace. I have never felt squarer in my life.

I went to Liya Kebede’s all-white Madison Avenue apartment. I delivered clothes to “Smith Jerrod” himself—well, Jason Lewis—who had to try them on in front of me while I sat awkwardly on the edge of his loft bed in Chelsea. At the time he was the toast of downtown, the ultimate early-2000s boy toy, and there I was pretending this was a completely normal workday.

Then, the next morning at 9 a.m., I had to knock on all of their doors to collect everything back while they were presumably still asleep after being out all night. Some sort of exhausted fashion grim reaper.

Then came the time I had to call socialites with seating assignments and getting verbally destroyed if they were in Row B instead of Row A. Staying up all night before each fashion show collating run-of-show packets at the printer until the very last second. Running home on no sleep, changing into four-inch heels, throwing on a walkie-talkie, then racing around backstage manipulating press and walking Donald Trump and Melania Trump to their seats as though this were all somehow normal.

Backstage was chaos in the most cinematic way possible: steamers hissing, cigarette smoke wafting, models running in after their walk and frantically changing, publicists screaming into flip phones, clipboards flying. And afterward, the long celebratory lunch where everyone drank more wine than they probably should have because adrenaline had nowhere else to go.

It was devilish and silly and completely of its moment. A strange little ecosystem of glamour, hierarchy, exhaustion, beauty, and absurdity that could probably only have existed in New York during that exact window of time.

I eventually left because writing was what I wanted. I wanted to tell stories. So I went back to school and started moving toward the life I could already feel myself wanting, even then.

But I look back on that job now with enormous gratitude. What felt brutal at 23 was, in many ways, an extraordinary gift. Very few people get dropped that early into an environment where standards are that high, expectations that clear, and excellence so non-negotiable.

It taught me how to operate before I fully believed I could. How to carry myself professionally. How to recover quickly. How to pay attention. How to walk into rooms that intimidated me and act like I belonged there anyway.

And maybe most importantly, it taught me that creative careers are built as much on discipline as talent. Writing may have been the dream, but that job gave me the stamina for it. The endurance. The understanding that glamorous industries are still industries — powered by people who show up prepared, sharp, and willing to do the work long before anyone sees the payoff.

I think that’s why, all these years later, I remember it with such affection. Beneath all the absurdity was a woman who demanded excellence from everyone around her, and in doing so, forced a lot of us to become more capable versions of ourselves.

I have no idea what it’s like to work in-house in fashion now. I’ll likely never know again.

But for one brief moment, the devil really did care.

And yet, last weekend, she was everywhere.

Each event had her imprint, as her husband Evan and children gratefully acknowledged. The service was thoughtful, intimate. The setting, considered. Their son, poised beyond his years, stood proudly among his family. Each guest received a printout of that morning’s Torah reading, along with a collection of poems and quotes Wesley had sent Evan in 2024. Yes, in addition to everything Wesley was, she was the kind of woman who sent poems to her husband.

Following the service, an Israeli feast unfolded in the form of a lively shuk, fully realized inside the Heschel gym. Only Wesley could turn a space where I pick up my daughter after school into something out of a Levantine fever dream. It was part feast, part marketplace, wholly transportive. Vegetables, a hundred ways. Softly draped stalls lined with silver trays of fish. There were breads, spreads, dips. Israeli salads, blocks of halva. Bins spilling over with sugar-dusted fruit and fresh citrus.

Everything abundant. Everything alive.

And on Sunday night, a party. From the outside, it looked like any other bar mitzvah. But inside the room, it was something else entirely.

We danced, and I mean we danced. Not the performative kind - the sacred kind. The holy kind. The kind of dancing that felt both like a release and a holding-on. Like if we moved hard enough, long enough, we could hold Wesley there. As my friend Jonathan put it, we felt her presence in her roaring absence.

“She’s here,” he said.

And she was.

God was, too — if God is energy, if God is love, if God is whatever fills a room when something is unbearable and also beautiful. An empty chair lifted during the Hora. A full-room “Mr. Brightside” skewed joyously feral. Evan, fully horizontal, floating over his friends during “Livin’ on a Prayer,” arms open wide to the sky — receiving, releasing.

The night broke something open for all of us. Grief rose from celebration. Celebration rose from grief. It all settled messily, brilliantly on the dance floor, shared among all of us who’ve spent the last nine months carrying it.

I think about Wesley all the time. On Sunday, I felt her.

The next day, I joined my friend Sara for hot yoga. In shavasana, finally still, with nowhere left to go, I cried. For the beauty, the joy, the sadness of it all. For Wes. For her family.

Our dancing didn’t bring her back. But for a few minutes, something else showed up. Call it energy. Call it love. Call it God.

Whatever it was, it held us.

It is, without exaggeration, its own micro-economy.

Rates surge. Minimum stays appear out of thin air. Motels you would not have considered in actual life are suddenly “conveniently located.” Your spouse inevitably books something “charming” that turns out to be a random A-Frame in the woods. And yet, you will be grateful. Because proximity is power. Proximity is time. Proximity is getting back to your car before the tears start.

So, have you booked?

If not, consider this your slightly late, very honest and deeply practical guide.

The Catskills

From Livingston to “rustic”

The Catskills are the home game. This is New Jersey, Long Island, a slice of Westchester - families who can leave after breakfast and still make rope drop with time to spare. It’s practical, familiar and deeply social. These are the kids who’ll be roommates at Syracuse and Wisconsin, the parents who met in Florence, partied at Joshua Tree and Brother Jimmy’s and now pick up right where they left off - only with nicer sneakers and more control over their lives.

The scene here is Deliverance meets Lululemon. Visiting Day parents descend on Livingston Manor, Callicoon and every surrounding town, temporarily turning them into an extension of Millburn and Syosset. Coffee shops become command centers, porches turn into debrief zones, and every hotel driveway is a choreography of arrivals and exits. The hotels below are the ones that know exactly what this is and plan accordingly.

Callicoon Hills

Spread across 23 acres, Callicoon Hills includes a mix of accommodations: updated motel-style rooms, a restored boarding house and freestanding cabins, which is exactly why it’s one of the few places that can absorb the surge of this weekend. At the center is a full pool scene surrounded by lounge chairs and parents decompressing in real time, plus an on-site restaurant and bar that keep it all moving.

Inness

Set on 225 acres in Accord, Inness is the Hudson Valley at its most intentional — part farm, part members club, part architectural flex. There are a mix of minimalist cabins and a central farmhouse with a restaurant, plus a golf course, pool, tennis and wide-open land. It’s not close-close to most camps, which might the point. You come here because you’re willing to trade a few extra minutes for a better setting.

Hasbrouck House

Set on a historic estate in Stone Ridge, Hasbrouck House feels like a private home that happens to operate as a hotel. The 18th-century Dutch Colonial anchors the property, with a handful of additional guest houses scattered across the grounds totaling just under 30 rooms. Each are slightly different, all thoughtfully designed. There’s a pool tucked into the garden, a proper restaurant that draws both guests and in-the-know locals and enough indoor-outdoor space to linger a while.

Emerson Resort & Spa

The Emerson is the opposite approach: big, dated and fully equipped. Set along Esopus Creek with mountain views, the property has over 50 rooms and suites spread across two main lodges, plus a full spa, multiple dining options and extensive grounds that give you actual breathing room. It’s also home to the world’s largest kaleidoscope (a detail that feels random until you realize it’s exactly the kind of distraction you need).

The Berkshires

The “authentic” choice

The Berkshires are the rebrand. It’s Upper West Side, brownstone Brooklyn, a polished slice of Westchester. It’s the “low-key” families in their Audi Q8s who just wanted something real, delivered in La Ligne and Bode. These are the parents who went from Park Slope to sourdough, who name-drop Tanglewood like they might actually go. It’s farmers markets, Birkenstocks and a curated version of rustic. The kids will still end up in the same places, but the narrative is doing a little more work.

The hotels follow suit: understated, considered, quiet and where the whole thing reads like you’ve been coming here for years - even if you just booked it last week.

The Red Lion Inn

Set in the heart of Stockbridge, The Red Lion Inn is as classic as it gets — a historic Americana property with over 100 rooms across buildings, each outfitted with oak furniture and country toile. There are multiple eateries (including a fine dining restaurant that may or may not be haunted - you decide), a pool, famously busy front porch and a hum of activity that makes it feel more like a town square than a hotel.

The Black Swan Inn

Set on the edge of Laurel Lake in Lee, The Black Swan Inn is a straightforward lakefront property with around 50 rooms, many offering water views and small private outdoor spaces. There’s a dock, a beach area and just enough outdoor infrastructure to make the setting feel like part of the stay. It’s also well-located between Lenox and Stockbridge, which makes it a practical option when availability tightens.

The Springs Motel

The Springs Motel is a retro roadside property reimagined with roughly 20 rooms offering a laid-back, slightly nostalgic feel. There’s a small pool, open lawn space and a casual, no-frills approach that keeps expectations in check. It feels intentionally simple, attracting a mix of younger couples, last-minute bookers and parents who understand that proximity matters more than perfection.

Miraval Berkshires Resort & Spa

Set on over 300 acres in Lenox, Miraval is a full-scale wellness resort with 100-plus rooms, a sprawling spa and a tightly programmed schedule of classes, treatments and guided experiences. All meals are included and everything is designed to keep you present. Which raises the obvious question: why spend on Miraval when you’ll barely be there for one whole day? The answer is that you’re not booking it for Visiting Day, you’re booking it around Visiting Day.

Maine

The power move

In Maine, the camps themselves are the flex. Your kids didn’t “end up” here. You chose it, intentionally, decisively and likely years in advance. These are the families who talk about camp the way others talk about boarding schools. There’s a shared understanding that this isn’t about summer - it’s about future network building. The vibe is polished with an attempt to be unfussy: Loro Piana sweaters over tennis whites, Miu Miu boat shoes, a tee time casually mentioned but very much booked. These parents do not mess around, and neither do these properties.

Hidden Pond Resort

Hidden Pond is the insider pick — set on 60 wooded acres with standalone bungalows and cottages that feel more like private residences than hotel rooms. Interiors are camp vibes gone luxe. Think cozy flannel bedding, outdoor showers and screened-in porches. The whole property is built around quiet movement: bikes, walking paths, garden strolls. There’s a pool, acclaimed Earth restaurant and a general sense that everything has been thought through. You might even catch Martha Stewart staying in the cabin next door.

White Barn Inn

White Barn Inn is where you lean all the way in. An Auberge Collections property anchored by one of the most celebrated dining rooms in New England, it’s intimate, refined and unapologetically elevated. Rooms are classic and elegant, service is exacting and the restaurant - set in a restored barn lit just so - is the main event. You’re not here for convenience. You’re here because you decided this weekend deserved a moment.

The Press Hotel

Set in the former headquarters of the Portland Press Herald, the Press Hotel is a city option done right: central, design-forward and fully embedded in the Old Port. Rooms are polished and modern with subtle nods to the building’s editorial past, and the lobby and bar have just enough energy to make it feel like something is happening. You’re steps from the restaurants and city energy that makes the whole weekend feel intentional.

Cliff House Maine

Perched dramatically on the cliffs of Cape Neddick with sweeping Atlantic views, Cliff House is the resort play - large, polished and built for exactly this kind of strategic weekend. There are over 200 rooms, multiple pools (indoor and outdoor), a full spa, several dining options and expansive grounds that give you room to spread out. It’s close enough to southern Maine camps to be practical, but far enough to feel like a true escape.

Pennsylvania

All function, zero narrative

Pennsylvania is its own lane. These are the families who approach the whole thing with a kind of quiet pragmatism. Less about scene, more about system. Think New Jersey, Philly suburbs, the mid-Atlantic region - parents who value proximity, structure and a camp experience that feels classic without needing a brand moment layered on top. The kids aren’t here for optics; they’re here because it works.

Skytop Lodge

Set on 5,500 acres with a lake, golf course, and miles of trails, Skytop is the anchor property. It’s grand, traditional and built for scale. Rooms are classic and comfortable, but the real value is the infrastructure: multiple dining options, outdoor activities, and enough space to absorb an entire Visiting Day weekend without anyone stepping on each other.

The Woodloch Resort

Spread across over 1,200 acres centered around a private lake, Woodloch is fully programmed — meals, activities and daily schedules are all part of the experience. Rooms are consistent and family-friendly, while the property itself is designed to keep everyone moving. It’s structured in a way that removes decision-making, which for this weekend is exactly the point.

Silver Birches Resort

Set right on Lake Wallenpaupack, Silver Birches is the relaxed middle ground —historic, waterfront, and good enough. Rooms vary, but many have lake views, and the property includes a pool, dock and casual dining that keeps things easy. It’s social without being overwhelming.

Your own bed (the ultimate flex)

If you’re close enough (and many Pennsylvania camp families are), this is the real move. You go for the day, you do the visit and then you drive home. No packing, no bed bugs, no $900 minimum stay. Just your own sheets, your own coffee and the quiet satisfaction of having cracked the Visiting Day system.

Not because I disagree with the exhaustion it describes. I do. But because the framing feels off. It reads as binary, almost one-note, as if the only options available to modern parents are over-performance or underachievement. As if opting out is, by definition, a kind of failure.

That has never been my mode of parenting.

I am not the parent who signs up for everything, but I am also not underachieving. If anything, I am deeply, relentlessly oriented toward achievement. But achievement, as I understand it, has very little to do with school carnivals or math nights, or the quiet competition of who shows up.

I am the parent who needs to be reminded those things are even happening. A good friend will text, “Are you going to math night? Are you taking the kids to the carnival on Sunday?” And my response is usually, “Wait, this Sunday?”

Which is why the idea of underachieving feels misplaced. It assumes that showing up is the achievement. I’m not convinced it is. Quite the opposite. It is a refusal to confuse participation with value.

Time at home. Time on the couch. Time that looks, from the outside, like nothing at all. An episode of Dance Moms, a shared joke, a kind of ambient closeness that cannot be scheduled or photographed. The kind of time where connection isn’t orchestrated. It simply exists.

We don’t tend to call that achievement. But I wonder if we should.

Because the prevailing model equates parental achievement with visibility, a checked box of attendance. In that framework, overachieving starts to read less like substance and more like performance. The more engaged you appear, the more you’re seen as doing it right.

This may be why the conversation feels so dated. It rests on the idea that visibility is still the goal, and that anything short of it is failure.

I thought we learned something different during Covid-19. How to be home again. How to hold entire workdays on Zoom and still make dinner. That shift didn’t feel like underachieving. It felt clarifying.

We learned that while children benefit from community and parental engagement, they benefit just as much from something quieter. A home that isn’t in perpetual motion. The presence of parents who aren’t stretched thin. The freedom to experience life without it always being elevated into an event.

Perhaps living in an urban environment creates a level of distance from this. There is anonymity. No car drop-off theater. No subtle accounting of who did what. Without that constant visibility, the urgency softens. The question shifts from What am I supposed to do? to What actually matters here?

For me, the answer has been surprisingly consistent.

We do less. We stay closer to home. We protect our time, not as a rejection of community, but as a prioritization of something else. A kind of closeness that isn’t built through programming, but through presence.

If there is an achievement in parenting, I suspect it lives there. Not in how much we attend, but in what we make space for. Not in how it looks from the outside, but in how it feels to the people inside.

Before I understood its place in fashion, that trench coat — along with a briefcase and The New York Times tucked under his arm — was simply his uniform for work. For years he commuted into the city by train before eventually opening his law practice just a short drive away. In my mind, the trench will always be tied to that particular kind of grown-up competence: polished, purposeful, in motion.

I bought my first trench in the East Village at a funky shop on 10th Street, just two blocks from my terrible fourth-floor walk-up. I was starting my career at Michael Kors, and it was exactly the coat I needed to feel professional.

It was double-breasted, belted at the waist, and hit just below my knees, flaring out slightly at the bottom. Very tailored. Very ladylike. I’d pair it with black pumps for work events and feel, for the first time, like the woman I was trying to become.

My second date with my now-husband took place on a rainy night at Bottino. I hung my trench on the coat rack, and someone took it by accident. They reported it to the restaurant, so we took a cab uptown to The Mark Hotel to swap coats. When we stepped back outside, I apologized for ruining the date.

Instead, he casually suggested we grab a drink at Bemelmans Bar — and I basically decided then and there that I would marry him.

Later I bought a Theory trench coat at its annual sample sale. It was a little tight in the shoulders but completely A-line and so darn cute. No real structure, no seriousness about it — just easy. It went with everything. I wish I had never gotten rid of it.

I own two trenches now.

One is a vintage Burberry I found on The RealReal that I almost never wear. The silhouette is just too rooted in the 1980s — big shoulders, oversized epaulettes, double-breasted, falling well past my knees. Every time I put it on I want to love it. Every time, I take it off.

The other is a brown coat from Sea that I do like, though it’s a bit light and I’m never entirely sure what would happen if it met a real New York downpour.

Which brings us to the trench coat itself — and why it persists.

Part of it is practical. New York women don’t live sheltered lives between car doors and parking garages. We run for trains. We walk twenty blocks when we can’t get a cab. We stand on corners while the rain gets steadily heavier. The trench coat was built for that exact existence — light enough to move in, structured enough to look intentional, and designed for weather that refuses to cooperate.

But its usefulness travels well. In the suburbs, it’s the coat you throw on over pajamas for school drop-off. Suddenly sweatpants and loafers look chic instead of sleepy.

In Los Angeles, you own one for the single week a year it rains. In Paris, trench dressing feels practically mandatory. It’s French, but inherently British. Practical, but cinematic. Somewhere between Jackie O. on a stroll through the city and a woman power-walking to a meeting.

Few pieces of clothing manage to carry that much history while still being the easiest thing in the closet to throw on.

Which brings us to the season upon us.

This weekend, the forecast looks like rain in New York. Proper trench weather. The kind where you remember why the coat exists in the first place. So if you already own one, this is your sign to pull it out of the closet.

And if you don’t — here are a few very good places to start.

The Classic

The Cheeky

The Not-Khaki but Still Classic

The Cropped

I knew a few things from the start. I wanted something fun. Not cliché (aka the obligatory MOBM strapless sequin). Not stiff. Nothing that required undergarment engineering or a roll of double-sided tape. We did a destination mitzvah in the mountains, so I didn’t want to lean too heavily into country western cosplay.

This was the lineup.

Alice + Olivia

I saw this early - circa November - and while I own nothing by this brand, I thought it was cute and veered into winter-out-west territory without hitting you over the head. Black velvet. Gemstones. A playful wink at western wear. Aspen formal. I had mentally styled it with a little faux fur stole and tights and a flat boot — because any heel with this would’ve sent me straight to Hoochie Town.

But then I realized: it’s giving …. Katy J.

It feels…. revealing. A little too junior. So cute. Maybe for Margot? Not for me.

Kika Vargas

OK now we’re cooking with gas!!! Or so I thought. This strapless red taffeta situation was sort of silly in the best way. Very fashion. Irreverent! Extreme proportions. The kind of dress that enters a room before you do.

I loved how unserious it was. And could there be a bolo tie in my future? Who can say….

But the more I tried it on, the more it felt… prom. Unmoored from the destination. Random and slightly juvenile. Also: keeping it up would’ve required strategy, prayer, and possibly physics. Onwards.

Staud

As gen Z would say, I STAN STAUD. I was really convinced this brand had my dress somewhere.

Uptown, the brown strapless was in the right universe but a little matronly. A little MOBM cliché. The chocolate felt Montana in the right way — grounded, warm — but too formal. I wanted to MOVE.

Then downtown, I snooped into the shop’s back office and found this brown sequin dress with super fun proportions. Party up top, business down below. Cool in theory. But once it came home, it was just a lot of brown. Like surface area-wise. And the sequins were jumbo paillettes (a term I had to Google, obviously), which tipped slightly into cheesy.

Aflalo

Well then I wandered into the chicest new showroom on earth: Yael Aflalo’s new line, Aflalo.

I wanted everything.

I was on the hunt for the matching silk set — the Lolana Pant and Sibum Dress. Winter white in Montana? With a rad belt and oversized turquoise? Yes please. It felt directional. So I did what any woman with peaking levels of cortisol would do - I brought the black AND the white. (RIP my credit score.)

When I showed my husband at home, he said, “It’s very….. you.” Which is sometimes exactly the problem.

Plus I was nipping out. And it was silk. White silk. Not ideal. Ibiza? Yes. Montana? Eh. I ultimately decided: let’s keep the black for another day and return the white (even though I am still obsessed with it!!!)

ALC

I almost forgot about the ALC number that combined everything: a dash of sequin, a good Montana color palette, supported boobage.

Found her on the RealReal in my size. I am always a 4 in ALC. Except when I’m not.

It was questionably too small. (in that I was convinced it was too small while a few friends tried to tell me otherwise). Panic began to simmer. I found a 6 on Poshmark that could arrive one day before departure. Tight timing. Zero margin for error. I called in my power crew for an emergency Bergdorf’s run.

Nothing.

At this point, the dress search had officially entered cardiac territory.

This commercial break is brought you by MANGO

A fourth-quarter hail mary that wasn’t nearly special enough.

Michael Kors Collection

And then — days before the event — a final scroll through Net-a-Porter.

There she was.

A Michael Kors Collection copper leather fringe mini dress. Ninety percent off. Size 4. Final sale.

I’ve worked at Michael Kors twice. The brand is stitched into my muscle memory. Michael is my boo. And if Michael Kors doesn’t scream MOBM, what does?

I texted a friend: How can I order something final sale?

She said: Do it.

So I did.

When the box arrived, my hands were shaking. I tried it on and immediately knew.

It was perfect.

It nodded to western without going full rhinestone rodeo. The copper leather caught the Montana light in a way that felt intentional — warm, burnished. The shape was clean and confident. No tape. No engineering. No praying it would stay up through the hora.

And the fringe. Sigh.

We all know what happens when fringe goes rogue. It can veer Vegas in under three seconds. But this fringe was controlled. It moved when I moved. It danced during the dancing. It behaved during the speeches. It was rock and roll without the costume.

It was MOBM turned rock star.

Comfortable — truly comfortable. I could sit. I could hug. I could cry. I could spin my son around on a dance floor in Montana and not think once about a strap slipping or a hem riding.

The only logistical hiccup? Packing it. Fringe has its own agenda in a suitcase. It was a delicate operation involving garment bags, friends in business class and a small prayer circle.

But in the end, it was.

Not just a dress.

A feeling.

A little western.
A little Upper West Side.
A little fashion girl who once worked in the building.
A lot mother — proud, emotional, slightly feral on the dance floor.

Sometimes the right dress doesn’t make an entrance. It just shows up.

Also, it’s February.

Still, something about this week lodged itself in my head.

This week I had coffee with two different people—on different days, in different contexts—and both, without prompting, told me some version of the same thing: that I’d built something really meaningful. Tell&Co. The work. The life around it. They said it in that easy, matter-of-fact way that suggests the conclusion has already been reached.

And I noticed my instinctive reaction wasn’t pride so much as distance. Not disbelief exactly, just a quiet, internal huh. Like they were describing something adjacent to me, not fully mine.

I’m confident by nature and think I’m good at what I do. I’m proud of what I’ve built—the clients, the consistency, the fact that the work has legs and has created something sustainable. This isn’t about low self-esteem or needing reassurance.

And yet, there’s a persistent question underneath it all: what would it actually take to own it more? And what does owning it even mean?

Because it’s easy to assume the answer is just… more. One more client. One more byline. One more external marker that makes the whole thing feel indisputable. As if confidence is something that accrues over time, and eventually you cross an invisible threshold where self-doubt no longer applies.

I spent a long time in worlds where that kind of validation was everything. At WWD, so much of our perceived worth was tied to signals—our title, our proximity, whether we were invited to the right dinner or seated in the right row at a fashion show. It was subtle at times and not-so-subtle at other times, but it was constant. A steady hum of comparison and calibration.

I stepped off that track for many reasons. I chose autonomy over hierarchy, depth over optics. I assumed that leaving that system behind would quiet the noise.

Instead, the noise changed pitch.

That’s the strange part. Even when you remove yourself from environments that actively rank and reward you, the habit of self-measurement lingers. Especially as women, who are often taught—explicitly or not—to wait for confirmation before fully trusting our own authority.

So the doubt doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels reasonable. It shows up as questions instead of crises. A constant checking in: Is this real? Am I seeing myself clearly? Should I wait a little longer before I claim this?

Meanwhile, other people seem to see our arc more clearly than we do. They don’t live inside our effort. They don’t see the second-guessing or the drafts that didn’t land. The client that didn’t work out. They just see the thing that exists because we kept going.

Maybe that’s what owning it actually looks like—not louder confidence, but quieter acceptance. Letting things be true without constantly asking for the receipts. Allowing compliments to land without immediately qualifying them.

So for all of us, in whatever fields you’re in - whether in social spheres, as parents, or at work - let’s collectively make 2026 the year we allow ourselves to be THAT b*tch — not because we’ve reached some final level, but because we’ve done the work, paid attention, and stuck around long enough to know what we’re talking about.

The biggest difference is environmental. The Caribbean side is humid and increasingly unpredictable. Seaweed is no longer a seasonal fluke; it’s a recurring issue that can fundamentally change the beach experience. Storm systems are more frequent, and summer travel comes with real weather risk. The Pacific side tends to be drier, sunnier, and more consistent. You trade neon-blue water for deeper tones and stronger surf—but gain clarity, contrast, and landscape.

Yep, the west coast is the best coast

On the West Coast, the terrain matters. Mountains, desert, jungle, cliffs. You feel where you are.

Cabo San Lucas and the much nicer San Jose del Cabo sits at the intersection of desert and sea, and that starkness defines the experience. This is not tropical Mexico—it’s sculptural, sun-bleached, dramatic. The best stays are quiet and design-forward. Amanvari is set to bring Aman’s signature restraint to the region, while Chileno Bay Resort & Residences, Auberge Resorts Collection offers one of the rare swimmable beaches paired with a relaxed, modern feel. My personal favorite, like most others, is One&Only Palmilla in San Jose del Cabo - all the tradition of Mexican architecture and design, oozing with low-key luxury. Cabo works best when you let the landscape—not the nightlife—set the agenda.

Further south, Puerto Vallarta feels established in a way few resort destinations do. Backed by the Sierra Madre mountains, it has real density—culture, food, art, neighborhoods. There’s a reason people return here year after year and why expats forego Palm Springs or Boca Raton to retire here. Casa Kimberly, Elizabeth Taylor’s former home, remains one of the most atmospheric places to stay, while newer hotels bring polish without flattening the city’s character.

Then there are the towns that succeed by not trying to be resorts at all. Todos Santos is about pace and personality—artists, surfers, writers, long lunches. You’re not here for perfect swimming beaches; you’re here for the feeling of a place that hasn’t been overly managed. Hotel San Cristóbal gets the balance right: design-forward, unfussy, and fully grounded in Baja’s creative energy.

On the Riviera Nayarit, Sayulita delivers casual surf-town energy—colorful, social, imperfect (though La Joya Sayulita gets pretty damn close) —while nearby Punta Mita offers a more controlled, private experience. Punta Mita is for travelers who want proper resorting - the consistency, the calm, executed well. The Four Seasons Resort Punta Mita and St. Regis Punta Mita Resort both deliver exactly what you expect, which is the point.

Further down the coast, the Pacific becomes quieter and more compelling. Zihuatanejo still feels like a real town first, destination second. Fishing boats share the bay, evenings are low-key, and the pace is genuinely slow. La Casa Que Canta is a standout—elegant, intimate, and deeply in tune with its setting.

And then there’s Puerto Escondido, which is having a moment for good reason. Known historically for surf, it’s now attracting a design- and food-savvy crowd looking for something less curated. The beaches are powerful, not precious. The energy is creative, not polished. It’s not for everyone—and that’s exactly why it works. My cousins have been visiting Hotel Santa Fe for 20+ years. Newer hotels include Casa Yuma and Hotel Escondido.

East Coast is, well, convenient

Every trip to Mexico’s East Coast begins the same way: at Cancún International Airport, a place so consistently chaotic it feels almost intentional. Long immigration lines, packed terminals, and a gauntlet of transport hawkers waiting the moment you clear customs. It’s loud, crowded, and relentlessly transactional—a jarring entry point to what’s supposed to be a beach vacation. From there, you’re funneled onto the main coastal highway, a stretch that reveals the Riviera Maya for what it largely is: a linear, resort-heavy corridor that functions more like a strip mall than a coastline.

That drive south—from Cancún past Playa del Carmen toward Tulum—is where the illusion starts to crack. Mega-resorts sit behind gates, identical beach clubs advertise variations of the same experience, and long gaps of scrubland are punctuated by half-built developments promising eco-luxury while looking anything but. It’s not that there aren’t beautiful places here; it’s that they’re increasingly buried under sameness.

Some travelers peel off early and head to Isla Mujeres, just offshore. It’s one of the East Coast’s more reliable choices precisely because it’s contained. Playa Norte, when seaweed stays away, offers calm, swimmable water, and the island’s scale keeps expectations in check. Staying somewhere like Zoëtry Villa Rolandi makes the experience feel deliberate rather than touristic—quiet, adult, and insulated from the cruise-ship churn. Isla Mujeres works best for a long weekend, not a grand escape, and it benefits from knowing exactly what it is. Almare, a Luxury Collection Resort, opened just last year catering to adult travelers who value luxury coupled with a sense of place.

Further north—but requiring more effort—is Holbox, often sold as the antidote to the Riviera Maya machine. Car-free, sandy, and low-rise, it does offer a different rhythm. But Holbox is fragile. Rain floods the streets, infrastructure is minimal, and the charm wears thin if conditions turn. Staying somewhere thoughtful, like Casa Las Tortugas, helps—central, well-run, and attuned to the island’s pace—but this is a place for short stays and flexible travelers, not comfort seekers.

Back on the mainland, Playa del Carmen sits squarely in the middle of the East Coast experience—and suffers for it. Quinta Avenida feels like an outdoor shopping mall stretched for miles: loud, crowded, and aggressively commercial. Playa functions well as a hub—ferries to Cozumel, dining options, shopping—but rarely as a destination in its own right. If you do stay, places like Mahekal Beach Resort soften the edges with bungalow-style accommodations and a calmer beachfront, but you’re still very much in the thick of it.

Then there’s Tulum, the most polarizing stop on the coast. The beach zone still delivers moments of beauty—design-forward hotels tucked into jungle, excellent food, and a curated aesthetic—but the town itself feels overwhelmed. Traffic can be paralyzing. Infrastructure hasn’t kept pace with growth. Prices are inflated, and the sense of ease that once defined Tulum is largely gone. The only way it works now is if you treat it like a sealed environment. Staying somewhere like Be Tulum or Habitas Tulum allows you to stay put—beach, meals, wellness all in one place—without having to engage too deeply with the chaos beyond the gates.

Where the East Coast truly succeeds is not in its towns, but in its enclaves. Developments like Kanai and Mayakoba are designed specifically to buffer guests from everything described above. At Etéreo, Auberge Collection, the experience is inward-facing by design—calm, controlled, and aesthetically refined. Maroma, A Belmond Hotel offers one of the coast’s most romantic stays, but even here, beach conditions remain at the mercy of seaweed and season. Banyan Tree Mayakoba succeeds because it creates its own ecosystem of lagoons, paths, and privacy, making the surrounding sprawl almost irrelevant.

And that’s the truth of Mexico’s East Coast in 2026: it works best when it shields you from itself. Between the airport ordeal, the strip-mall sprawl, the environmental unpredictability, and the sheer volume of tourism, this is not a region that rewards wandering. It rewards containment.

If you go, go with intention. Choose hotels that act as buffers, not bases. Keep stays short. Manage expectations. And when all else fails, head west.

Was it delicious? Sure.
Was it perfect? Probably not.

That was never the point.

Those smells, those tastes, those rituals don’t live in memory so much as they live in you. They slip past critique and settle somewhere deeper — identity, inheritance, instinct — becoming part of how you move through the world. To judge them on quality alone is to misunderstand their power.

That’s how I feel about Phish. It’s about the music, and at the same time, it isn’t about the music at all.

I’ve been seeing the band since 1994, my freshman year of high school. It was the middle of an endlessly cold December break when my older sister asked if I wanted to hop into her friend’s car and drive to Philadelphia, just to see if we could get tickets. No plan. No guarantees. Just motion.

We got into the Civic Center as Mound began to play. I didn’t yet have the language to describe the music or the crowd, but I knew something had shifted. That this wasn’t just a concert. It was an entry point.

From there, my closest friends were pulled into the orbit. Phish became the connective tissue of our lives. New Year’s runs at MSG—late-night sprints to Penn Station, breathless calculations about the last train, adrenaline standing in for sleep. Festivals as we got older, when the logistics grew heavier and the meaning deeper. Posting up on the lawn at PNC Bank, blankets and coolers and disposable cameras.

There were the landmarks: waiting on Alligator Alley to inch toward Big Cypress. The reckless haze of the 2002 Vegas run. Getting snowed in, rerouted to Salt Lake City, sleeping it off. The biblical heat of Oswego. The mud of IT—where resistance gave way to surrender.

And in between it all: countless nights at MSG, Miami, Chicago, Hampton, VA—cities blurring together as we slowly grew up, learning the rules of adulthood over grilled cheese and roadside motels.

When I tell people I follow Phish, I’m often met with an eye roll or the familiar monologue: I loved them in the ’90s, but the later stuff…

Phish fans rarely engage with all that. We don’t feel the need to explain it. At some point, you stop trying to translate the life you’ve lived.

A life growing up in the Northeast suburbs—sneaking out of the house, hopping into a friend’s Honda Accord for long drives fueled by freedom, music and bad decisions. Friendships tested and forged at set break, when you wonder if you’ll ever reunite after a bathroom run on the other side of the field. Hearing the same song at sixteen and again at 40 and realizing it has grown because you have.

The band aged with us. The jams stretched as life stretched. Joy learned to sit beside grief without rushing it. What once felt like escape slowly became something closer to return.

And then there are the moments when the music stops being metaphor and simply becomes a companion.

Hearing Life Beyond a Dream on the drive home after visiting my dying father. I-95 North. Night settling in. Headlights blurred by tears as they stretch into a thin, endless line. The song arriving not as comfort, but as permission. To feel everything at once. To keep going.

You don’t analyze in these moments. You don’t wonder if it’s a “good” song. You just let it sit with you, holding the moment without trying to fix it.

And then, three months later, you hear it again.

Different room.
Different air.
Same notes.

And it lands differently, because you are different.

That’s the part no one can explain if you haven’t lived inside this music for decades. The songs don’t stay put. They move as you move. They wait for you to catch up to them. What once sounded abstract becomes devastatingly literal. What once felt gentle suddenly feels earned.

This isn’t nostalgia.
It’s continuity.

That’s why, now, when the band returns to the Garden next week, as it does every December over four nights, it feels less like a run and more like a gathering. Less like a show and more like a Shabbat service—familiar, grounding, quietly sacred. A room full of people who understand repetition as devotion, who know that showing up is the point, and that music isn’t something you consume. It’s something that’s already inside you.

You don’t go to be impressed.
You go to be reminded.

Of who you were.
Of who you’ve lost.
Of who you are—and what you have yet to become.

Sure, there are plenty of Caribbean all-inclusives that check the boxes. They’re practically built for the “everyone under one roof, no one complaining” fantasy. But for my mother’s birthday—timed to Thanksgiving, one of the only moments when my entire family is actually off—we knew we wanted to stay in California. Two-thirds of us live there, and the idea of flying 13 people around the world over the busiest travel week of the year felt like an act of emotional warfare.

So we landed on Terranea.

Just an hour south of Los Angeles on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, Terranea is one of those rare West Coast resorts that threads the needle between wellness escape and family-friendly playground, without overcommitting to either. It’s close enough to LAX for a transatlantic jaunt, but remote enough—cliffside, rugged coastline, endless Pacific—to feel like an actual getaway.

The property sprawls in the best possible way: casitas, villas, and bungalows that make multigenerational logistics miraculously seamless; walking paths that spill into ocean views you’d swear were borrowed from Big Sur; and enough on-site experiences to satisfy every family faction. Golf for the early risers, the spa for anyone who has quietly declared, “I will be in this robe until further notice,” guided coastal hikes, tide pooling with kids, archery (yes, archery), and multiple pools that keep everyone in their respective lane—quiet pool for adults, family pool for the chaos crew.

Terranea had just finished a $4.5 million renovation, and it shows in all the right ways. The design leans into the coastline: soft blues, sandy neutrals, curved modern lines, Venetian plaster walls that catch the light. The new lobby sets the tone immediately—a sleek quartzite desk facing a zellige-tile fireplace, elegant without feeling precious. The spa, with its arched doorways, outdoor fire pits and a hint of Southwest-ranch serenity, brings a grounded, sun-warmed ease to the whole experience.

Terranea gives you that rare mix of West Coast ease and actual destination energy. For a birthday, a holiday weekend, a multi-gen trip… it holds up to all of it. And honestly, that’s the magic. Because at some point you realize these multigenerational trips aren’t just about convenience—they’re about urgency. The kids are sprinting towards adulthood, the adults are comparing knee pain, and the grandparents won’t travel forever. Getting everyone in the same place starts to feel like a small miracle. Moments like this remind me that time is always moving, but every so often, we get to hold it still.

I’m talking about swag. The bags. The branding. The all custom everything. The retail-therapy-as-party-favor phenomenon currently sweeping the tri-state area and beyond at a pace that can only be described as… unhinged.

In my day, we went home with one pair of airbrushed boxers and maybe a slap bracelet if the DJ was feeling generous. Now? Kids are staggering out of these events with Stanley cups, personalized jerseys, Bluetooth speakers, skincare sets, beanies, hoodies, socks, sunglasses, and—why not—AirPods. AIRPODS. For 12-year-olds who already have better technology than most start-ups.

Forget the hora: the real dance is getting your child to carry all of their merch to the car.

And for what? So they dance? So they stay longer? So our kids… like us more? Or are we just conditioned to keep upping the ante until the ante becomes a mortgage payment?

I ask these questions lovingly (while sending Whatsapps to a hoodie vendor in South Jersey) because when I strip away the Pinterest boards and the fear of doing less-than, I’m left wondering: Do any of these kids even care?

My bat mitzvah was all cringe and joy. We didn’t need branded sweatpants to feel part of something. We were absurd and awkward and electric with adolescence. We danced without pretense or choreography. We bumped. We grinded. We floated the tiniest boy in our grade in the air and he was absolutely here for it. We were messy and mortified and having the time of our lives.

No merch required.

So how did we get here? How did “a fun takeaway” turn into a Nordstrom haul? How did a rite of passage become a retail experience? A capsule collection? Somewhere along the way, the fear of not doing enough morphed into the fear of not doing the most.

And I say this as someone who will be merching some merch in a few months, so please don’t come for me. This isn’t about righteousness. It’s about momentum—and the impossibility of slowing a train we’re all already riding.

But maybe—maybe—we come together on this.

Maybe we create a new form of conspicuous consumption that looks more like conspicuous restraint. Maybe swag becomes smaller, cuter, more meaningful instead of monumental. Maybe kids learn that dancing is fun even without a giveaway.

Maybe parents get permission—from each other—to dial it back.

What if the best thing they go home with isn’t a hoodie? What if it’s a memory?
A moment? A feeling? God knows the world could use more of those.

So here I am, saying out loud what we’re all thinking: It’s time to talk about swag.
Not to shame it. Not to police it. Not to ban the branded hoodie (I am literally ordering them right now), but to reclaim the party from the shopping bag.

Because the real gift—the actual point—is celebrating our kids becoming themselves. And we all know memories last a lot longer than merch.

Those who saunter down to the beach whenever the spirit moves them, and those who wake up at 6:04 a.m. armed with SPF 50 and the determination of a Navy SEAL, all in pursuit of one thing:

A front-row lounge chair.

We never admit which group we belong to, but we know.

“Love me some vacation rest,” we say, setting our alarms like we’re catching a flight. Because nothing says leisure quite like quietly tip-toeing past sleeping children to secure a chaise before the Upper East Side descends with their monogrammed towels, Loewe beach bags, and “effortless” calm.

And here’s the thing: this early-morning beach-chair ballet isn’t instinct. It’s conditioning. Resorts have turned relaxation into a competitive sport and convinced us it’s normal.

We’re out there at sunrise, towels folded like ceremonial offerings, placing them just so. Not too sloppy (rookie), not too aggressive (sociopath). A paperback flipped face-down to signal literacy. The in-room magazine. A rogue sand bucket — the universal symbol for “I have children, please don’t test me.”

Then we go back to bed like stealth operatives, feeling both triumphant and faintly ridiculous. We’ve accomplished nothing and everything. We have… a spot.

And later, when we arrive at 10 a.m., iced coffees in-hand, pretending to be breezy?

“Oh wow! Look at our chairs — lucky us.”

No one buys it. But the charade is part of the ritual. We are relaxed. We are breezy. We are absolutely not the type who set alarms to secure pool furniture like we’re bidding on vintage Chanel at auction. We simply “stumbled” into prime oceanfront shade, near the tiki bar. Divine intervention, obviously.

But of course, we know the truth.

Vacation in the age of curated ease means you must earn your serenity before you can perform it. And the most maddening part? The resort knows it too. The $500 cabana isn’t luxury — it’s outsourcing your anxiety. It’s insurance. It’s a spiritual panic button disguised as a daybed.

“This guarantees happiness,” it whispers. “And shade. And a waiter who remembers your kid likes the fancy straws.”

You’re not paying for the cabana.
You’re paying not to participate in the Chair Olympics.

Meanwhile, the mythical vacationers who “just wander down whenever” do exist. They’re European, retired, or operating at a level of inner peace we will not reach until we’re 81 and we finally stop caring about proximity to the pool.

For the rest of us? We are doing what we must to ensure the one week we circled on the calendar in pen doesn’t devolve into “I guess we’ll sit on these damp towels by the bathroom.”

And look — the minute we settle into those chairs, children building sand castles beside us? We feel it. The slippery, blissful illusion. I did it. I won relaxation.

For five perfect seconds, we almost believe it.

Then someone orders an espresso martini at full volume, the Bluetooth speaker wars begin and your child asks for their 14th snack in the span of an hour.

But still — we made it. We earned this chaise.

And tomorrow? We will do it again.

Not because we’re neurotic. Not because we’re competitive. But because peace — like everything else in modern life — apparently requires strategy, sprinting and an alarm clock.

Vacation is supposed to be the absence of effort. In practice, it’s effort with better weather, fresh towels and a frozen drink waiting at the end.

But here’s the thing: the hunt for the perfect festive dress doesn’t have to end in sticker shock — or a one-wear wonder. The truth is, the same styles that work for bar/bat mitzvahs pull their weight at fall galas, benefit dinners and any fabulous party.

But back to the Bat. If you’re anything like me, you’ve either just entered bar and bat mitzvah season, you’re circling the edges via friends with older siblings, or are fully entrenched with kid number two or three. It doesn’t really matter where you fall on the b. mitzvah timeline — they’re here. They’re everywhere. And honestly? They’re kind of great.

Think of them as a wedding’s cuter, younger cousin - the one who rocks a mullet un-ironically and will one day take your kid on a Thanksgiving “walk.” You still get the big band energy, the emotional speeches, the dance floor chaos. But this time, you get to party with your kids, oh, and you’re old now and maybe slightly more sober.

But for every invitation, there’s a small panic attack in the group chat about what to wear. Modest for synagogue? Dressy but not MOBM (#motherofthebarmitzvahboy) dressy? Something that works at both Spin and the Metropolitan Club? Deep breaths.

The good news is: you do not need a brand-new outfit for every single event. With a little strategy — and a well-placed jewelry or shoe swap — you can absolutely rewear, rework and re-style. One dress, three parties. It’s a mitzvah miracle.

I’ve done my best to include a range of price points, including an entire assortment of dresses priced under $1,000 that serve a generous heap of fashion. Because the only thing more stressful than dress codes is price tags.

A quick note: synagogues and parties come in many flavors. For the service, I’ve included pieces that work from the most Reform to the most observant, so that you can feel covered (literally and figuratively) across locations. In my opinion, it’s always nice to err on the side of caution. But if you’re not sure, there’s nothing wrong with texting the host!

From Torah to Tuna: The Service

A quick PSA: modesty does not mean matronly. The synagogue look is all about tasteful polish — pieces that respect the room but still feel like you. I’m talking midi lengths, long sleeves, higher necklines and silhouettes that move gracefully from davening to dining without a full outfit change.

These are also the MVPs you can pair with Chelsea boots for a weekday lunch or switch to a heel at your leisure. It’s effortless elegance with a side of herring.

MOBM Energy: It’s YOUR Day (fine, it’s theirs too)

This is your moment! You’re serving looks from the first row. You’re radiating big bimah energy (#BBE?), and all without taking away from your learned lainer. This special day calls for form-fitting silhouettes, grandma’s jewelry and that unspoken I’ve been planning this since he came out of me vibe. Lean in. You’ve earned it.

From Blessings to Bangers (Let’s PARTY)

The mitzvah party is its own animal — part nightclub, part fever dream, part middle school reunion you didn’t know you were attending. The lighting is low, the playlist slaps and the dress code lives somewhere between cocktail hour and chaos. It’s where the sequins come out to play, the blowouts get tested and sensible heels earn their name. Go bold, go short, go sparkly — or don’t. But whatever you wear, make sure it can survive a hora, a conga line and at least one kid waving a glow stick dangerously close to your face.

Let’s Party For Under $1,000!

Great news: looking like a million bucks no longer requires spending it. These picks deliver serious fashion energy — clean lines, a little drama, a touch of sparkle — all while staying under the $1,000 mark. Think statement dresses that feel special without screaming for attention. And yes, there’s a strong showing from Self-Portrait - a rising favorite for good reason: structured, elegant and just the right amount of extra.

B. Mitzvah season isn’t for the faint of heart — but it is for the well dressed. Between the synagogue, the Hora and those agro dance-floor giveaways (can we retire that yet?), it’s a marathon in heels. May your dress be versatile, your cocktail strong and your swag worth the $60 Uber home.