Started this morning with a nearby bagel spot with good reviews. However, I didn’t really realize this would be an extremely trendy place—dozens of influencers crowded this tiny shop, all vying for their very own bagel. We squeeze in and order. They’re also blasting “Casual” by Chappell Roan, which I mean is fine (#rep) but also a bit odd for nine in the morning, and a bit dramatic for a bagel shop in general. It’s quite busy outside as everyone eats their bagels on the sidewalk, so Abby and I end up sitting against a stoop to eat and observe the difference in tourists’ fashion as compared to the Bay Area. Notably, I never really see anyone wearing white jeans at home—but every other tourist seems to be wearing them here. That or the tiered white skirt. Anyways, our bagels were quite good. Going to go back tomorrow.

We take the train down to Central London and walk to Cecil Court (also known as Bookseller’s Row). It’s not very big—just about fifteen or so shops selling maps, prints, and various special editions of books. There’s little we could practically pack to come back home with, so we don’t buy anything, but I was greatly tempted by a first edition of Matilda. But I figured I’m about to move across the country, and I certainly wouldn’t be bringing such a beautiful book to my dorm, so I sadly leave it behind. I feel similarly in the Lego store, which is massive and filled with London monuments and Harry Potter scenes out of the bricks—I would’ve loved to buy something, but decided to be practical. I hate being practical. However, we did get Pokémon Lego Smart Bricks demonstrated to us, and we each got a sticker.

With little else to immediately do, we decided to head into the first of our main events of the day. Jet Lag the Game!! Anyone who has had the (dis)pleasure of speaking to me in high school with some level of depth has heard about my love for the travel/game show. And I was about to witness it in theaters! Because we’re so early, we get to explore the theming with almost zero people in the vicinity. Take some awful photos on their makeshift red carpet, and some even worse ones in the photobooth.

We get herded into the theater fifteen minutes before the showing—it’s actually surprisingly comfortable. And then, they walk in. I see Sam, Ben, and Adam. Despite the simplicity of their names, this is actually INSANELY exciting for me, and I might’ve cried a bit. I have been their biggest fan (big claim I know) for five years now. The director’s cut of the first three episodes was great fun, and I enjoyed seeing Abby’s reaction to the John Green cameo in Tag Eur-It episode three. It was fun hearing their perspective of certain behind-the-scenes moments, and additional strategy, especially since they weren’t doing the podcast at this point in Jet Lag. After the showing, we head into the merch queue, which wraps around the entire theater.

We head for an early dinner after Jet Lag—back to Il Castelletto for the third time because it’s good and we like being recognized. This time, the owner puts a nice flower on top of our pasta—napoletana for Abby, carbonara for me.

After a quick stint in the stationery shop (Abby) and the bookshop (me) across the street, we set off for Abby’s wallet’s downfall, also known as the Royal Opera and Ballet House. I buy a large kids’ shirt there because it’s an entire ten pounds cheaper than the adult one. She gets a t-shirt, a hat, a tote bag, and a pin. However, she rules the Opera Garnier as the superior gift shop. Another stationery shop after that, where I believe I showed some excellent restraint, and where Abby did not.

Around the corner, we find a HeyTea. Desperate for some taste of freshness, we hop in line (not as busy as in the Bay Area, but the shop is minuscule and pours out into the street, making it incredibly claustrophobic). Initially, Abby just gets a guava green grape drink, and I pass. Then I try hers and make her loop back. Absolutely fantastic.

We had a bit to go before our second show of the day, so we stand in an alleyway with our drinks and review our favorite British memes. Then we walk towards the Sondheim Theater—it’s time to see Les Misérables. So again, anyone who’s ever met me before knows I love this show. Quite passionately. And goodness, after watching it for the fourth time, it’s still just as transcendent. I’ve never seen another show that enraptures me as Les Misérables does. And this version was absolutely incredible—it’s the best Jean Valjean, Javert, Cosette, and Marius I’ve ever seen in my life. Abby and I both cried. If I ever don’t cry to the epilogue, assume something is VERY wrong with me.

It’s late when we step out of the theater, but London is still partying. There’s a man passionately singing “Sweet Caroline” and strumming his guitar to no end on the platform of the Tube.

This morning, we rushed to the British Library and made it in time for our 10:30 tour. I must say, every time I enter a library with loads of funding and materials, I feel this horrid rage bubbling up inside me. It’s the most innate feeling I ever experience (jokes, jokes). It’s the most beautiful and expansive opening I’ve ever seen—King George’s collection of books displayed the second you walk in seems to stretch to the stars. We join our group and head around the library, led by a nice man called Patrick. I do believe it would be incredibly fun to be a tour guide. Hope I get to experience this profession someday.

I think one place where Abby and I have been going wrong is how we’ve been dealing with our museum fatigue, which is really starting to hit us at this point in the trip. We want to experience a place in its entirety (or as well as we possibly can), but aren’t at a point mentally or physically (Abby has flat feet) where we can stand and read every single plaque. So it just feels like every time we’ve walked into a museum/place-to-read-loads-of-plaques-and-look-at-objects, we’ve just been really dismissive of things we’d typically be able to pay much better attention to. That’s why I’m really glad we booked this British Library tour, and wish we’d done it in more places—nice change of pace and learned loads of things about the building and its history that I never would have found out otherwise. For example, the British Library is a legal deposit library, which means it receives a copy of everything published in the UK. Cue my intense jealousy once again.

The treasures room of the library is one of our favorite experiences so far this trip. We’re both huge fans of the literary scene (two English majors walk into a library), so being able to see Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf’s original manuscripts, an original copy of Beowulf, and a first Shakespeare folio is kind of huge for us.

We get bagels for lunch, and the guy at the cash register gives me the “local discount”. Can’t really figure out how/why this happened because my accent is fiercely Californian. But hey, I’m not complaining. I’ll take a pound off an expensive bagel.

We rush to the Tube for our matinee at Shakespeare’s Globe—we’re about to see Midsummer Night’s Dream! Tickets are crazily cheap. I got them months ago, for about five pounds each. The only hindrance is the experience itself—we’re “groundlings,” which means we have to stand directly next to the stage for the entire show. I’m dreading this a bit—it’s very warm, and we’re already quite tired from the nearly two weeks now of traipsing around Paris and London.

But it’s great fun—one of the best theatre experiences I’ve had in my entire life. I believe they knew some might not stay engaged or focused on the plot, so they shifted. It was incredibly showy, with loads of bubbles, streamers, dancing, and audience involvement. The show was also so vehemently queer that at the end, you really can’t imagine watching it any other way. I love WLW Lysander and Hermia. The only time you realize how long you’ve been standing in one place is when it ends. I even caught a rose from Lysander and Hermia’s wedding, but unfortunately had to give it back to an attendant. He seemed very surprised when I handed it back though—I think most steal it.

The Shakespeare gift shop was somehow the most crowded and condensed space of this trip so far, even worse than the British Museum gift shop and Montmartre.

After the show, Abby and I get ice cream and sit next to the Thames to eat and assess our next move (which Nando’s to eat at). We decide on the one around the corner.

Man, I love Nando’s. I wish we had a Nando’s at home. Abby and I both get five chicken wings and two sides (mac and cheese and mashed potatoes for me, coleslaw and French fries for her). There’s bottomless peach iced tea and bottomless vanilla soft serve, which might just be my favorite words in the world. Although I’m saying this, I didn’t even have any because we had just gotten ice cream. Might have to go back. I do have to say though, we both got medium spice, and it just tasted very mild. UK indicator. Will order it spicier next time. Nando’s also has ice water, something I’ve begun to just believe is a beautiful myth.

Took the Tube to the National Gallery. I think this is my favorite museum so far—since we’ve gone late on a Friday (good pro tip, it’s open till nine on Fridays), there are very few people there. Since the museum is free, there’s loads of artists in there, propped up on their fold-up stools and sketching the paintings in the gallery. It’s also very cool, which a lot of our recent museums can’t relate to. Talking to you, British Museum and the Louvre. There are so many beautiful paintings, but the museum is small enough to be manageable. I end up remembering loads from these children’s books my mom used to read to my sister and me, about a girl named Katie who crawled into paintings from the Gallery.

Back to the AirBNB after that. Abby says this was her favorite day of the trip so far.

In Paris, Abby had taken an interest in a girl wearing a red quilted jacket from Portobello Market, so we had to go check them out here. There are two to three shops here, and she ends up buying this nice blue jacket with flowers at the first one we go into. It’s also reversible, so she thinks she’ll get a lot of good wear out of it. These shops are absolutely packed with these quilted jackets—every pattern and color you could possibly imagine absolutely already exists in these shops. At the second shop, she finds a makeup bag set with tigers on it, which she plans to use as a book bag. We also poke around their pajama section, and we both end up buying a set. The shop owner tells us his brother lives in San Francisco, and promptly shows us pictures of him in Yosemite, asking if we know it.

We don’t end up buying anything else at the market—it’s just a bit too much, both with the quantity of items and people. So we ditch into a side road, where we end up finding Notting Hill Bookshop by coincidence, packed with fans of the movie. It’s hard to move around in there, and difficult to exist in, even if you’re not the type to become claustrophobic. They had some nice items in there, but Abby and I are starting to hit some book shopping fatigue, so we can’t endure a crowded, hot bookstore at this point. Next door, I bought a doughnut, which was actually quite good, albeit it being much too expensive.

After, we walk to a nearby park, and sit while Abby tries to get the Akinator to guess different Heartstopper characters. But we’re meeting our friend Jade for lunch, who we haven’t seen for two years, so we walk further into Notting Hill after about ten minutes of sitting.

The first spot we chose for brunch was closed for a special event, so down the street we went on a quest for alternate options. The second spot we saw was just closed randomly, so even further down the street to search for alternate options. Finally, we end up at a place called Salwa London Bakery, which serves Lebanese-inspired brunch. Abby gets this French toast absolutely drenched in chocolate syrup and caramel, which looked ultra-sweet (and was, confirmed by the diner herself). Jade gets shakshouka, and I get a chicken wrap. After lunch, we introduce Abby to the wonders of a Flying Tiger, and understandably, she’s mind-blown. She buys some containers for her dorm, but it turns out she accidentally just bought two container lids. It was very nice to catch up with Jade.

We head back to the apartment to drop off our new purchases, and somehow this turns into me falling asleep. I accidentally stayed up quite late last night typing yesterday’s articles (the things I do for my fans) (hi Mom and Dad). But don’t worry, I started earlier tonight and hope to be finished by eleven thirty. I’d probably be finished faster if I stopped writing about my bedtime and got on with the day.

Once we wake up, we rush down to Five Guys, eager to see the Paddington Musical. We’re absolutely outraged how much a stupid burger from Five Guys costs here, but we gulp it down and rush to the theater, only to realize we accidentally got tickets for twenty-twenty-seven. I learn two things about myself here.

1. I really love Paddington, even more than I thought I did.

2. I really do have a flair for the dramatics.

Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve cried over something Paddington-related.

To make myself feel better, I led us to Waterstones, where another Devastation occurs. The travel writing section (my fave) is blocked off for a romantasy event, where three authors are doing a panel and talking about their new books and writing process. I do believe people can enjoy whatever they want. However, this might just be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve never wanted to be a camel before, but here I am. I flip through their books out of curiosity, and let’s just say they aren’t my personal cup of tea (appropriate English metaphor).

I don’t end up buying anything, but consider five different books; then, I consider the space I have left in my Cotopaxi. We cut our losses and head back to the Tube.

Back at the AirBNB, we sit on the same cushion I sat on yesterday morning for about two hours and talked about our trip so far. We played a fun game called “Five Things I Miss About the United States, Five Things I Miss About Paris, Five Things I’ll Miss About London, Five Things I Loved About Paris, Five Things I Love About London, and Five Things I Don’t Miss About the United States”. I love a good short, snappy title. Then we end up crawling onto the roof, where a cooling breeze hits us. It seems like the first one in days.

Also, greatest apologies; I really didn’t take any pictures today for some reason.

Another stop at Pocket Coffee this morning, where I try chai. I think it was very catered towards the Western palate, because it was chockful of cinnamon and overly sweet. So I’d like to try it again when it doesn’t feel like I’m drinking a liquid snickerdoodle at nine in the morning. After, Abby and I take the Tube down to Buckingham Palace, where we arrive just in time to get another vanilla soft serve before the changing of the guards. I knew there would be hoards of people, but not to this scale—I can’t believe the masses that have shown up to watch these guards march down the road.

I must admit, while watching the guards, I sort of couldn’t believe this is still in practice. I understand England is a land of tradition, but it just all seems sort of unnecessary. We walk towards the palace with them, quickening our strides to keep up. The palace is nice, but again, so crowded we see no incentive in lingering.

We walk towards Central London with the final goal of heading to the House of Mina Lima. I’ve realized it’s a good idea to just not tell Abby how long/far we’ll be walking—she doesn’t really seem to notice when we’ve been walking for half an hour if I don’t tell her. Piccadilly Circus is akin to Times Square, albeit much more lame looking. I think if you’re going to have an area of theaters and advertisements, you need to really commit. We eventually make it to the store, which is exactly how one might imagine it—whimsical and slightly eccentric, filled to the brim with bookish merch, but mostly Harry Potter. I deliberate for ages over various souvenirs for family.

We’re nearing our slot for the British Museum by the time we finish with Mina Lima. So we start walking over, and come across an antiquean bookstore, which might be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in ages. Unfortunately, Abby and I couldn’t buy any books, hindered by price and anxieties over getting it back safely. But I see the most beautiful copy of Villette by Charlotte Brönte, and I do believe I’ll be thinking of it until the day I die. We’re charmed by the cashier shouting to the back to check if certain books are in stock, and her logbook of purchases as opposed to an electronic system.

Lunch afterwards—we walk a few blocks inward from the museum to avoid obvious tourist traps and end up at this Italian restaurant owned by this friendly group of pals. We’re the only ones in there, so I was a bit worried. But we both ordered minestrone for cheap, and it was fantastic. Keep this in mind; it’ll come back later.

After lunch, we head into the British Museum (the Land of Stolen Objects). The first exhibit we check out is the tribute to the 250th anniversary of the United States, which is incredibly interesting. Firstly, the British refer to the Revolutionary War as the American War of Independence. Secondly, most of the exhibit was tokens of appreciation from Native Americans to the British.

We actually have less time in the museum than originally planned—they’re closing early tonight for an event, so we have three hours. But by this point in the trip, we both sort of have museum fatigue, so we don’t even mind much. We check out the Egyptian section before Abby decides she’d prefer to look at the Greek stuff (for more references to Nico DiAngelo and Will Solace). It’s genuine insanity how much stuff they have for all these different cultures. As we head to the Asian sections, this feeling only amplifies—it feels odd that people travel so far from their home countries to see objects from them. Also, why is the British Museum SO hot? I know it’s ninety degrees, so perhaps I can’t actually criticize too much. But it feels like walking through a thick, swampy sauna. With all their donors, is there not one that would be alright investing in a few more fans?

The gift shop is even warmer and far too big to properly explore in the thirty minutes we’ve allotted for it. I can’t even find a wall of postcards, which seems completely ridiculous to me. I also believe it to be completely ridiculous how people think they can just block crowded walkways.

Leaving the British Museum, we decide to go check out the bookstore we saw earlier—London Review of Books. I get two more books—they have the Booker Prize longlist novels out on display! So I get Helen of Nowhere by Makenna Goodman and The Director by Daniel Kehlmann, translated by Ross Benjamin. That one was shortlisted for the international list recently, but I wasn’t able to get to it back then. Then we go to the stationery shop next door called Present & Correct, which is wonderfully curated and even more beautifully organized. Abby, to use her recent favorite phrase, “drops a dime” there.

Back across the street to the Italian restaurant. They seem quite pleased to see us again, recognizing us from earlier. We get pasta—their carbonara is actually quite good, and we make plans to go back a third time. I have a hunch the two owners are somewhat involved romantically.

After dinner, we walk towards the theater—we’re on our way to go see Hercules! Anyone who knew me in middle school knows I used to watch this and eat dry Crispix every time I felt sad. Try it, it’s a great method.

It’s a good show, very theatrical and a clear spectacle. In front of us, however, was a family who seemed to have never been in public before—they were shifting about in their seats, talking to each other, and grooving to the music. Like hello. I also saw both girls go on Instagram during the show! Anyways, I thought the show was quite nice—I wish they didn’t have to change the plot so much, especially the ending, which is the best part, but I understand why it was necessary.

The Tube takes forever to get to the station, but we eventually get on. I’m reading The Director, which I’m enjoying so far. Five stops before our own, Abby exits the train; I look up from my book, and she’s no longer there. I sprint out of the car and pull her back inside. Sort of gave me a heart attack, but she promises not to do that anymore, so I’ll move on.

Once I finish the book, I walk back to our AirBNB, where Abby is up and getting ready for the day. We walk down to the coffee shop owned by our hosts, Pocket Coffee, where a friendly British man (who looks like he was plucked off the streets of Santa Barbara) takes our order. I decide to get tea, and Abby a cappuccino. I’ve never added milk to my tea before, but I figured I’m in London, and this would be the time. Pals, I’ve decided never to find that time again, no matter how many times I revisit London. The milk was warm, and changed the hot tea into a lukewarm, tasteless liquid.

On the Tube we go! Today’s our huge sightseeing day—get all of the huge monuments checked off in a singular day so we can zero in on more specific areas the rest of the trip. Just down the river, Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster come into view. This is crazy stuff, pals, I must admit. We cross over the Westminster Bridge to view the most iconic monument up close—The Paddington Experience building! There’s a cute van parked in front selling Paddington merch, along with an assortment of associated treats. Abby and I both get vanilla soft serve with a sugar paw print stuck on the top, and eat it while staring out at the River Thames.

After polishing off our ice cream, we move spots to get a better view. It’s been nearly two weeks of watching tourists pose in front of famous monuments, and I’ve come to realize I’m quite sad to be a teenager in the maxi skirt epidemic. There’s nothing quite like a good mini skirt.

We follow Rick Steves’ Westminster Walk, stopping in a gift shop or two along the way. I even bought a stupid Viktor Krum keychain that was on an insane sale because no one is buying Viktor Krum keychains ever. But eventually we make it to Trafalgar Square, where the most exciting thing of the day comes into view (besides Paddington maybe). It’s Waterstones! Their chain bookstore! Abby and I are completely elated.

And man, it’s loads better than your typical Barnes & Noble—the selection is so much more diverse, and it’s so exciting to see all the different Penguin editions we can’t find in the United States. I’m sort of a Penguin Publishing fanatic if you didn’t know. Somehow, we waste away two hours in the basement of that store, pouring over our different options and trying to figure out what we can fit into our Cotopaxis. In the end, I chose:

• Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson

• Around the World in 80 Trains: A 45,000-Mile Adventure by Monisha Rajesh (signed!)

• Labels by Evelyn Waugh

You can see the travel writing section really got to me. What’s someone like me to do?

Abby gets:

• Taiwan Travelogue by Yang Shuang-zi

• Fleabag by Phoebe Waller-Bridge

• Drive the Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk

Then it’s time for our first fish and chips of the trip! Abby and I head to a local pub. She likes them more than I expect, and I enjoy them more than I do in the United States. But if I eat too much fried food, I start to feel quite ill. The taste of oil still permeates through my mouth as I type this ten hours later.

After, we buy these super wearable shirts: “I <3 British Girls” for me, and “I <3 British Boys” for her. In the park, we stuff them into our bags (not because we’re ashamed or anything…) and lie down to read a bit.

Then we start our trek towards Tower Bridge. I hope Abby doesn’t notice this is about to be an hour-long walk, and she’s actually doing quite well until about the end, when I alert her of the distance we’ve gone. That’s how we end up sitting next to the Tower of London for a while, which she doesn’t know is the Tower of London. It’s how we get this gem:

“Addy, can we sit next to this old ass building for one more minute and then we can go.”

“Abby, this is the Tower of London.”

Then she starts taking pictures of it.

But we eventually walk towards the bridge, have no need to go up it, and decide to head towards the Tube after we feel as if we’ve ogled it enough. Back to Trafalgar Square so we can spend more time in the Waterstones. It’s actually mostly so I can buy a Penguin Publishing tote bag with Pride and Prejudice on it; I had gotten jealous of Abby’s throughout the day, which had also been gradually staining her white tank top a bright orange.

We take the Tube back to Kensington, and walk the way to a restaurant called EVE. There’s a meal deal for weekdays—twenty pounds for a shared pizza, bowl of parmesan fries, and a drink each. This sounds like an excellent bargain! It is an excellent bargain! The atmosphere was also incredible—foliage and low, warm lighting coupled with natural light streaming through the plethora of windows. It’s a fantastic way to end our long day.

Onto the Eurostar—we end up sitting next to a family consisting of two gentle parents and two toddlers, both with some malicious glint in their eyes. Firstly, the father must have forgotten deodorant that morning; his scent filled the carriage. The youngest daughter had the evilest glint of all—she began the train ride by loudly yelling everything she was observing. Throughout, she runs rampant through the aisles, eyeing everyone’s food. She even considers Abby’s quinoa salad—I’ve never known a toddler to adore quinoa. She also wants my chicken sandwich. Later in the ride, she takes a handful of cards her sister is playing with and tosses them in the air, laughing with glee as she watches them flutter down.

I was glad to exit that train and take in London for the first time! Abby is instantly enamored—she’s been waiting all trip for this exact moment. She points out the mundane—look, Addy, there are British cars; look, Addy, that’s a British road! I navigate the Tube, and we arrive at our Kensington AirBNB. Unfortunately, the host gave us the wrong keys, so we were stuck sneaking through the underground floor and borrowing a key from the maid. But we eventually got the right keys.

Next, we begin our trek to Marks & Spencer, a grocery store that sort of seems akin to Trader Joe’s, in the manner of it not being the best place to shop for your primary groceries, but all the fun bits to enjoy throughout the week. Our place is a shoebox and lacks a fridge, so we get items for a quick snack and later dinner. On the walk back, I notice the Jet Lag: The Game movie theater marquee and genuinely squeal. Abby and I head back into the apartment and sit on the floor, scooping garlic aioli with lightly salted pita chips, and shovelling handfuls of blueberries in our mouths.

Then it’s time to head to the number one most celebrated landmark in all of London—the Paddington Bear store at Paddington Station (apt, I like it). It’s only a short Tube ride away, so we arrive with haste. I can say I truly blacked out here—anyone who knows me slightly knows I’m utterly obsessed with this bear. It took everything in me to not march up to the cash register and tell the cashier to ring up everything in the store for me.

We stop in the train station bookstore and notice a fantastic selection of books—it really puts the United States’s collection to shame. On our walk back to the Tube, I notice the Waterstones in Kensington closes at 8 PM, rather than 9 PM as I believed. So we head back into the train station and purchase two copies of Heartstopper: Volume Six. I’m sort of giddy about this whole situation—this series truly defined how I interpreted queerness as a younger teen, both personally and societally.

Drop our stuff back off at the apartment, then off towards Kensington Gardens with our new books in hand. We end up walking down an entire row of embassies, which we’re completely captivated by. In the gardens, I end up making several jokes about Prince Henry and FSOTUS Alex Claremont-Diaz. It’s really just a queer day.

My AirPods go in, and the Heartstopper soundtrack gets turned up. The sun sets gradually, and we read till dark—a fantastic end to our first day in London.

Every day, it gets more and more difficult to rouse Abby from the plush, red armchair and out the door; truth be told, it is a wonderful armchair. Usually on vacations, I would be more lazy too, but I feel as if I must act as the instigator of the trip, so we finally head out the door at 10:45. We’re set to have quite the late night, so I tell myself this is okay. Our favorite croissants are closed today, so we had breakfast at home instead of trying to find a different place. The day seems rather gloomy, especially compared to the rest of our week. In fact, it has the regular San Francisco chill! This, of course, was the day I decided to wear a sundress; this, of course, was the day with the most wind. I digress.

Down to Sainte-Chapelle, where we look at the outside for a moment, then leave. We amble towards Notre Dame again, where we find a shut Shakespeare & Co. But it’s set to open in an hour, and I actually didn’t really eat breakfast at home at all, so we head into the shop’s café. I do actually get a croissant here, the worst one of the trip by far. I also get a peach iced tea (1), which tasted just okay, but it wasn’t the delicious one Abby had the other day, so I remain disappointed. Abby gets a bright purple latte that doesn’t have any distinct flavoring; she says it tastes mostly of milk. To a moderate amount of surprise, it starts raining! Luckily, Abby and I were one of the lucky people who had elected to eat inside, so we got to smugly look at all the people who tried to race for one of the remaining seats.

Pals, you’ll have to believe me when I say we had a fantastic gossip session in this café. All within view of Notre Dame.

We watched as the store opened, and watched as a massive queue winding down the blocks formed in front of it, three times the length as last time we went. So we watched it, hoping for it to dwindle down. It never does, so we end up just cutting our losses and hopping in. It doesn’t take as long as we believed, and we’re soon inside. Abby firmly swears she’s not going to purchase any books, which sounds as believable as the sky turning electric-green tomorrow.

And would you look at that—the sky remains blue. After much deliberation, she walks out with two poetry collections—one by T.S. Eliot, the other by Sylvia Plath. The deliberation wasn’t whether it was worth it to make the purchase (don’t be fooled), but more so which T.S. Eliot collection she should get at all. She’s swayed by Sylvia Plath by a poem our AP Lit teacher showed up last year, “Blackberrying”. I end up getting two books as well, plus a nice green book pouch with a George Whitman quote on it. I ended up selecting Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Summer Will Show (double Sylvias) and George Orwell’s Down in Paris and London, which I thought was apt.

Time for lunch! I really want beef bourguignon, so I make Abby trek up the hill fifteen minutes for a spot I heard was good. We eventually made it; it smells incredibly strongly of fondue/raclette (so just cheese), which I’m incredibly pleased about. Abby accidentally only orders us one beef bourguignon so we end up just splitting it because we’re both too scared to alert the waiter. It was really good, and then I ended up being genuinely sad that we only had one.

Then we hop on the metro to go to the Grande Épicerie for butter/other snacks. The butter aisle (to be expected) is swarmed by tourists who can’t decide what flavors they want; they’re leaving the doors to the fridges open like it’ll accompany their pondering positively, which is making the entire area a bit chilly. But we eventually get it, plus a package of prosciutto, a peach iced tea (2), and a kombucha. On our walk to Luxembourg Gardens, we pick up a baguette.

Ahh—everything is all set for a perfect picturesque picnic. What better way to begin closing off our final day in Paris? We set everything out and begin to eat. My peach iced tea ended up being carbonated, which made me greatly upset. So I didn’t really drink all of it. Or really any at all. Little did we know, lurking in the trees and bushes surrounding our quaint bench were swift, deft attackers. Small, unassuming at first, but entirely aggressive. All of a sudden, we were swarmed by yellow jackets, eager for a taste of our delicacies. Abby shrieks and runs around with great fear in her eyes. So we move. But they move too. Around, around, around the park we go, to no avail. We end up cramming fistfuls of prosciutto in our mouths because Abby convinces herself it’s what the yellow jackets are after. But the yellow jackets are more persistent than that; a lack of ham would never stop them! The next time they come back, Abby stands up to run with such fright that my carbonated peach iced tea and our beautiful demi-sel butter tumble to the ground. With a flourish of dramatic irony, a veritable parade of mini ponies commences—here come the toddlers, and with them horse manure!

We move towards the fountain with the boats and try to enjoy our new books. Abby buys me a new peach iced tea (3) from the nearby stand. But the yellow jackets… they’re always behind you.

Cutting our losses, we head back on the subway to Montmartre, where we go back to the loft for about an hour. We had also made a pit stop at the bookstore my parents left me in when I was eight. We stop at Franprix, where I finally find the correct peach iced tea. I drink one back at the loft (4). Near 10:30, we walk up the steps of the Basilica for the best view of the Eiffel Tower—our last night in Paris warrants watching it sparkle. We head to the same spot from the other day, where we saw it in light. Coincidentally, the Tour de France commenced today, and bikers are out partying. There are plenty of people out, and the streets are well-lit. I feel completely comfortable.

We watch the tower sparkle, and I might’ve cried a bit. Abby claims she doesn’t really care about it at all (except she used harsher words). I convince her to stay for the midnight show, which she does reluctantly. Thanks, pal. We head towards the Basilica steps, where bikers are playing music and dancing. It turns out to be British mumble rap, which I’m morally opposed to dancing to. So we end up just posting up by the view of the tower, and watch it sparkle at midnight.

Back to our AirBNB; I sit with the window and take in the night view one last time. And I drink a peach iced tea (5). Write you from London!

We wander around the streets for a bit, but little is open, despite it almost being 11 AM. I think that’s sort of ridiculous. Are there not people who want to shop for overpriced items in the morning? There’s one goal we have in mind—ever since booking this trip, I’ve been gunning for us to hit up a place called Sabre Forks. They have an outlet in the Marais which allows you to customize cutlery with your preferred finish, plus two separate colors on either side. I want us both to choose a color so we can have Addy-Abby cutlery. Now that I’m writing this out, this sounds extremely corny. But I don’t care, and I’m quite pleased with my teal-burgundy (it looks better than you’d think) fork and spoons.

Down to Place des Vosges to wait out the time it takes to assemble our cutlery. My tote bag holds every single book I’ve bought so far on this trip (better to be prepared than not… right?), but I end up selecting Giovanni’s Room, which you may remember from an earlier installment. It was a fantastic book (4.6/5), and I ended up tearing through it. Near where I was sitting, an amateur photographer was snapping photos of this girl. The guy sunbathing next to me was quite annoyed at his lack of knowledge of lighting, and told him to move so he wouldn’t get shadows all over her face. Apparently he WANTED the shadows, which made the sunbather quite annoyed. He looks over to me, completely disgruntled. “This man doesn’t know ANYTHING about photography!” I decide to give him a satisfying nod in return, which he ends up being pleased with.

Then it was time for lunch—we don’t go far, just to a nearby brasserie, where I end up ordering salmon, and Abby ordering duck. This was the most flavorful thing we’ve eaten on this trip so far, and it tastes like a great relief. It’s served with a mound of pommes purée mixed with spinach, which makes me slightly sad because spinach is one of the worst things ever invented. But I eat it anyway.

Back to Place des Vosges to check out Victor Hugo’s house. As a huge fan of his work (I’ve only seen the musicals), I was excited to see where his greatest ideas had come into fruition. It turns out he was a pretty fascinating guy—he was exiled by Napoleon for his views (he was too liberal). He was also an incredibly accomplished artist—there were all these wonderful architectural drawings up for display. Didn’t even know he could do that. Then we trek upstairs to his actual apartment, which is more so a recreation of several rooms he lived in. While he did live in this exact place, he moved around so frequently (considering his being exiled and all) that it was easier to order these various recreated rooms chronologically.

We stumble upon his Chinese Room, which is completely over-the-top, filled with Chinese memorabilia. It’s almost impressive, but the scariness of it all trumps that initial feeling. I’ve never seen someone so in love with Asian people, and believe me, I’ve met many, if you catch my drift. The only thing I wanted more of in this museum was Les Misèrables items! I really don’t feel like they showcased enough of his novels at all, just weird Chinese items. Luckily, I’m able to purchase a Gavroche postcard. You can sleep easy tonight.

Our cutlery is finished, so we exit the museum and head back over to Sabre Forks. This was great fun—they look great. Then, back to the metro, and back to the loft for more relaxation time. I realized I kind of hate just hanging out in the loft. I don’t mind the park-rotting as much, but I just feel like I’m wasting loads of time in the loft.

And waste time I do. Two hours fly by, and then we head back on the orange line for our fancy dinner. Abby and I head in and order the steak frites, which has really been a defining dish of our friendship. We got it in New York, for Abby’s birthdays, and now in Paris! This was a great one though—definitely the best thing we’ve eaten all trip. Forgot I told them it was my birthday, so I was a bit humiliated when my vanilla ice cream came with a massive sparkler and a half-dozen waiters in tow to sing me “Joyeux Anniversaire”. Happy birthday to me!

The washing machine back at the AirBNB ended up being broken, so I washed my clothes in the bathtub, which was an interesting experience.

Since we don’t have tickets to anything this morning, we justify dilly-dallying a bit more. Out the door by 8:30 AM and head down the block for more croissants. Again, how could we not? No metro this morning; we head straight towards the Basilica, visible from its hilltop position. Perhaps it wasn’t a fantastic idea to leave this until our fourth day, when our legs are already screaming at us with every step. Yet we trek onwards! Up the staircase, then another, then another, then another… until we reach the top! Our early start seems not to agree with many other tourists; the Basilica is practically barren (especially compared to my family’s trip last year). It’s also not yet warm, and the breeze hits us gently. We take a moment to savor the view.

Around the corner towards Place du Tertre, where all the artists set their easels up around the square to paint eager tourists’ portraits (or whatever medium they choose). Abby and I aren’t swayed, and continue walking. We find a beautiful spot on the edge of the hill where the Eiffel Tower stands tall in the skyline. Abby decides she enjoys it more from this angle. Continuing down the hill, we continue to mindlessly wander through the streets, just to see where it takes us. We end up stumbling upon La Maison Rose, which is a dreamy pastel pink—famous for hosting many 20th-century artists (and being Instagrammable). Then we head straight into Montmartre’s residential streets, which proves to be an interesting hypothetical living situation. I suppose this is ironic because of my love for San Francisco, but I do believe the hills would end up killing me. We even saw a few people taking a casual jog around the cobblestoned hills, and decided this sounded like a rare form of medieval torture. But a very beautiful place to live.

I decide to navigate us to Amèlie’s café, Café des Deux Moulins, which takes us into a busier shopping area. On the way, I buy a poster from a local artist, whose shop is largely based around French curse words (but don’t worry, Mother and Father, my poster is family-friendly). Abby and I also stop into a café clearly catered towards the American tourist. We could tell because the water arrived to us chilled, which was a glorious sight after days of lukewarm water. She orders a cappuccino, and I panic, which leads to me ordering a Very Berry Tornado Juice. Between it being sort of sickly sweet and it having a stupid name, I do not leave very pleased.

Abby recognizes the café from Amèlie, which is fantastic. We start to head back up the hill when I realize we had to try a crepe, and I lead her to my favorite place from last trip. She gets butter and sugar, and I get cheese (although we try both, our original choices end up as our favorites). Heading back up the hill a second time, we notice an ordinary-looking house that everyone is taking pictures of. So we might have started proclaiming about this random house. And it did turn out Van Gogh lived there… not so random. Not our finest moment! We also began making a list of “How to be the Most Annoying Tourist” as the streets of Montmartre filled. I’ll let you in on some of our tips.

• Sitting on stairs loads of people use and manspreading so it’s harder to get past

• Taking up the entire sidewalk with your group

• Letting your shopping bag swing about so it hits all the passersby in the shins

• Stopping randomly in the middle of the street to root through your bag

• Stopping randomly in the middle of the street with a massive stroller; start moving just enough so the people behind you have to do a strange dance to get by

Then we went back to the loft for lunch. We had plans to have dinner at the Louvre, so this was our brave attempt to save money. During this break, we prep for the Louvre by watching the corresponding Heartstopper episode. You can never say we’re not girls of culture.

Then onto the Louvre! In all honesty, we’re quite nervous for this adventure—the Louvre is notably and famously massive. We head in and immediately rush to the information counter.

“WHERE is The Raft of Medusa?”

We said it more politely than that of course, and the woman helping us gave us great, specific instructions. We charge up to the second floor, and enter The Red Room, which houses French paintings. I see it immediately—its grandeur is hard to miss. We sit and stare at it for a while, and think of Ari Mendoza (the goat). I can’t believe someone painted this; I know that’s a cliché statement, but it’s honestly true. I could say that about so many of the paintings today—the sheer scale of some of this art is one of the most impressive things about it.

Then we head down towards Greek Antiquities—I learn later Abby thinks the Venus de Milo is in here, but it’s not—just a collection of pots and other figurines from Ancient Greece. I put in my AirPods to hit Max Museum Mode™ and loop “Bleeding Gold” by The Wasia Project for maximum lock-in. After, we make our way to Greek Statues, where Abby looks for references to her favorite Percy Jackson characters (Will Solace, Nico DiAngelo). We end up sitting in a rotunda and looking up at the ceiling for a while, partly to rest our feet, and partly so Abby can show off her classics knowledge. Shoutout to Rick Riordan for that.

After, we go to see the Italian Paintings, mostly to find an Interview With the Vampire reference that happens to be in the same room as the Mona Lisa, which we find considerably less interesting. Mostly due to the massive hoards swarming the painting, selfie sticks in hand, eager to get a photo of this lauded painting. Don’t get me wrong—it was cool to see, and we’re grateful for the opportunity. But I was not about to become one with the hoard, so we took a picture from across the room and called it a day.

Time for the most glorious pursuit of art of all. Dinner! Every single place seems to be packed to the brim, so when we find a third option tucked away in the Richelieu Wing, we make our way. Unfortunately, one of the sections that would give us a direct path to the restaurant is locked, so we’re forced to take this convoluted route instead. Up and down staircases, searching desperately for room number signage—this takes over an hour as we speedwalk through what feels like the entire museum. But finally, like the light at the end of the tunnel, it comes in sight.

It’s closed.

We both start hysterically laughing—out of what, I couldn’t tell you. We slump defeatedly over to a nearby bench and lament over our luck. The Louvre has officially beaten us—ten million points to them, and a solid zero for us. It’s time to leave.

But not before we visit the most iconic room in the entire museum—the Cour Marly. However, we were more concerned about how this was the room where Charlie Spring learned that Nick Nelson could speak French! Disregard all these beautiful statues—queer history was made in this exact spot. We quietly recreate the scene, albeit with lots of laughter.

Rejuvenated from our fun time, we head gaily for the exit. Bad mistake. Earlier in the day, we had laughed about how people in the Louvre always complained that the museum was never-ending and impossible to escape. “How difficult could it be,” we chided “there are ‘sortie’ signs every which way you look!” Well somehow, Abby and I ended up in a mall connected to the Louvre, with a huge Pop Mart and Starbucks. What a harsh shift.

Eventually we escape, and we’re positively ravenous. Not wanting to travel far, we end up at this brasserie that’s obviously meant for tourists just like us—who’ve barely escaped the Louvre and just need something. It’s not very good. Abby gets sausages, and I get two chicken thighs. But at least it’s something. There are also french fries, which makes Abby happy.

We walked twelve miles today, our most yet. Fifty flights of stairs. Goodnight.

Somehow throughout my planning, I sort of blanked out this morning with Abby, and we both wore tank tops. We stand outside the cathedrals, deliberating buying a cover-up, and feeling rather stupid. But Abby’s desire to go in outranks the humiliation of purchasing and wearing “I Love Paris” t-shirts, so we head into a kitschy shop and purchase them. Secretly, I’ve always harbored a desire for one of these, so I’m quite happy. We throw them on, and into the line for the Notre Dame we go. I pull my mini skirt as far down as possible (within reason) and hope the security won’t flag me.

With some avoided eye contact and most likely apathy from the workers, we make it into Notre Dame, which, to be expected, is absolutely beautiful. As an atheist, I believe one of the greatest things religion has contributed to society is the plethora of fantastic art and architecture. The endless stained glass truly is something to marvel at. In here, Abby and I also learned we have a disturbing lack of knowledge on Catholicism, particularly the saints. What disappointed me even more was the set-up of the gift shop. They had one huge counter, and you’d have to get in line to browse; this was the same line for purchase. And this line moved incredibly slowly! I secure my ornament anyway.

Abby and I leave Notre Dame and strip off our new t-shirts. As we head towards Shakespeare & Co., I make a solemn promise to myself—only one book. Well, guess how that went! If you guessed “not well,” you’d be absolutely correct. Immediately, I find about five books I want, and completely stress myself out over my budget. When I spot Abby, she seems to be in a similar position. Every time we’re in a bookstore, we seem to simultaneously lose our minds and completely black out. Some people have drugs, we have bookstores.

We head up the steps to the reading room, which I have decided is one of the most ideal places in the world. Filled with antiquean books, and maintaining the same winding, fanciful charm as the downstairs, it’s the quintessential place to read. Abby and I flop down on what I’ve decided is the most comfortable cushion in the world next to an open window to a view of Notre Dame, and root through our choices. Eventually, we both decide to get copies of Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin; she gets Enduring Love by Ian McEwan, and I get The Chimes by Charles Dickens. I haven’t really read any of Dickens’ long-form novels, but I’ve been loving his shorter stories, and would love to dive into one of his other works soon. As we head downstairs to check out, we realize we’ve completely missed the plays section! How could we not purchase any Shakespeare at Shakespeare & Co! So I get Midsummer Night's Dream, and Abby gets The Tempest. We lament for ages about all the editions unavailable in the United States. I’d expand, but you don’t want to hear about it, trust me. I’m sparing you.

While I’m sad I couldn’t get any pictures in the bookstore, I’m actually quite glad they’ve banned photos or recording of any sort. The bookshelves are already cramped enough without people trying to take aesthetic photos inside; without influencers, well, influencing. Also a fun fact—City Lights in San Francisco (my fave) and Shakespeare & Co are sister bookstores!

Abby and I stroll down the Left Bank, and seemingly black out again upon seeing the Left Bank Booksellers. I buy a few presents, and nothing for myself. The world never thought we’d see the day. Abby buys a medieval tapestry and a few posters as well.

We turn into the Tuileries, and decide to just relax for a bit—we’d been walking a lot at this point. This turned into two hours of us getting acquainted with the local honeybees (for which we both have a fear), two nosebleeds for Abby, and lots of great reading in the classic green chairs. I’m loving Giovanni’s Room so far—I’m convinced James Baldwin is a genius. It’s exactly the sort of book I’m looking for. Abby buys us both “limonades,” but I pass because I’m a baby who can’t take carbonation.

Onto the Musée d’Orsay! We’re immediately enchanted by all the different statues. Naturally, we make Aristotle and Dante jokes when we find their statues. I must have taken about fifty photos of the Sappho statue. As we cruise through the first floor, though, our hunger begins to take over, and we begin to falter. So we head up to the fifth floor, where we find the café. This is where we lament over how much our feet hurt, and we eat some horribly mediocre food. My pasta might have actually reawakened my depression. Abby has split pea soup. We continue to complain about how little water they give you, and how lukewarm it is.

But then we remember, we HAVE to lock in. Inside the impressionist room, I have an idea—let’s try to guess each other’s favorite paintings in the room! Somehow, we burn two hours doing this, and it was absolutely fantastic. It really helped as well—we were able to pay really close attention to each of the paintings, and I actually remember loads from the museum. So we’re excited to run it back in the Louvre tomorrow.

In our excitement, we check the clock and realize there’s only fifteen minutes until the gift shop closes. We fly down the stairs at what must have been a dangerous speed, and make it in the nick of time. Straight to the postcard wall for us, and I also pick up a notebook with Monet’s poppy painting on it for my E-Po.

We leave the D’Orsay feeling fantastic, despite wishing we had more time. At 9:30, the sun is just setting over the Seine, so we pause on the bridge to take it in. A wonderful day.

Back to Mamiche where we pick up our first croissants of the trip—we’re lucky enough to have the trendy spot right downstairs so we can beat the lines. On the metro, we squeeze into a car with what must have been a fire-hazard amount of people. Rush hour! But we eventually make it to our stop, and emerge to glimpse the Eiffel Tower for the first time this trip. I’m enamored, and Abby decidedly less so. No time to ruminate on that now though—it’s time for the Orangerie!

With smugness, Abby and I march past the tourists queued up, and enter with our pre-purchased tickets. Coming at 9 AM proved to be a fantastic idea—not yet had the throngs of people marched their way inside. We were able to enjoy Monet’s massive panoramic water lily paintings with the room being quiet. Not yet had too many wannabe influencers started filming themselves with GoPros. In fact, it made me a bit glum—the mobs of people using Monet’s work as a background, instead of appreciating the art in front of them. It seemed to me that about 75% of people took the picture, got the content needed, and left. Abby and I continually quoted this:

“In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.”

• J. Alfred Prufrock

We sat in the center and stared at the artwork for a while. Meanwhile, I was also looking at the outfits of the people passing through, and making a list of what was going to be soon out-of-trend, or incredibly dated. What good is a young person’s mind for if not some good, old-fashioned multitasking? From far away, it’s difficult to see the complexities in his paintings; however, when you step close, it’s like a whole different lens is somehow provided. Washes of lavender, semi-circles of blue-green, and the odd pop of pink for the water lilies. It’s magnificent. Downstairs, the Orangerie continues to be charming—we make our way through slowly but surely. My favorites are decidedly the ones by Marie Laurencin.

After a hit to our wallets in the gift shop, we make our way to lunch. We stop at a place called Café Concorde, where Abby gets a Caesar salad, and I get French onion soup. I am under the firm belief that it is always soup season, even on the most sweltering of days.

Then, onto the Eiffel Tower! We wind through the streets, using my excellent sense of direction (I can see the tower above the rooftops) to guide. I even got stung by a bee, and still, was not deterred. Upon arriving at the lawn next to the tower, we’re stopped by a Thai influencer, who’s sponsored by some setting spray. She’s having strangers help her with her makeup—so Abby ends up doing her eyeshadow, and I with her lipstick. We find a grassy patch and sit down to read—Abby on her Kobo, me on my Kindle. Well, it’s almost all reading. We decide we’re even more disheartened by the influencer community after watching a mom film an advertisement with her daughter, who is dressed in a 6-7 shirt. All I can think is—man, she’s going to hate having that online in about five years. We’re like this for about an hour, and then we decide the grass is itchy. Let’s get our photos and leave.

We get our pictures, and then back on the metro we go! We ride down to the Palais Garnier, which is Abby’s hotspot. Though the outside is being redone, the gift shop welcomes us with open arms, ready to take our money. Abby easily spends over a hundred dollars, acquiring two new shirts and a faux-velvet tote bag. There’s only more shopping to come.

We march on down to the Galeries Lafayette, and head up to the Jellycat Pâtesserie. It was absolutely packed—you’d think it was the barrier for a view to some popular music artist! But no, just loads of people clutching for dear life onto overly expensive plushies. As I hold my own pink macaron, deliberating, I realize it would make me feel sort of pathetic to spend twenty-five euros on this tiny stuffed animal, and even more so to stand in that winding line. So then I go spend the money on the souvenirs upstairs, which I think was ultimately a better option.

Abby buys a Smiski (and gets the one she wants!), and we walk back to the loft after a short stint at a park to plan our next move. We end up crashing for a bit, but then go on a walk for some ice cream; we end up at a place that gives their flavors funny names, which has always filled me with a certain dread. Then we follow the streets, winding through some lesser populated streets. We end up in an Indian ethnic enclave—home away from home, am I right?

Back to the loft for real this time; it’s about 9 PM and time for dinner (leftovers, super exciting).

We’re greeted by our AirBNB host, a lovely woman who shows us the ins-and-outs of this Montmartre loft. Eccentric, draped in shades of red and orange, and filled with trinkets and postcards from different travellers, Abby and I immediately fall in love. I throw open a window and am instantly thrilled—we’re in Paris!

After freshening up, we head down to the Franprix on the corner—to pick up assorted breakfast items (and such). Miraculously, I’m able to complete the entire transaction in French, but the cashier catches us as Americans once Abby steps up to pay. Granted, her shirt does say San Francisco in a bold font. Back at the apartment, we immediately forget that the keys turn the other way here, leading to a debacle that lasted a bit longer than I’d like to admit. But we eventually get in, and take the next hour and a half to fight off our jet lag. I’m wide-awake, so this turns into some pleasant reading time for me, but Abby ends up getting some sleep.

Out we go! I lead us towards the Sacré-Cœur Basilica—the dome peeks through the rest of the buildings, so we just walk until we find it. We’re planning on climbing it on some future date, so we just view from the ground for now.

Here is where I realize one of my greatest travelling flaws—I am horrid at meandering. Something in me must actively repel unique sights and shops, for my random twists and turns down different streets lead us to nothing but rows of residential buildings and every so often, a smoke shop. But what’s important was for us to gain some sense of our immediate surroundings, which Abby and I both agreed was accomplished. First days are for walking around in some sort of haze anyways.

Luckily, I remember the way back to the apartment, and we head back to assess our next move (a.k.a. our dinner plans). Because we’re tired, we stay local—back to the Franprix and a local boulangerie for an impromptu dinner spread. We eat and remark on the surreal nature of this entire experience thus far. We’ve anticipated this trip’s arrival for so long, it’s hard to process that it’s genuinely here—this is what all the hours I spent researching must culminate in. But we’re excited to see what tomorrow brings (spoiler: a croissant).

Note: you may be wondering—Addy, why aren’t you going to bed? Aren’t you tired from the long day with little sleep? Well yes. But I’m happy to announce I have class registration at 10 PM tonight (I am not pleased at all).

Sapphics don’t sell. You know what does? Gay men.

I was talking to my best friend about this recently—regarding the recent uproar of Heated Rivalry. If you’ve been living under a rock, it follows two hockey players on opposing teams, rivals on the ice, but lovers in secret. And golly, has it attracted quite the audience of straight women. I don’t think this is necessarily horrible in a way I know loads of people do. I think normalizing queer media is fantastic. But it does make me think—when was the last time a show with primary WLW representation get so huge; when was the last time the masses spent hours scrolling through their relationship tag on AO3?

Well, I’m guessing sometime between never and never. But please, correct me if I’m wrong. I’d love to be so.

The thing is, gay men end up getting a lot more recognition in mainstream media. I’m about to generalize a bit—stay with me. When making a queer show, you have to assume you’ll have a baseline queer audience—people who will watch to support as a rule. But when searching for a larger audience, you have to reach out to everyone else. Straight women are okay watching MLM relationships—in fact, they revel in it. Unfortunately, a lot of the time, it ends up getting sexualized, which I’ve noticed a lot within the Heated Rivalry fandom especially. Two men together, double the eye candy for them! It’s no secret that people find Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams attractive; there’s fan edits aplenty and masses fantasizing what it might like to be between them, or placing a chair in the room to watch their most intimate moments.

However, there’s little they can get out of watching WLW relationships in the same manner.

It ties into the underlying misogyny loads of people have (unfortunately). Men who like other men is palatable because men are more palatable as a rule. I believe people are less likely to invest in WLW media because they subconsciously don’t place as much value in something that doesn’t involve a man. How could two women build something as beautiful as a life together, as love together without a man involved? To the majority of people, this is something uninteresting at best.

And at this point, why even make the media? If companies know that WLW won’t profit at the large scale, it won’t be produced at all, which only furthers the issue.

There’s a boy in my sixth period who has received the news of my sexuality about three times, and has been completely shocked each time. Perhaps there’s something terribly wrong with his memory when it comes to me, but something tells me that’s not the case completely. Sapphics are so far from the mainstream that he can barely even conceptualize someone who doesn’t have any attraction towards men; he fails to comprehend how I feel. There’s a certain image he has in his head, surely, of a gay girl, one I don’t fall into.

And this lack of comprehension is because there’s not enough representation available for queer women. Thus, we’ve been pigeonholed into a stereotype because mass media has never allowed us to be anything else. The layman only views the queer woman in one manner, and if you don’t fall into their preconceived notion, you certainly can’t be gay at all.

I hear people online say they love the relationship in Heated Rivalry because of the lack of expectation within their relationship—because they are both boys, they can explore a dynamic unavailable to the heterosexual couple. I struggle to buy this. Sure, it explores men in a way that’s often atypical—it forces them to be vulnerable, through admitting their love and sexuality. But I would say a relationship between two women also explores something atypical to a heterosexual couple (obviously). Why’s it so different?

We know why. Women are also not allowed to be as complex as men are onscreen—I’m going to use Gilmore Girls as an example for this to show the difference in a heterosexual relationship. Rory Gilmore generally receives a lot of criticism for being annoying (which she certainly can be). But none of her boyfriends, who are equally, if not more flawed, receive anywhere near the same amount of criticism. In fact, their actions are often pardoned because they’re viewed as a natural extension to their character—a consequence of their upbringing.

But again, I’m not mad about Heated Rivalry’s success—generally, I like seeing an LGBTQIA+ show get such mass recognition. The girl who had a crush on her soccer teammate (me if you didn’t pick that up) would’ve enjoyed the representation, and I’m glad it could mean a lot to so many other queer people in sports. Moral of the story: we need more WLW media.

I did not know this when I bought the tickets, which were purchased on a whim after my AP Literature teacher made us read the play. Which is why when we sat down next to a man (surely here solo because he’s a theatre aficionado!) Abby and I had quite the start when he started yelling at Stella. Yes, this was Stanley.

For those who don’t know, A Streetcar Named Desire follows the highly troubled Blanche DuBois, who goes to live with her sister Stella and brother-in-law Stanley in New Orleans. In an attempt to minimize spoilers, I will tell you they clash strongly and often; the play explores these woeful dynamics. It was loads of fun to read aloud in AP Lit.

There will be spoilers for the play in this review. Ignore what I said in my last paragraph. I changed my mind.

Perhaps I’m not educated enough to appreciate some stripped-down version of this play, but I’m sorry to say I didn’t enjoy it much at all. I don’t understand what exactly asks Streetcar to be minimalistic.

I don’t believe there was noticeable emotional weight added to the show by making it so bare-boned. I longed for some semblance of a set. However, they did do some very interesting lightwork, which served as their set in a way. I appreciated how the characters took charge of their surroundings, seemingly controlling the direction of the lights in some portions. Specifically, having Blanche turn off the lights was a strong character choice—it helped cement the theme of her preference to operate in the dark (where more can be imagined, no matter if it’s real or not). But visuals like Blanche’s trunk and the paper lantern are instrumental to the story, and you lose so much of the characters’ depths without these props.

There were four people in the cast, despite there being about twelve different roles for people to take on. Some other productions group various ensemble members together for a singular person to take on, but usually much less dramatically. Typically, a more condensed version of the play might take on around eight cast members. But no—here we had Blanche, Stella, Stanley, and Mitch/LiterallyEveryoneElse. I understand this arrangement allowed the show to be more “portable,” so to speak, but I truly feel this was to its detriment.

Mitch, for example, was quite good as Mitch. However, every other character he played felt the exact same—there was nothing to help the viewer differentiate the switch. At times, he was playing a wife and her husband. Without the captions on the side with the labelled characters, I would’ve been completely lost. And I had just read the play as well! There were lots of instances of confusion (personally)(and for Abby); in fact, I believe the woman who played Blanche was the only character who never played another. In the final scenes, Stanley and Stella switched between their typical characters and the doctor and matron, who were meant to be taking Blanche to the mental institution. Stella’s despair paired with the matron’s professionalism is confusing at best, and a terrible directorial choice at worst. There was no one else on the stage who could’ve done it, I suppose, but that just exists as more evidence that the show’s portability is to its detriment.

The show was built around Lucy Owen’s depiction of Blanche DuBois, which I’ve learned from interviews that she’s spent months stepping into the character. She claims Blanche is a character to grow with—I disagree. Perhaps it’s because of my youth (therefore making me naïve to the topic), but to me, Blanche doesn’t represent the aging woman. Sure, she spends much of the show playing in the shadows to hide herself, and lies about her age, but I would say her actions revolve more around her trauma, not her insecurities about aging. What about Blanche DuBois would one want to grow with; would she not be something to leave behind? She is insecure and guided heavily by her trauma. Perhaps there’s something I’m missing.

That’s the moral of this experience, I suppose—either there’s something I’m missing, or perhaps there’s something they’re missing. It’s probably both.

But suddenly, a tool arises, easily accessible with a WiFi connection and the web browser of your choice! Yes, ChatGPT has been my classmates’ saving grace— typing every question possible into their precious AI. It’s becoming disturbing, at least to me, this personal assistant they’ve begun to refer to by nickname: “just ask Chat”! Others, who’ve purchased the premium version, have even given it their own personal name— the girl next to me in statistics calls it after some member of her family.

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I will quickly cover my general distaste for generative AI, if it hasn’t already become apparent through the last paragraph. But is this not incredibly dystopian? Genuinely, I cannot think of anything more terrifyingly so— something that has the ability to think for you in almost every regard. My classmates have become almost academically synonymous with these chatbots. I watch disheartened as they type questions into ChatGPT, waving their hand around just to parrot the bot when called upon.

During AP Lit a few days ago, my teacher projected a list of “anticipation statements” for the novel we’re beginning next week, which are just statements about morality and society. Is it desirable to always be in control of your emotions? Is it important to have an honorable reputation? We were asked to form opinions, then have an open class discussion about each. I watch as my peers slyly crack open their laptops and quickly access ChatGPT, begging it to tell them what to say. I watch them say word-for-word what the AI has so generously written out for them. And I sigh.

School has always discouraged wrong answers— it generally exists as the greatest flaw of our education system (in my humble opinion). We memorize to the test, regurgitate the information when necessary, and immediately forget everything when we’re able. Our lives are built around these grades— of course, we want to keep them as high as possible! I have also fallen into this cycle of rote memorization, considering every task some necessity to my end goal of university, but not considering the importance of the knowledge itself. I see the bright, shining straight A’s on my transcripts; here, that’s all that matters.

This is a flaw within the schooling itself, yet it has nurtured a breeding ground for extreme AI usage. No longer is there a need to think for yourself in any regard— imprecise searches on Google and copying from classmates have become a thing of the past. Now, you can search for exact questions for the exact answers you need. So why would you do anything yourself, when you know AI can do it better and faster? It seems like a no-brainer.

Yet within this influx of AI usage, somehow, I have found peace in being wrong. I had never taken much pride in wrong answers— I thought they made me inherently unintelligent. But now, I have learned to cherish them; perhaps my numbers are wrong or my opinion isn’t well-expressed in class, yet they are solely my own. There’s never been a clearer example of “learning from your mistakes” for me thus far in my life— truly, it’s a phrase I’ve never quite believed in until now. My mistakes are my own, not some chatbot. This is something we, high schoolers and others alike, must seek, now more than ever.

Yesterday, my school newspaper staff rounded up to host a discussion for the staff editorial. In light of Charlie Kirk’s assassination, we decided to focus on political violence and the effects it has. My co-editor-in-chief begins firing off questions and slowly , people begin to respond.

You know when somebody makes a joke, and you just know you’ve read it, seen it, heard it before, yet they still try to pass it off as some brand new spark of personal creativity? That’s what the entire discussion felt like. Nearly every point made could easily be traced back to a highly reposted Instagram infographic. Yet they ramble off somewhat intelligently sounding, nothing truly formed.

I have long hated the Instagram infographic. You always know when something major has happened because the same repost will pop up on every single one of the stories you click through! This has always seemed so performative to me. In this day and age (or perhaps exclusively found in my Bay Area high school), everyone tries to seem so educated, so informed! So they repost to “spread awareness,” but truly, it is just another hindrance, just another thing to click through. And it does nothing. To be truly well-informed, you have to go beyond Instagram, and take the time to form one’s own opinion. If one is just repeating everything they’ve read online, naturally, you’re taking no time to critically think about the topic. You appear intelligent, but at the cost of not being so at all— just another infographic regurgitator in a sea of many.

Through these infographics, politics become just as consumable as anything else you repost— just yesterday I saw one of Charlie Kirk followed by a “fit check”! The repercussions of the integration of serious content in the normal/fun content have been discussed many times: jumping from Subway Surfers, to violent videos, back to “day in my life”. I don’t want to say politics has no place on social media, because it does. This is genuinely how some people are able to get informed. But reposting an infographic on your story does not make you actively engaged in politics— you just continue being a follower, and that is not how you make a change. Hopefully, most people know that, though.

So why post?

Is it to show you care? Is it to prove you care? Politics has always been underlined by the “performative” in some sense.

Stop being an infographic regurgitator, and truly do something meaningful. Your job as an active citizen does not end with the repost button.

I’ve never felt against leaving for college; the idea of being independent and forging my path has always been exciting to me. But suddenly something in the so far future is not so anymore. My list of places to apply has been curated, my notes app of essay ideas grows longer, and suddenly the people I’ve watched grow up begin to look older. And when I look in the mirror, so do I.

I won’t ask when things changed, because I was there— I watched it happen and laughed when they had said I had grown too old and too tall; but then suddenly they were right. I was never meant to grow this old or grow this tall— naturally, I would someday, but not now, not until I had truly exhausted my childhood.

This childhood has always felt strange to me. In psychology class, my teacher talked about how those who look forward to growing older will be happier. He asks people if that growing older scared them, and everyone had said yes. And yes, that seemed like the natural conclusion to me as well— who wouldn’t long for the days when worries were few and the grass seemed to grow greener? But no, I told him in a high, strangled voice that I had been waiting to be an adult for forever. My concept of adulthood has always been riddled with childhood fantasy— the idea of endless independence and no one telling you what you can or cannot do. I craved the notion of deciding who I am all by myself. But most of all, I craved the newness and possibility of it during adulthood.

Today I went to my partner’s high school graduation. It was very nice despite the heat and the rowdy crowd members (the people behind me needed to cool it with the air horns). But the thing I was thinking when I was spacing out while all the people I didn’t know were walking was— are people really that dedicated to their high school? I tried to picture myself giving a high school speech and could not muster up the enthusiasm to yell “GO HUSKIES!!”. Because I’ve never felt like “once a husky, always a husky” (maybe because we’re huskies like what). High school has always felt more of a monumental concept to me than genuinely commemorative.

So, will someone please let me know how much you’re supposed to love your high school? Because I like it alright, but at the end of the day, I don’t feel endlessly dedicated. I suppose the commemoration of growing up is significant, and I do understand that. But if this were a metaphorical war or something, I wouldn’t metaphorically die for the Huskies.

Post-pandemic, people have used all of these adjectives to describe San Francisco. To them, the city is apparently barren, everyone is using fentanyl, everything is closing, and nowhere is safe.

But San Francisco has always been a boom-and-bust town. The Great Earthquake of 1906 destroyed the emerging city, and it subsequently grew stronger, becoming the business capital of the West. When suburbanization spiked in the 1950s and the city lost resources, BART was built, and the economy surged back. When thousands of people lost their tech jobs in the 2000s due to the collapse of the Dot Com bubble, San Francisco came back as a center of innovation, reaching record-low unemployment rates. 

According to many commentators, the city has died tens of times.

The city has “died” again and again; it has been here before and will fight its way out again from the post-pandemic issues: drug abuse, homelessness, lack of foot traffic. In addition, the challenges that the city is currently facing, while serious, are being exaggerated. In fact, San Francisco is not featured in lists for the most dangerous cities in the United States. Violent crime has been down two-thirds since 1985, and twenty percent below average for major American cities.

Furthermore, San Francisco has been at the center of cultural movements that have shaped the world, from writing and music to technology. Currently, it is at the center of AI development: OpenAI, Google DeepMind, and Anthropic have invested four billion dollars into their San Francisco hubs. The city has been struggling with work-from-home policies, leading to downtown struggles, but now, neighbourhoods are bouncing back, with foot traffic increasing. 

Perhaps I’m biased towards San Francisco. Trips to the city have always been a hallmark of the holiday season for my family— gallivanting around the streets and snapping pictures in front of the gargantuan gingerbread house in the St. Francis Hotel. I have spent countless lazy weekends in the city with trips to the bakery on the corner, bookstores, and restaurants of all sorts. When living so close to the city, why not take advantage of the culture and opportunities it provides? It’s a place that’s always felt familiar and comfortable for me, yet limitless. 

I love trips to the piers when the farmers market is at the Ferry Building when it’s sunny. Getting fresh fruit, or a baguette with cheese, and watching the water slosh back and forth against the cement is my idea of the perfect afternoon. There are so many opportunities for Bay Area residents to get into art museums for free, like the MoMA, the Asian Art Museum, and the de Young. The city is adaptable, and I believe there is truly something for everyone. 

Recently, I was planning an event for the non-profit I work for. When I suggested having it in San Francisco, I received a lot of backlash, and it almost didn’t go through because people were just so afraid of the “big, dangerous city.” However, the event went without a hitch, and people had an excellent time. The adult staff admitted I was right: San Francisco was the perfect place.

What about Brandy Melville makes girls travel to Santana Row to snap pictures of the insides, just to post aesthetically on Instagram? How do the storefronts seem to have a gravitational pull inside that preteens and teenage girls just can’t ignore?

What about it has grasped my peers?

It begins to not be the generic graphic tees we adorn, but with the girl that comes with it. She’s skinny, white, impossibly blonde, and though she may not say it out loud, she is wealthy to a degree. And what young girl wouldn’t want to be that? She is the epitome of American teenage dreams; she is the idealized perfection we all yearn for. Instantly recognizable by the clothes she dons from Brandy Melville, and becoming immediately associated with the stereotype that arrives with it. To an extent, it aligns with a teenage girl’s American Dream.

The American Dream aligns with wealth and social mobility; the notion that anyone can succeed with dedication and hard work. A girl (and I say this in an annoyingly stereotypical sense that should not be attributed to my personal beliefs) should strive for beauty and a sense of mystique and flawlessness. It’s no crime to desire beauty, but it is so engrained in our society that to not desire it is frowned upon, even subconsciously. The Brandy Melville Girl is beautiful— it’s what’s been associated with the brand ever since they began hiring teenage girls based on their appearance. To gain access into the Brandy world, one had to be beautiful.

A while ago, the Brandy Melville store in Paris had a trending door. It was so impossibly small that videos were posted of people shimmying through sideways to get through. People would make jokes that they would specifically diet in order to fit through, all to access the store. There’s no greater example than this.

The exclusivity is part of what makes it so desired. If you fit into Brandy Melville, it means that you’re skinny enough to be beautiful, and so many crave that feeling. Making a brand seem exclusive to the beautiful is an effective strategy to draw in teenage girls. The correlation allows people to believe that buying into Brandy Melville will make one beautiful. That’s why people keep buying into it.

I'm even guilty of this. When my best friend and I went to New York City together, we traversed down to SoHo to visit the Brandy Melville flagship. What an experience! We waited in a long line of similarly aged teenage girls, before being released into what could best be described as a hellscape. A rich cacophony of yells and hurried movement flooded my ears as I surveyed the piles of haphazardly placed clothes. The fitting rooms proved no better— I felt as if the curtain that I had to hold close was only truly covering my top half. The cashiers who checked me out were undeniably beautiful, and failed to acknowledge me in fears of disrupting their conversation.

It was a shining and stereotypical example of the Brandy Melville experience. I kind of hated it, yet I would likely go back.

Brandy Melville isn’t unique in attracting teenage girls; there have been countless defining trends and brands. But it appears to have a level of persistence within its audience. The store has become a symbol for that certain sort of girl— popular, skinny, beautiful, and perfect.

It offers a gateway into becoming the “perfect” girl, which is what so many girls want to become.

I am pleased to inform you I was cast as Karen the Computer, the wife of the villain Plankton. I am not so pleased to inform you that I was not very happy when this cast list got posted. In my freshman year, I had this not-great (bad) director in my school musical, who told me my typecast was because I was thin and beautiful. There will be a different post on this later, perhaps we shouldn’t dive too deep into this analysis now. But the point, of course, is that this stuck with me— and I was afraid I got Karen for the same reasons.

I was off the heels of two Disney shows from the past year: The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. Let me tell you now, these shows are a slog if you’re not a main character. There are not many ensemble numbers and moments, and times offstage could drag on for as long as forty minutes (thanks Act One, Beauty and the Beast). And combined with some backstage drama, the thrill of performing was beginning to wane.

All I wanted was for a second, to feel the way I did when I was in my first few shows— the adrenaline rush on opening night before the giddy feeling afterward because you did it! The feeling of adoring your castmates and sobbing closing night because there would never be an emotion quite like this ever again.

And this feeling came again, through the most unexpected place for me: The SpongeBob Musical. This show was really wonderful— I genuinely wanted to go get ready for the show, tech week didn’t slog on like normal, and I loved all my cast members. I think too often we become too wrapped up in the perfection of it all, and forget that performing was meant to be fun for us. But this changed all this. Karen was a thoroughly entertaining character for me to play— there are so many directions to take her character, and so many opportunities to make the audience laugh. It helped tremendously that my Plankton seemed to be born for that role, and their passion for the show made it so much easier to be a good Karen.

I was worried about all the little kids in the show— for maturity levels and lack of experience being in mainstages. But I am a firm believer that everyone can be learned from, no matter what age. The most lovely thing about having such a plethora of younger kids is their pure enthusiasm for musical theatre. They loved singing, dancing, and the sound of the audience’s applause. They loved testing out the Defying Gravity riff a million times backstage (which became grating) and spraying neon colors into each other’s hair. Being onstage for them was the most exciting thing in the world. And I think somewhere along the way, teenagers have allowed themself to forget that feeling of pure joy. I’m so grateful they’ve allowed me to relearn that.

Yes, the show lacks a level of maturity from a certain standpoint. But I think that’s also what made it important. I don’t believe, at sixteen years old, I should have to display a need for adulthood all the time. I am not very old yet, and while I shall take that stage of my life in stride when it arrives, I do not want to push it sooner while I could be enjoying my youth. The SpongeBob Musical is so much fun in every way, and I think everyone deserves that. I’m so grateful for the show that reminded me why this was my passion in the first place.

Love can come from so many places, and for me, that just happened to be Bikini Bottom.

pictures from @tracymartinphotography on instagram!