In June, it became official that I’d be leaving my home for the last four years, a one-bedroom railroad apartment in Greenwich Village, just two blocks south of Washington Square Park. It was the first place I’d ever lived alone, and four years is longer than I’ve lived anywhere since high school.

I found the apartment on a rainy day in April 2022 and was the second inquirer to view it that morning. I didn’t know what to expect as I ascended the poorly lit stairwell with the lingering scent of garbage that wafted up to the second and third stories, and as I passed a couple who viewed the apartment before me, hearing them say to each other, “That is not the one—way too small,” I lowered my expectations immediately.

Since childhood, I’ve been someone who goes with my gut. Sometimes at work, I’ll try to explain my reasoning behind a strategic decision, and I have no way to explain it other than, “I just have a feeling.” When I walked into the apartment on that one rainy morning, I immediately knew it was mine. I thanked the broker for showing it to me, walked back into the rain, and started the application from my phone under the cover of my umbrella. (For those of you who don’t live in New York City, if you view an apartment and want it to be the one, you have to move fast.)

I moved in that May.

I spent this summer packing up said apartment, but ultimately, it didn’t feel sad—it felt ceremonial.

I’d known for over a year that eventually I’d be leaving for greener pastures (Brooklyn); I just didn’t know when. As soon as J and I signed the lease for our new place in July, I began getting rid of things, sorting through evidence of a former life. I found photos I hadn’t seen before, clothes I’d never worn before, and spices that expired years ago. I purged my closets, donated about 70 books (which didn’t make a dent), and scrubbed the walls like I’ve never scrubbed before. I took down the framed vintage Barbie poster that was on the pink wall in my kitchen, only to find that when Anne and I painted the wall pink in 2022, we’d left the picture frame hooks in the wall and painted around them. I laughed at this and promptly painted over the white spots with SW6584 Cheery paint.

Over the course of all the purging and packing, I thought a lot about who I was when I moved in and who I am now. When I first moved into that apartment, I was not even 25 years old. I was still in that uncomfortable phase of my early 20s that felt somewhat like an extension of college and an uncertain preamble to what my real 20s would be like. I was on the path of figuring out who I was, and for a moment, I really thought I found it. There were parts of New York I’d discovered that I didn’t know existed. I immersed myself in live music, communities, nightlife—I did things out of my comfort zone. For a while, I was going out multiple nights a week, making friends with so many different types of people, and though for a while I thought this was me trying to “find myself,” I think I was just trying myself on. I was experimenting with different versions of what adulthood could be, as if I was trying on different outfits. (And in many cases, I was—throwback to my punk phase.) One of my favorite qualities about myself is that I truly believe we have something in common with every person we meet, and I make it a point to learn about people and find what those commonalities are. Of course, I did not keep in touch with every single friend I made along the way, but I kept the best of them.

On one of those fleeting nights out, I’d run into my neighbor at the time Nikole who said she was moving out of her unit in our building. Through a combination of timing, persistence, and magic, Emily ended up taking over her apartment, and the rest was history. I’d joked before that I wanted my best friends to move into my building like it was the Chelsea Hotel in the 70s, and in a way, I feel like I manifested it. For the next few years, my best friend lived just up the stairs from me.

My apartment itself felt like my castle. After I’d painted the wall pink, it took on a life of its own, and I appropriately deemed the apartment’s formal name: Pink Kitchen. I didn’t have to try hard to make the atmosphere feel special—good vibrations* practically spilled out of the walls.

Putting into words the beauty and significance of my old apartment is not easy, for I don’t feel that I have the right words to capture its effervescence. I’ve written about it before, so instead, I want to write about the ceremony that was leaving.

*I literally can’t think of a more eloquent way to say that my apartment had good vibes.

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Each time I did something to clean out Pink Kitchen this summer, it felt like a little ritual. Someone I went to college with whom I hadn’t seen in years bought my vintage formica diner table from me, and when she came to pick it up, we sat on plastic chairs in my kitchen with the dissembled table next to us, drinking coffee from my French press and catching up about the last few years, vowing to hang out when I moved to Brooklyn.

When I boxed up my cookbooks and cake stands, I was reminded of how many dinner parties and birthdays we celebrated in my apartment, and I thought about how many more of those were to come.

In order to box up the hundreds of albums in my vinyl collection—probably my most prized possessions—I made sure I could do this in the most pragmatic and delicate way. So I went to Village Revival Records and asked the owner Jamal for boxes, knowing they’d be the exact size and would have the right kind of cushioning. His reply, of course, was: “Girl, I got rid of 100 boxes yesterday. I would’ve given them to you, what the fuck man,” and then he immediately made his store clerk scour the room for more boxes I could take. Before leaving that day, I said, “Jamal, since I’m moving, I want to get the store logo tattooed on my arm. What do you think of that?” His eyes widened. “You’re crazy. I love you—don’t get it too big.” I made an appointment on my birthday and got it tattooed.

Getting rid of clothing is somehow never a problem for me. I believe that with every beautiful item I set off into the ether, an even more beautiful or special item will come back to me. I got rid of so many clothes, shoes, and accessories to the point that when I packed up my closets and my bookshelves, I had noticeably more physical media than I did clothing.

Come August, I had packed almost everything, even though my move wasn’t until the end of the month. Throughout the summer, my friends had questioned why I started packing so early, but by doing this, I had set myself up for the Least Stressful Move of All Time. I went on my family vacation the week before I was set to move and hardly thought about it at all. Our new lease started mid-month, so we’d move most of my stuff with J’s car, and then I’d have a moving company help me with the rest on the last day of August.

When I returned from my trip, J picked me up from the airport and we immediately locked in. Doing two trips on Friday, one trip on Saturday, two trips on Sunday, and one final trip on Monday, we’d completely moved me out of my apartment in 6 trips with a Toyota Camry. I called the moving company and canceled my movers. I texted the new tenant to let her know she could have the keys early. It was all so fun.

Over those 4 days, there were a few items I had to last-minute pack or purge, and the one I had the most trouble with was my French press. “We can use mine, it’s stainless steel,” J told me. I knew that was better than my glass one, considering I’d shattered the two before this one, but there was something so hard about letting go of something that provided necessity for our most commonplace mornings. Some of my favorite memories in that apartment were simply the slow Sunday mornings in which we’d have coffee in my living room and listen to jazz. Even during our more stressful weekday mornings, the French press was there to aid our exhaustion.

“Does your French press have the measurements on it?” I pleaded in a final effort to keep mine. “Actually, it’s fine. We can use yours,” I said on second thought. I knew I was being unreasonable.

“Mine doesn’t have measurements,” he said. “Do you want to keep yours? We can also take a picture of it so you have the measurements.”

I thought about it, agreed, and took a photo. In hindsight, I realized I didn’t need the photo for the measurements when Google exists—I just wanted to remember something little that was so significant to me.

On Wednesday morning, I woke up in our already wonderful Brooklyn apartment and got ready for the Big Day. I’d be working from Emily’s apartment, as that afternoon, I had to hand off the keys to the young woman I’d assigned the lease to. At 7 AM, I got fully ready for the day and night, knowing that I wouldn’t be back until after my going -away party at Peculier* Pub on Bleecker Street. I did my makeup, straightened my hair, and put on my white dress that I’d be wearing that night.

When I arrived to Emily’s apartment, upon feeling the heat from my 35-minute commute and her sun-facing living room, I asked if I could borrow a t-shirt and shorts. Putting my white dress on a hanger where it would stay until early evening, I joked, “Why does this feel like my graduation day?”

The day went by fast, as we were both working and had each other as company. We’d booked a 5:00 PM reservation at Minetta Tavern as a symphonic closing of this chapter for me, and upon getting ready, we dubbed this my graduation dinner.

Ahead of dinner, I went down to my apartment one last time to make sure everything was all set to hand off the keys. I spent a few minutes here and hadn’t thought about it much, but it wasn’t until I approached the door that I found myself completely frozen. I stood in the empty pink kitchen (new tenant loves pink—and thank God), looking at my empty bookshelves and the shiny hardwood floors in the living room. In an instant, the last four years flashed before my eyes. I saw the different versions of myself, all the people who had moved through those rooms during parties and holidays and Bourbon Nights, the good days, the bad days, and the lessons learned. I felt it all in that one moment. I started to sob.

It wasn’t a sad cry—I was so grateful. I knew that everything happened exactly as it was supposed to, and I didn’t need a sign to tell me that. I was so sure of it. I felt it in my gut. I walked through the door and locked it for the last time. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

*Peculier Pub spells their name like that. If you’ve been with me long enough, you know I am a spelling freak and I would never do such a thing.

Emily and I had our fabulous dinner that night at Minetta, and in between our first and second course, I had to run outside to hand off the keys. “It’s so you to be handing off the keys to your apartment at Minetta Tavern,” Emily said, and it was.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, grabbing the keys from my bag to run them out.

As I approached her on the sidewalk, the new tenant (whom I met through a friend of a friend) hugged me and said, “Thank you for trusting me with your space!”

I smiled. “It’s yours now,” I said. “Also, I left a bottle of champagne for you in the fridge.”

As I turned back around to reenter the restaurant, I felt complete. I knew I’d graduated from the last four years a better person, and I was so ready for the next chapter. As I sat back down in the booth, “Theme From New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra started playing.

“Chills,” I said to Emily.

“That’s a sign,” she beamed.

I’d trusted my gut about the apartment, and I trusted my gut about leaving it. The song was my diploma.

At the bar that night, nearly 40 friends joined me to celebrate the magic of that apartment and all the memories we made in it together. We kept up the bit that it was my graduation, and it made the night feel all the more special.

At one point during the evening, I took notice of my younger brother, a friend from my team at work, my former college housemate, and another friend from college sitting in a booth together painting watercolors that the bar offers to guests on Wednesdays. I couldn’t help but smile at this group of people from different parts of my life, altogether in one place because of me. I knew that there would always be a part of that early-20s version of myself who would continue finding the joy in bringing people together, and even though I was graduating that day, the party was just getting started.

hiiiiiii !!!!! thank you for reading. i hope your summer was magic and delicious. i’m so excited for pre-fall (not saying fall yet, i know some of you are sensitive to that), and i’m so happy in my new home. more to come sooooon

rip to one of the greatest american entertainers of all time who taught me so much about the importance of giving. love you forever dolly <3

I’m so excited about moving into a new apartment with J. It’s all I’ve been able to think about, which is why I haven’t been able to dedicate much time to this, my Substack. I put pressure on myself to write gorgeous, elaborate essays that teach and preach and reach, but today I had the thought, maybe they just want to hear my voice?

So, hi! I’m writing to you from Tompkins Square Library wondering, what is Mamdani’s plan to get central air installed in Tompkins Square Library and sharing a reminder about the importance of slowing down. This morning, about 10 minutes into my Pilates mat class, two young women stood up and walked out after they had been giggling through every slow, precise movement. The whole class could see them laughing through the window upon their exit, and I found this utterly disrespectful. I can guess what they were laughing about—this particular instructor is very traditional and teaches the class very classically. I love it. It’s the most Joseph Pilates form of Pilates there is. (If you’re just learning that Joseph Pilates was a real person, welcome to this awesome fun fact.) Though I know this instructor’s way of teaching is not everyone’s cup of tea, I couldn’t help but feel annoyed by the disrespect of these girls. Maybe they were expecting some woo-woo, CorePower-esque, Sabrina Carpenter-soundtracked workout, but that wasn’t what they signed up for. I knew their exit had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t help but wish they’d just stayed and gave it a chance. In many cases, taking the time to learn the skill and technique of something has far more of an impact than doing it quickly. I bet they would’ve learned a lot. Or maybe I’m just a teacher’s pet.

After my class, I pranced home to whip up the best blueberry muffins which came out of the oven perfectly golden and crisp on the top. We had to wait for them to cool, so I had the idea to hand-deliver some to my brother’s apartment on the Lower East Side while we waited. Upon our arrival, I handed the brown paper box to my brother’s roommate who upon holding it in his hands exhaled, “Wow, they’re still warm.” Perfectly timed.

J and I took our time walking home and stumbled upon some folded-up moving boxes on Rivington Street which we took for my use. We talked to my dad on the phone and told him how happy we were to be in the city this weekend and that the smoke had cleared a bit and we could finally see the sun again. We returned home to the comforting scent of freshly baked muffins, and I swear they tasted better because we waited to have them. I was pleased to know that my brother and his friends had their own to enjoy too.

I’ve been 29 for four days, and they’ve been a great four days. I think that turning 28 felt scary because there’s no shying away from the fact that those are your late 20s, but turning 29 feels like a fun preamble and a grand finale all at the same time. This is the youngest I’ll ever be. It’s awesome.

Since I’m moving soon, I’ve been trying to use up pantry items without buying any new non-perishables. It’s reminded me of how much I have and how much I can make from scratch. After having the blueberry muffins this morning, I whipped up some homemade ice cream base for tomorrow so that I can get creative during the rain. I’m still trying to figure out how much of my baking I should incorporate into my Substack, but something is telling me that it’s time to talk about it more.

I wish I had more thoughts for you today but my brain is just pulling me into the direction of searching for coffee tables on Facebook Marketplace. I’ll come back to you sooner than last time. Promise.

I felt five pairs of eyes turn their gazes toward me, as I instinctively looked down at my water glass. What is new? I thought as my sweaty palms brushed the tulle of my black Coach dress that I’d worn to several other birthday parties before this one. I had to think of something.

“Well,” I started, “I renewed my lease again, which is exciting!”

Sure, that was exciting—but it wasn’t new. This would mark my 5th year of living in the same one-bedroom railroad apartment in Greenwich Village. If anything, that was old news.

The dinner guests smiled and luckily switched their attention to the other side of the table, as the last guest, who had been late, buoyantly arrived. For a minute, I sat there thinking about what I’d answer if someone at the party later asked me what was new.

Thankfully, no one did.

What’s the difference between consistency and complacency?

I thought about this one morning as I walked the same route to the same office building at which I’ve been working for the last 5 years. I thought about my same pink kitchen and my same blue velvet sofa. I thought about the clothes that I wear every day. The same black t-shirts and the same pairs of jeans and the same resoled (once a year, every year) black boots. The same Free People statement jacket that I bought with the last of my summer babysitting money in 2018.

Nothing in my life was new. I was fortunate enough to have a good job that I loved, friends who stuck around, a soulmate who completed me, an apartment that felt like home, and leather boots that were well made. I started to wonder if nothing being new was a problem—or proof that I had built something worth staying in.

I think it’s important to do things out of your comfort zone, which is why on New Year’s Day this year, the first thing I did was sign up for a writing workshop through the New York Public Library. In retrospect, how foolish was I to think that a writing workshop would put me out of my comfort zone. Unfortunately, I’ve never felt more comfortable than in a classroom setting with several New York women over 60 who were also upset about the Sephora opening on St. Mark’s.

It was back to the drawing board.

Was I supposed to learn French?

Should I pick up a new instrument?

Should I have gone to Coachella?

Should I get another tattoo?

Does a solo trip to Mexico City really solve everything? I already went to Japan.

Whatever the answer was, I would find it within.

On the outside, I think that my generation has a problem with needing to have the Next Best Thing, all the time. Instagram and TikTok make it seem like life is always supposed to be shiny and new. Unboxings. Micro-trends. Lip filler. Viral serum. Viral ice cream. Viral intimissimi long-sleeved top. Viral food, until the next viral food is discovered and the long line for the first one eventually dwindles.

These things are not inherently bad, and the people who inflate their popularity are not bad either. (I have the intimissimi top, and I also love overpriced frozen yogurt.) I do, however, feel that by focusing all our attention to what others are doing with their lives, we’re creating an imbalanced and unrealistic expectation of what life is supposed to look like based on no evidence other than what someone is sharing on a screen. It trains us to think that it’s normal to shop every week, to consume at this pace, to alter our appearances in order to keep up—even when the people setting that standard already have what they’re trying to sell us. A life that doesn’t change all the time starts to feel like a failure, instead of what it actually is: stable.

I don’t want that kind of newness. I don’t believe everything in my life needs to be constantly updated to feel valuable. I don’t believe in single-use clothing. I wore my high school prom dress to a party last year. I want to be someone who rewears my wedding dress.

Material things aside, I do think it’s important to have new experiences—whether that be enrolling in a class that you hope will put you out of your comfort zone, traveling to a new place, trying out a new sport (I got really into playing pool this winter), or meeting someone for dinner whom you don’t know very well just yet but hope will become a good friend. I think it’s possible to be consistent in how you carry yourself while being spontaneous in what you do in the day-to-day. Not only is it possible, it feels like the ideal balance to aim for. I think the inverse of that is complacency—being too consistent to the point that you’re too comfortable and thus never challenged or healthily afraid.

I believe that consistency carries an intrinsic value. If I’m consistent, it means I can be relied on. It means I’m loyal. It means I know what I like. I have a strong sense of self and personal style that has remained fairly unchanged for the last decade. (That’s right, I waste less clothing!) I have certain friends I’ve been talking to almost every day for the last several years, some of whom have been in my life since early childhood. I see my family multiple times a month. I’m one of the lucky ones. My reality is that even though I’ve been at the same company for almost 6 years, I’ve been in different roles and have had different challenges. I’ve worked with sooooo many different people. No two days have been the same—it’s awesome. Staying at a company for longer than 2 years is A Lost Art.

There’s a quote that I saw on tumblr (yeah, baby) many years ago that I think about quite often. Remember when you wanted what you currently have. I think it’s something we should remind ourselves of constantly. Perhaps to be consistent is to be happy.

So to answer your question—what’s new? Not much. I’m still wearing the same clothes, just wearing them differently. As it turns out, I’ve never needed that much to keep things interesting.

I feel my soul returning to me in all of this. In springtime. Somehow it feels like I’ve been surrounded by foggy glass that’s just been wiped clean. I hear from friends I haven’t heard from in what feels like decades, and in return, I reach out to friends I haven’t talked to in a while. We make plans. We have dinner. We see a movie. We play pool. We eat slices of cake. We go to a party. We ride bicycles. We take sandwiches to the park.

We talk about what we want to accomplish this spring. Someone wants to meet new people. Someone wants to run more. Someone wants to have a squirt gun fight in Prospect Park, which is obviously the best answer. We talk about music. The new Fcukers album makes us want to dance. We talk about where we’re keeping our winter coats when it’s this warm outside and we don’t have enough closet space. My mom graciously picked mine up on Sunday and drove off to Pennsylvania. We talk about books. Lost Lambs is the greatest work of fiction to come out of New York City in years. (Madeline Cash, if you’re reading this, I am in awe of your world-building.)

I recently lost one of my favorite pieces of jewelry: a thick silver ring inspired by the movement of water, designed by my friend Ellery. It’s one of my favorite possessions. Very rarely do I lose things—I can probably count on one hand the sprinkle of things I’ve lost in the last 10 years. A Swiss army knife with my name engraved, a green and white striped beach blanket, my Eloise at the Plaza DVD. Other than these objects, I know exactly where all my stuff is at all times.

I feel different without my silver ring. Part of me thinks it’s a sign that I’m becoming a new version of myself, and this was an emblem of a different era of my life. The other part of me wants to believe my ring will turn up in a moment when I need it most, like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City Season 6 Episode 20, when she finds her “Carrie” necklace inside her purse after thinking she lost it—a symbolic reminder of who she is. Regardless of whether this is a sign or I’m being dramatic, I gave up overthinking for lent so I’m contractually obligated by God not to discuss anything further.

With this change in weather, I go to all my favorite spots. I approach the sidewalk in front of Bar Valentina and almost as if on cue, my favorite server emerges from the front door and says, Where have you been?! as she pulls me in for a hug. At the record store, Jamal asks me the same question, and as I hand him The Slits’ album Cut to purchase, he says, “This is why I love you.”

I go to Via Carota to have dinner at the bar and don’t have to wait more than 10 seconds to be seated. I’m lucky like that. I tell Ryan at the bar that I want to try something different tonight, and we decide on a chicory salad and the pappardelle with wild boar ragu. When my pasta arrives, the woman seated to my left asks, “How is that? I was going to order that next.” I tell her there’s no need, and I ask for an extra plate. Minutes later, we’re sharing food and talking about her students and we each order a drink. I ask her so many questions about what it’s like to be a high school teacher. I am fascinated by the youth. The woman on my right has joined in at this point, and eventually we all share dessert together. We take a selfie at the end of dinner and exchange numbers. I text them when I get home.

so lovely meeting you both—
i ❤️ new york

This spring feels like I’m returning home. I feel like I’m clearing fog off the class. I feel like Rapunzel breaking out of her tower. I feel like I feel like I’m shedding my old skin.

Maybe my silver ring will turn up in the middle of an identity crisis, but until then, keep an eye out for it, will you?

Now let me be clear: New York is loud, but its standard of silence is thunderous to others and grounding to me, a reminder that I belong to something larger than myself. I stop at Hello, Yam! on E 9th Street for a Japanese sweet potato, which has been my favorite food since I visited Japan last year and is course #2 of my Death Row meal. I sit there watching the people outside in their big coats, carting groceries and takeout bags and trying to keep warm. A young woman my age enters the shop, and we sit parallel to each other eating our sweet potatoes and watching the passersby. She has headphones in, and I don’t. I can overhear a man outside on the phone telling someone he can’t wait to see them, and I think about how nice that is and how if I’d had headphones on, I may have missed it. I savor each bite of my sweet potato, devouring everything including the skin. It feels ceremonial to do this. I thank the woman who served it to me and we wish each other nice days.

Outside, I don’t even make it 4 feet without stopping into a stationery store. I pick up and put down lots of pretty things that I would’ve bought if they were $6 maybe, but they are all $15. A card on recycled paper with a photograph of the the Empire Hotel in the snow. A candle that smells like bergamot and amber. A hand-painted ceramic teaspoon. The girl from the parallel sweet potato situation enters the store and still has her headphones on. She is missing the shoptalk and the Katy Perry song playing. She is not missing much.

I continue my walk and overhear a lot of:

It’s so cold, and

I think I’m making chili tonight, and

I love you

and

I don’t know what I’m doing tonight, and

What time is dinner? and

What street is this? and

I have to pick up the kids at 7, and

I love you too.

I relish in overhearing these things because they’re sweet glimpses into everyone’s busy lives. What a gift it is to be able to eavesdrop. As I cross Lafayette Street, a powerful gust of wind takes everyone into its wake, and someone calls out loud to no one in particular, “Are you kidding me?” The cold today is the kind of frigidity that reminds us all we have something in common, and even if it’s unoriginal to talk about the weather, it’s quite cathartic to yell into the abyss of Lafayette Street in a wind tunnel.

The sky is turning ballet slipper pink. I think about something my teacher said in my writing workshop today, about how your inner child needs to be tended to in order to release your creativity. I think about how as soon as it gets warmer, we’ll go on the swings.

Walking toward Washington Square Park, another gust of wind swarms the sidewalk and everyone—regardless of whether they’re walking with others—starts to yell. I’m alone, but I yell too. It feels freeing, all of us releasing our emotions into the wind. I think about how happy I am not to have worn headphones. They would’ve masked the sound of the wind and the shouting of the cold and frustrated people around me, and I wouldn’t have gotten to experience being a part of something bigger (yelling into the wind). I pull my scarf over my mouth and pick up my pace.

On my street, a 50-something-year-old dad leading a group of four young teenagers turns to his kids and says, “Look, guys! A record store,” as he crosses the street over to it. None of them roll their eyes or make fun of him. (None of them are wearing coats either, and I shiver thinking about how defiant high schoolers are when it comes to winter coats.) The kids follow their dad across the street to the record store, pointing at the posters on the window and commenting about what they hope to find. I’m so happy to have witnessed this.

I pry open the frozen door of my apartment building and head upstairs. I take my boots off, and before doing anything else, I turn on my record player. I’m ready to break the silence. Peter, Paul, and Mary sing “Blowin’ in the Wind,” and I don’t realize the irony until I’m typing this sentence. I am grateful for the silence and the noise. I’m grateful to be a part of something bigger.

And finally, I’m warm.

Hiiiii happy February! I hope you’ve been staying warm and cozy and doing things that feel comforting to you while still doing things out of your comfort zone. Thank you for reading (today and always). I hope you take yourself for a walk without headphones this week. Yell into the wind—I promise it feels good.

xx

My aunt returned to her seat across from me, smiling as our conversation picked up where it had left off. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been to the Beacon Theatre and was excited for our night ahead. I had been joking with my friends earlier that day about how the last time I saw Patti Smith live, I got a tattoo the next day. What unexpected surprises would tonight bring?

“So have you seen Patti Smith before?” I asked my aunt Sharon.
“I have not!” she exclaimed, and immediately, we were no longer having a private conversation.

“Are you guys going to the show tonight? Sorry, I totally just intruded on your conversation,” said our new friend, who was now waiting for her companion to return from the restroom. Of course we’d chat with her.

Sharon and I both laughed, answering yesandwearesoexcited at the same time. Our new friend, who soon introduced herself as Ann, told us that Patti was going to play Horses top to bottom since it was the 50th-anniversary tour. I had presumed this would be the case. Chills. After sharing with Ann that I had been to a Patti Smith show before and how life-changing it was (tattoo and all), we began talking about Patti’s influence on the younger generation of New York and beyond. Ann recommended I read Just Kids and I told her how I read it once a year every year. She was proud to hear that.

Her partner Peter, middle-aged and lanky with wired glasses and ashy brown hair to his shoulders, returned to their table as Ann, Sharon, and I were mid-conversation.

What made Patti’s writing in Just Kids so special was that it chronicled her coming-of-age in a very bohemian version of New York City during a time of seismic cultural change. Regardless of whether you were alive during that time or not, anyone could relate to the themes of wanting to make something out of nothing. Meeting someone who would change your life. Being young. Being free. (And romanticizing all of that.) Of course New York had changed significantly since the days of CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City, but I desperately wanted to believe that the energy of decades past had reincarnated itself into the institutions and scenes that exist in the city today. My aunt had her own version of this city, Ann had hers, and I had mine. We all grew up in different generations, but we knew what we loved and what kept us here.

We began talking about social media’s depiction of our city and the pejorative online comments that naturally come with it. (The What Has This World Come To comments of the world, if you will.) Ann’s partner Peter was fully engaged in the conversation by this point, and I could tell from the moment he opened his mouth that I liked him.

“I don’t agree with my peers who say New York will never be as good as it once was. Everyone will always be nostalgic for other times,” he said, and I nodded in agreement as he continued. “If it means something to you, that’s what matters. Everyone has their own New York.” My aunt and I exchanged a warm glance across our table. We couldn’t agree more. She told Peter and Ann, “I love seeing New York through Angelina’s eyes for that very reason,” and I thought about how I loved seeing New York through hers.

Sharon and Peter quickly started bonding over bars and clubs they frequented in the 90s. Peter grew up in the city and has lived in the East Village for over 40 years, while Ann moved here in the early 2000s from San Francisco. My aunt has been on the Upper West Side for as long as I’ve been alive. We all had our personal versions of this city, and to each of us, it was our own. As I watched my aunt Sharon and Peter discuss the downtown of decades past, Ann turned to me and said, “This is why I love New York.” Me too.

I often ponder the idea of intergenerational friendships. Although the 4 of us were a wide range of ages, we had so much to talk about. Ann told us that she and Peter have friends in their 20s and 30s who are in the art scene who “keep them young,” and to me this was already evident. It reminded me of a Chloe Sevigny interview I had seen a while ago in which the interviewer asked her how she has such great style and maintains her “it-girl” status or whatever. She answered simply, “I look to the younger generation.”* There shouldn’t be any shame in acquainting with those who are younger or older. A world confined to friendships with only peers sounds terribly monotonous.

Peter and Ann had paid their bill and said they hoped to see us at the Beacon. We didn’t exchange contacts, but I truly wanted to see them again. I focused my attention back to our table and noticed we still had dessert menus in front of us, but we didn’t feel the need to order anything. We were nourished by the conversation.

At the Beacon that night, Patti Smith indeed played Horses from top to bottom, along with several other powerful ballads and poetry that I felt through my whole body. We happened to run into Ann at the bar and excitingly exchanged pleasantries as if seeing an old friend for the first time in years. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.**

After the show, my aunt walked me to the subway and I boarded the downtown 1 Train, listening to “Gloria: In Excelsis Deo” as I thought about My New York and what it means for me. My friends. My pink kitchen. My inside jokes with my superintendent. My favorite tables at my favorite restaurants. My bookstores. My name inscribed in the sidewalk on Bleecker and Sullivan. My previous apartments. My memories. My writing. It was all so distinctly me. I savored the lessons from my night as I replayed the conversation in my head. If it means something to you , that’s what matters. Everyone has their own New York.

No matter where in the world you are, I hope you make it your own.

*I couldn’t find the exact interview and don’t remember her exact words, but they were along the lines of that. She was basically saying to pay attention to young people, for there’s no way to move forward if we ignore the youth!

**I mean this when I say that meeting these people was a major highlight of my 2025 and if anyone happens to know a Peter and Ann from the East Village who saw Patti Smith at the Beacon Theatre on November 21, please reach out to me!!!!!

And as always, thank you for reading. <3 LoF Radio this week includes only songs from my Spotify Wrapped.

I dressed to meet Natalie for coffee at Sant Ambroeus, and upon walking 3 blocks realized that it wasn’t yet cold enough for the long shearling coat I’d selected. I thought more about my dream and began to sweat.

I’d planned to write that Saturday, but during our coffee chat, Natalie invited me to a gallery on the Upper East Side which sounded like a better idea and could be considered an effort toward my writing. Inspiration trip. Virtual tax write-off. Name your excuse. I made a choice and said yes.

The afternoon was delightful, and I was happy to be spending the afternoon uptown, which to me is a far away land where all my problems go away. Central Park was radiant, her neon orange leaves casting a marigold glow over all her inhabitants. Natalie and I walked past an older man playing romantic music on the accordion and proclaimed that we felt like we were in Paris until we remembered that what we had was better and then proclaimed that We Love New York. A group of girls with ribbons in their hair blew bubbles. A young couple cleaned up after their dog wearing a pumpkin costume. An older woman read the Times. I silenced my iPhone.

Natalie and I took a photo and sent it to our moms, because that’s what you do when you take a picture with your college friend in Central Park. Send it to your mom.

The next Thursday I fled to Berlin with my friends. We had a layover in Helsinki and then I woke up and it was Halloween.

I googled
helsinki population
how to apply fangs with fixodent
berghain

I ate bread at every meal and didn’t self-deprecate about it like the women of generations before me. I visited the Berlin Cathedral and said a prayer for my mom and climbed 270 steps to the top of the dome and looked out at the view of the city and couldn’t take my eyes off a person on the bridge dancing in a bear costume—I couldn’t stop laughing. I looked at art and took pictures of my friends looking at art and laughed again when Tristan said, “If only you could step into a painting…” because I find everything funny these days. I contemplated buying a pink fur hat and posted a photo of myself wearing it but didn’t end up buying it because isn’t it the same thing if I posted a photo of myself wearing it.

I googled
42.90 eur to usd
steelers score
winsviertel bars
6 7 meaning

On our last full day in Berlin, the girls went shopping while the guys rode bikes around the city. They played outside while we played with our credit cards. I bought 3 new black clothing items for less than $200 total, and they were So Me, I Couldn’t Believe It. I tapped my credit card and suddenly the sun was setting and I had to leave tomorrow morning. I couldn’t believe how fast it had flown by.

I googled
apartments in berlin
jobs berlin
english-speaking jobs berlin
cheap flights nyc to berlin

We landed back in New York and I was so happy to be home. I unpacked immediately. I texted Valerie, “i feel like this was a filler year for me.” I didn’t have anything to show for myself, but at least I had Berlin.

My trip had felt like a reset. November began to soothe in its familiar way, and I embraced the in-between of those still-warm days of early fall and the chaos of the impending holidays. I settled back into my routine, and walking along E 5th Street, I passed record stores and antique shops and spotted architectural details I hadn’t noticed before and thought, we have Berlin at home.

In October, I had been feeling like I’m a year or two behind. Behind what exactly, I’m not sure. I don’t know how it happened or whether it’s true, but I often feel like I’m not using my talents the right way. There’s so much I want to do, but I feel like I don’t have the time to do it. I’m well aware that I’ve created this problem for myself and I need to set my own boundaries. I sound like a broken record. I’ve written that sentence so many times over the last 2 years. What can I say—I’m a Yes Man.

I’ve been embracing the coziness of November and reading books that I want to read and baking miso peanut butter cookies at 8:30 AM on a Saturday because I’m a Morning Person. I’ve been drinking anything that’s warm and wearing sweaters that consume me and just picked up my cashmere blanket from the dry cleaners. I’ve been trying to figure out my goals for 2026. I don’t know what they are, but I’m hoping that they find me. In conversation at a party last night, I was so inspired by the idea of not finishing things. (You’d think the opposite, right?) I have the tendency to force myself to finish books I’m not enjoying, no matter how bad I think they are. According to my Goodreads, I’ve been “reading” Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Collins since August, but what’s stopping me from removing the bookmark and shelving it? If I can’t get through Still Life with Woodpecker does that mean I’m not nuanced enough?

I’m enchanted by the idea that every choice we’ve ever made has led us to this moment. The bewilderment of my dream led me to write this all these weeks later, and although I didn’t hand it in by 6 PM that day, I hope I still got an A.

On my walk, I flip-flopped several blocks to the beach where I stared at the ocean and remembered a dream I’d had the night before about offshore wind turbines. I haven’t consciously thought much about these, so I’m not sure why I dreamt about them. The sand I was standing on was very flat. It almost looked like pavement. It was the result of the beach after the hurricane—unwavering and steady—which is exactly how my August has felt. The calm after the storm.

I’ve been on several walks since that morning—it’s precisely the point of the last days of August—and I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on my summer. In summary, it’s been one of the best summers of my life. I did so much, yet at the same time, nothing happened! I didn’t get promoted or buy a house or get engaged or go through a breakup or go viral on TikTok for making my own Dubai chocolate or anything like that, which is why it’s been the best. I simply Had A Great Summer (HAGS).

(Okay, I did go to Japan. It was awesome.)

I finally read Pachinko, and it was the best book I’ve read in the last 5 years.

I ate thickly sliced Jersey tomatoes with olive oil and salt and pepper.

I applied 50 SPF sunscreen. (I’ve still never had a sunburn. Does it hurt?)

I saw Weapons in theaters the night it premiered and screamed, laughed, and cried. (Actual tears. Out of fear. It was awesome.)

I went to a fabulous dinner party on Governors Island with Emily, where we deduced that we were the Personality Hires (compliment) of the dinner party and everyone wanted to Know What Was So Funny at our end of the table and Missy Robbins gave a toast and our boat captain Ben steered us to the Statue of Liberty after the dinner party in the moonlight. And then our Lyft driver’s name was Lucky. This all happened on a Wednesday night.

I went to Coney Island with my best friends and rode the Cyclone 5 times.

I thumbed through albums at Academy Records and paid in cash.

I randomly made the Oaxacan Old Fashioned my cocktail of the summer. I’ve been making it in batches whenever anyone comes over for a drink, and it’s been an absolute hit. At the aforementioned dinner party, our new friend Alyson was explaining to the group the different categories that ChatGPT is used for, and one of them was categorized as Fun & Nonsense. I find myself in this category, as I’m frequently asking ChatGPT things like, “hi can you give me some recipe options for a smoky yet refreshing cocktail that uses mezcal for 10-12 people?” to which it will respond “hehe sure<3 do you want me to come up with a cute name for it too? :3” (I’ve trained my ChatGPT to respond as if it’s posting something on Tumblr in 2014 because it freaks me out when it sounds too robotic. And because it’s funny to me.)

I listened to a lot of Sheryl Crow, Bruce Springsteen, Wet Leg, and HAIM. I recently discovered the artist Winter and have been really enjoying her album, as well as the new Big Thief songs. God, “Los Angeles” is such a great song.

I finally dined solo at Roscioli. I had the fried artichokes and the carbonara. Five stars. I didn’t talk to any strangers which is why you didn’t hear about it—I just sat there with Pachinko and ate my pasta.

I didn’t have a birthday party. I had a stress-free, inexpensive birthday dinner at a low-key Thai restaurant with my closest friends and my younger brother. I was in bed by midnight that night. It was perfect.

There’s a famous episode of SpongeBob SquarePants in which he’s given the opportunity to pass his boating license exam simply by writing what he learned in boating school. Mrs. Puff encourages him to think about what he learned as she repeats out loud, “What I learned in boating school is…” but SpongeBob becomes so paralyzed by the simple task that he can’t think of anything. The line is funny because it represents the pressure of having to articulate what you’ve learned and not being able to, even when you know the answer. SpongeBob is so flustered by this exercise that Mrs. Puff ends up passing him anyway, even though he doesn’t end up writing anything.

That was kind of how I felt writing this. I haven’t felt the need to pressure myself into publishing anything of much substance this month because I’ve just been Having A Great Summer. As I thought about what the theme of my summer recap would be, I felt like SpongeBob, thinking, “WHAT I LEARNED IN SUMMER 2025 IS…”

I had a whimsical June and an emotional July and a blissful August.

That’s the whole point, baby!

thank you for reading <3 i hope you had a great summer !!!!! i’m sooooo excited for september but i can’t say that in the body of the essay because my friends will yell at me.

i just love fall…………

It was late afternoon and I’d taken a pause from my day to sit on my second favorite bench in Washington Square Park and read my book and eat cantaloupe with the sounds of the jazz band in the background as two rats puttered beneath my bench. Perfect Day Alert. In between chapters, I’d glanced up from the pages to take in my surroundings (and wipe the sweat off my brow), and I took notice of how many people held ice cream cones in their hands. Several. All different ages. It was around 6 pm on a Tuesday—most likely no one had eaten dinner yet—but the time didn’t matter. There’s never a bad time for an ice cream cone.

I continued to read but eventually became distracted by my thoughts about ice cream and had to put my book down. There was something so innocent and wholesome about the man who’d just walked by me—he didn’t have an iPhone in his hand or any sort of bag. Just an ice cream cone. The purist accessory in American fashion. An emblem of innocence. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

To me, ice cream signals not only joy and delight, but also safety and commonality. There’s something disarmingly pure and communal about it. Unlike alcohol, cigarettes, or even coffee, ice cream doesn’t have an age requirement—it belongs to everyone. (I like to believe, however, that it belongs to Good People. You never see evil people eating ice cream.) Ice cream is often dismissed as a simple dessert, but it’s a unique food that provides joy, nostalgia, and connection without being too serious—and it has a TIME LIMIT!!!!! It melts!!!!! My younger brother was planning a first date recently and was having trouble deciding between ice cream or omakase. (What a sentence.) He’s not much of a drinks person, and his rationale behind the two aforementioned suggestions was that they were fun experiences that have a time limit in terms of their enjoyment. An ice cream date would be fun and low-stakes, albeit short; and a Japanese tasting menu would be fun and adventurous, albeit expensive. Both options were equally brilliant.

He ended up going with the omakase date because well, why not. They’re going on a 3rd date soon.

*I very rarely call anyone old, for ‘old’ is too subjective. We’re all getting older, but there’s no such thing as old.

Growing up, ice cream was a big part of our lives. The night my newborn baby brother was set to come home from the hospital, my grandmother, who was babysitting me, told 3-year-old me that my parents had a surprise for me, and I famously asked, “Is it Dairy Queen?” Although ice cream was a special treat for us as kids (often brought home by my dad in the form of a Dairy Queen Chocolate Blizzard) its importance only grew as the years went on. In middle school, we’d play Capture the Flag with all the neighborhood kids, and my mom would make milkshakes for everyone at the end of the night. We’d sit on the back deck with chocolate on our faces and grass stains on our clothes while recounting the theatrics of the night as fireflies blinked in the Pennsylvania air around us. During college, when I’d come home from California, my brother and I would go for a drive “to the farm,” where we’d do most of our catching up over ice cream cones, sharing stories and talking about the things we couldn’t say in front of our parents. Getting ice cream was our safe haven, and the ice cream cone itself provided an invitation and an openness to conversation, even during the most awkward stages of our lives.

Now, as I live in the city, I don’t often make it To The Farm, but that doesn’t stop me from getting ice cream quite often. (Sometimes multiple nights a week, which is the only thing my doctor has ever told me to improve on. I’m trying. No I’m not.) A couple years ago, CNN came out with this article on how America fell out of love with ice cream, to which I remember quote-tweeting with something like “america doesn’t know how much money i spend at morgensterns each month.” If America is falling out of love with ice cream, then I’m not American.

Getting ice cream is Important. Some of my most meaningful conversations have happened over melting scoops of mint chocolate chip or pistachio or butter pecan—whatever I’m feeling that day. I once had a summer in middle school in which I went through the alphabetical list of flavors that my ice cream shop offered and tried a new one each night. I think you can tell so much about a person by their ice cream order. It’s a subtle invitation into how their brain works and what their taste is and how they feel about the world. My brother, for example, only ever orders chocolate ice cream in a cone. Plain chocolate. Every time. He enjoys the richness of life but is a simple guy who isn’t a big fan of change. Plain chocolate. Every time.

I’m adventurous. I try to order a new flavor each time. I have a list in my Notes app called “MORGENSTERN’S FLAVORS: RANKED” and I’m constantly making updates. My favorite flavors are usually ones with nutty undertones. I enjoy chocolate, but I’m not much of a chocolate-base person. I enjoy toppings. Rainbow sprinkles. Honeycomb (the best is from Van Leeuwen’s). Condensed milk. Shredded coconut. I’ll try literally anything. On my most recent trip To The Farm, I was with my boyfriend, my brother, and our cousin Ava (who’s more like the little sister we never had but always wanted). My boyfriend and I ordered first: pistachio for him, and maple walnut for me. After we told our flavors to the girl behind the counter, Ava looked at us and laughed. “You guys and your NUTS! Angelina LOOOVES putting nuts in her baked goods. I hate it. You two are PERFECT for each other!” She wasn’t wrong.

If you’re ever unsure about something, I believe it can be solved over an ice cream cone. Small, sweet, and fleeting, it’s something that goes beyond enjoyment—it’s the thread of summer. It’s fun. It’s safe. It’s happy. It’s the main event. It’s love!!!!!

We all scream for ice cream.

MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM PLACES, NOT IN ANY PARTICULAR ORDER BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE UNFAIR

• Manning Farm Dairy (Pennsylvania)

• Salt & Straw (nationwide)

• Van Leeuwen’s (nationwide, I think)

• Morgenstern’s, but their staff is so mean you have to be patient and in a good mood for that experience (NYC)

• Sundaes & Cones (NYC)

• Juice Bar (Nantucket, MA)

• Margate Dairy Bar (Margate, NJ)

• Rivareno Gelato (Milan and NYC)

• Moo’s Gourmet Ice Cream (Jackson, WY)

• Caffè Panna (NYC)

• Chinatown Ice Cream Factory (NYC)

Thank you for reading! I hope you are having the most delicious summer. I’ve had ice cream 3 times this week.

I laughed and sped off. It was 88° outside, and I desperately needed to feel cool air or I would soon perish. No time to chat on the sidewalk with a stranger among hoards of tourists taking photos of pizza and West Village Girls holding $12 iced matcha lattes.

As I continued my walk, a million thoughts began to swirl in my head. I’ve had psychics stop me on the sidewalk before and say the same thing as her, which is why I laughed it off and kept walking, because usually this happens when I’m passing their place of business and they try to get me to come in and Spend Money on a palm reading. This woman, however, was simply walking down the street just like me. She could’ve been a tourist or a New Yorker or someone’s grandma just in town for the weekend. And I laughed in her face. Maybe she was trying to tell me something.

All day, I kept thinking about that woman. I regretted laughing in her face, which in hindsight was pretty rude, but I couldn’t help it. I thought the situation was funny! (I’m unfortunately one of those people who blatantly laughs if something is funny to me. This has gotten me in trouble in school, at work, and in relationships. Please don’t take it personally. I’m just having fun. Perhaps I should work on this.) Knowing that I couldn’t change the situation, I decided to take her words as a message to slow down. As I write this, I wonder if she was even real.

*I’m referring to the area of Bleecker Street from W 11th St all the way down to 7th Avenue. What is happening here???

Today, I did just that. I had lunch with a friend who is moving out of New York soon—a friend I hadn’t seen in months—and we chatted incessantly for over an hour at a folding table on the sidewalk in front of C&B like no time had passed. My friend has a quite adorable 5-month-old puppy, so many passersby on E 7th Street stopped to pet River and chat with Pippa and me, and it brought so much joy to my day. At one point, after chatting with a guy who brought his own mug to get coffee from C&B (Walking-Outside-With-A-Mug Supremacy), I exclaimed, “God, I love New York! Everyone is so nice!”

As Pippa and I caught up, one of the questions she asked me was what I’ve been up to, after we had joked about how I’m in the same apartment with the same job I’ve had for many years and that I’m one of her most consistent friends.

What have I been up to?

Listening to Phoenix’s Bankrupt! album
In times of uncertainty in the world around me, I find myself listening to albums that I played nonstop in high school, and Bankrupt! is one of them, so much so that I incorporated the peach from the album cover into my senior year self portrait for my studio art final. The music of that time is so comforting to me. Thomas Mars is cooler than all of us.

Shopping at local grocery stores
Although I am a top customer at the Astor Place Wegmans, I began shopping at more local grocery stores earlier this year, and I cannot recommend this enough. The prices are surprisingly good, and the quality is top notch. I’ve found so many hyper-specific ingredients that I’ve needed for certain recipes, and it’s fun to explore other new foods that I wouldn’t normally find at my typical grocery store. Here are a few of my favorites:

• Sahadi’s (Lebanese/Middle Eastern)

• Ten Ichi Mart (Japanese)

• Dainobu (Japanese)

• Raffetto’s Fresh Pasta (Italian)

• Tashkent Supermarket (Uzbek)

• Ottomanelli & Sons (Italian butcher shop)

• Big Night (a bit pricey, but a fabulous destination for niche cocktail ingredients & party-hosting necessities, among other things)

I know this just scratches the surface — if you have any other recommendations, please share in the comments!!!

Wearing sneakers
I recently went on a trip to Shanghai and Tokyo, two cities with really amazing sneaker culture, and now I have so many pairs I want. In Tokyo, I did purchase the Puma x A$AP Rocky Mostros, and I love them a lot. They’re the type of sneaker that a lot of people probably think is really ugly, but the ones who get it get it. Some of the best fashion choices are the most polarizing ones.

WALKING! EVERYWHERE! EVERY DAY!
Yesterday, I walked 22,000 steps unintentionally. It wasn’t like I woke up and set out to walk that much, it’s just how the day panned out. That’s one of the best things about summer—a day with no plans can turn into the best day ever. I love walking. Walk with me.

Eating, of course
What’s Lunch on Friday without food? Here are some of my favorite things I’ve had recently:

• Chrysanthemum ice cream from Lai Rai in Chinatown — ice cream & rice wine pair very well together.

• Pea Panzanella salad from Achilles Heel in Greenpoint — eating outside here feels like dining in a dear friend’s backyard.

• “Sardinian Nights” cocktail from Bar Madonna in Williamsburg — this tasted like a whiskey highball but also like a toasty s’more? I can’t explain it so you just have to try it.

• A5 Wagyu beef skewer from Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo — probably the single best piece of meat I’ve ever had.

• White pizza with broccoli from Anthony’s in Old Forge, PA — iykyk.

• Pig & Egg sandwich from C&B in the East Village — it took me so long to try this but holy moly. Make sure to get hot sauce on the side.

• Omg.. these Hello Kitty biscuit crackers I got from Ten Ichi Mart. They are the perfect storm of buttery, salty, and crunchy, and the can says ONLY FOR SALE IN JAPAN which makes me feel like a badass when I eat them because I bought them in New York. You MUST try this buttery Hello Kitty propaganda.

Cleaning out my closet
So I bought a lot of clothes in Japan……………………
but I’m very good at donating and selling clothing as well. I’m a firm believer that you need to make space in your life for whatever new things you bring into it, which is why I frequently clean out my closet. If I get rid of something, there’s a big part of me that’s confident something better will present itself. (In many situations, not just with clothing.) :)

Maybe that’s the energy that the psychic woman was sensing on my mad dash home from Housing Works. She knew I had just gotten rid of things I didn’t need anymore and that new opportunities would present themselves. Maybe I’m too romantic. But that’s why you read this, isn’t it?

HAPPY FIRST DAY OF SUMMER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also, as a bonus for making it this far, here’s my summer playlist:

Valerie and I had agreed to meet at Ha’s Snack Bar at 7:30 PM, but I have a theory that arriving to any walk-in situation (bar, diner, restaurant, bakery, etc) at a certain 30-minute interval time hinders your chances of getting a good seat. Think about how many other people probably agreed to meet there at 7:30! I arrived at 7:22. Upon asking the hostess how long the wait would be for 2 people, I was met with a not-so-friendly glare, accompanied by, “We wouldn’t be able to seat you until 10 PM.” That was fine, I told her. I’d put my name down anyway—I didn’t believe her for a second. “Are you sure?” she questioned. “Yes,” I answered. She begrudgingly asked for my phone number and put me on the waitlist.

I texted my friend the situation and told her to meet me around the corner at Lai Rai, a Vietnamese natural wine bar that opened late last year. I found us two seats toward the back of the bar and inhaled my surroundings. Lai Rai is a narrow space with bar seating on either side, one bar facing the wall and one that’s free-standing with a friendly tattooed bartender behind it and an old movie projected on the cream-painted brick wall behind her. Groups of friends crowded into the small space, one group even making a small circle with their seats to conjoin both sides of this narrow space—a convivial effort to create community (and a fire hazard). I surveyed the scene and wished I had changed into something more comfortable for such a laid back evening, as I was still in my Corporate Best, but it was okay—to be overdressed is to be brave.

Shortly after I had memorized the wine list and subconsciously decided that we would end up ordering one of their rice wines, I looked up from the menu and saw Valerie smiling under the glow of the light in the doorway. She made her way past the fire hazard of friend groups crowding the walkway.

“Hiiiiiiiii!!!” we said gleefully and hugged.

“Don’t let me forget to give you your sunglasses,” she said to me.

“Don’t let me forget my umbrella again,” I said to her.

We immediately dived* into conversation, oohing and ahhing at the decor and the curated wines and each other’s outfits.

*The original and correct past tense of dive is dived. Not dove. My 8th grade English teacher’s voice lives in my head for better or for worse.

The rice wine that I knew we’d end up ordering arrived and tasted like “so many different things,” as Valerie described it. We are such wine connoisseurs. I started telling her about my trip the past weekend, as I had been in California for 5 days, and it was magical and life-changing and epiphanic as always. If you’re new here (welcome!), I love California, but I love New York more. If you’re new here (welcome, again!), I love driving, but I love walking more.

“My trip was amaaaaaazing,” I started.

Her eyes wide, she said, “Colin was asking me if you’re a California girl now.”

Not quite. Never quite.

I told Valerie about the day that my boyfriend and I spent in Laguna Beach, staying out in the sun too long and waiting out the LA traffic at a bar as we watched the Knicks beat the Celtics to the sounds of a local cover band playing the Beach Boys and the Spinners. I told her about how we went to In-N-Out not once, but twice. I told her how I felt healed, like I always do when I leave New York for California. I told her how we went to a lookout that had the most amazing view of the hills and how I felt like I was in a movie and how 13-year-old me would be so happy she found her long-haired skater boy from California who’s also really smart and kind.

We talked about New York vs LA for what felt like 45 minutes. (I don’t know how this has become such a Big Topic in my writing, but it has.) We talked about how Valerie will back there one day, but I probably will not. Val and I met in college in Northern California, close to her hometown, and both of us love both places. She moved to New York a year ago, and it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to both of us. I love that I get to see her more often, and in general, I love that I get to see all of my friends very often, because it’s SO EASY TO GET PLACES HERE!!!!!

About 2 hours later, we’d lost track of time discussing California and summer plans and the number of various things that the rice wine tasted like. Valerie excused herself to use the restroom as I poured the last of our bottle. As I was sitting there alone, I took a moment to look around at how the number of patrons had dwindled, but the atmosphere still felt so lively. The bartender was happily chatting with a 20-something girl seated at the bar behind me, and I overheard the girl say, “I used to live here—I’m from California actually, but I’m back in New York for a work trip.” Immediately, they both started talking about New York vs California. I texted Valerie.

Me: girl next to us lives in LA
Me: she’s talking to the bartender
Me: why didn’t she chime in!

Valerie: stop
Valerie: i can hear now

Me: omg she used to live here for 6 years
Me: so fascinating

Valerie arrived back to our spot. “You have to talk to her,” she deadpanned.

If there’s one thing I’m gonna do, it’s talk to strangers.

I tapped the girl on the shoulder as I said, as nonchalantly as possible, “Wait sorry to eavesdrop, are you guys talking about New York vs LA? We were literally just talking about that!”

“We are!” she said, turning around and smiling. I immediately sensed radiant energy. She seemed like the kind of person who could be cast as the uplifting and spunky best friend in a Disney Channel Original Series. (That is the highest form of flattery.)

“I’m from San Diego, but I lived here for 6 years,” she told us.

“Wait, where in San Diego?” Valerie asked. “My boyfriend is from there—and so are two of our friends.”

We played the name game for about 8 seconds and soon discovered… they went to the same high school.

“WHAT?” I shouted in disbelief. “Sorry,” I half-said to the bartender, and half-said to this stranger whose face I just yelled in. The world is so small.

We spent the next 30 minutes chatting with this person, learning how much we had in common and sharing stories about our life-changing experience at the Coachella set of the Female Rapper she works for. (Wink wink.) It was so beautiful and so special and I was so happy that we had to wait so long for a table at Ha’s Snack Bar because otherwise this encounter would’ve never happened.

After getting each other’s life stories and Instagram handles, our new friend asked, “Wait, what time are you guys supposed to eat? It says on Google that that restaurant closes at 10:30.” I asked for our check, and as I was tapping my card, the bartender told me she was from California too. These people are following me.

We got up from the barstools, hugging our friend goodbye. I grabbed my bag and only my bag.

“You’re just begging to lose that umbrella,” Valerie taunted.

“THANK YOU FOR REMINDING ME,” I said as I snatched it from its spot on the floor. Figures.

We made it to Ha’s Snack Bar just in time for the hostess to tell me she still didn’t have a table for us. They were behind on seatings, but she could help me get a reservation for another night if I wanted. I looked around. “What about outside?” I asked. It was 55 degrees outside, but we had come there to eat.

Sitting outside, about 8-inches away from the table next to us, we became quick friends with our drunken neighbors who told us exactly what to order. They worked in the restaurant industry and said, “This is the best restaurant in New York,” and then proceeded to tell us that the restaurants they each work at are “the best restaurant in New York.” I understood. No, seriously.

Chicken liver pate. Snails with tamarind & garlic butter. The salad. The chicken. We ordered it all.

Dipping our crusty bread into pools of garlic butter, we kept giggling about our encounter at Lai Rai and our encounter with the people next to us and all of our encounters with strangers over the years. It’s all magic.

By the end of the night, I had swayed the hostess to let us sit inside as tables became vacant, and Val and I shared a rhubarb & strawberry tart. The atmosphere inside was certainly better than the sidewalk from an aesthetics perspective, but nothing could beat the rowdy conversation and halo of cigarette smoke that had happened on the sidewalk outside.

On my way out, it seemed the hostess was in good spirits, so I asked her if she’d still help me with a future reservation, and she obliged. We’d come next time with our California boyfriends.

I walked home down Prince Street, umbrella in hand, and thought what a blessing it was to have to wait for a table and what a joy it was to be able to walk home.

Fin.

HAPPY (almost) JUNE! THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!! I love you guys :) GO KNICKS!

I’m using “the diner” here as a general term because I’m referring to the classic American diner that can be found in nearly every zip code in the United States. You know the kind. Laminated menus that contain an expansive list of every food item you could possibly imagine. Vinyl booths. Newspaper clippings framed on the walls. A glass case of cinnamon buns and homemade pies and heavily-frosted cookies. Kitschy collectible objects fitfully placed on a shelf behind the register. A Coca-Cola plastic clock that probably hasn’t worked since 2005. Servers and line cooks who have been working there since Clinton was president. Perhaps a photograph on the wall of what the diner looked like when it opened in the 70s (and it still looks the same). Perhaps a jukebox.

The American diner is a longstanding part of our culture that preserves the past in an understated way we fail to recognize. Flashy new restaurants are always opening, but how often do you walk into a diner and think, Wow it feels really 2025 in here. Times change, but the diner doesn’t. The vinyl booths always welcome you, and the menu always offers whatever your heart desires. At the diner, you can have whatever you want, whenever you want. In many such cases, you can play your own music!!!! It’s the perfect third space, which is why it’s the location for so many iconic scenes in American movies & television. Do you think “I’ll have what she’s having” would’ve worked in a Michelin-starred restaurant with a prix fixe menu? No! Do you think the line, “Shall we get more coffee or shall we get guns and kill ourselves?” would hit as hard if Carrie Bradshaw delivered it while rushing on the sidewalk with a to-go coffee cup? No! What about the opening scene of Pulp Fiction? Would that have been as iconic if it were filmed in a Starbucks? Absolutely not! The diner is quintessential Americana. It’s an immutable symbol of American culture that welcomes anyone, offers everything, and can be found nearly anywhere. And in most cases, it’s cheap.

I can’t think of a time in my life that wasn’t calculated by the kinds of discussions that happen in a diner. There was a snowy Saturday a few winters ago when I wasn’t feeling like myself and didn’t want to leave the house. My best friend Jack suggested we go to the diner. “Come onnnn, you’ll feel better,” he pleaded on the phone. I laced on my Sorel snow boots (first and only time I’ve worn them) and trudged up the west side to get to Empire Diner. There were no cars on the road, and the snow on the sidewalks was pristine. Once I arrived, I remember instantly feeling better after I’d ordered my waffle and felt myself sink into the booth, grateful to have the comfort of a friend and the coziness of the diner.

There’s serenity in enjoying a comfort meal with people you love in a space that’s remained untouched over time. Anytime you want. In the trailer for the 1982 movie Diner, the narrator voices over, “It’s a place to stop [pause]… before movin’ on.” Sooooo true.

The diner isn’t dead! Long live the diner!

My Favorite Diners !!!!!!!!!

• La Bonbonniere (West Village, New York, NY) <3

• Waverly Diner (Greenwich Village, New York, NY)

• Thai Diner (Nolita, New York, NY)

• S&P (Flatiron, New York, NY)

• Glenburn Grill and Bakery (Clarks Summit, PA)

• The Downyflake (Nantucket, MA) - RIP, gone but never forgotten

• Clinton Street Baking Company (Lower East Side, New York, NY)

• Golden Diner (Lower East Side, New York, NY)

• Empire Diner (Chelsea, New York, NY)

• Cowgirl (West Village, New York, NY)

• Winfield’s Diner (Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, NY)

• Waffle House (Clarks Summit, PA)

• Mission City Grill (Santa Clara, CA)

I had to cancel an annual doctor’s appointment because of a Big Meeting, and the Big Meeting ended up getting moved. That pissed me off.

People I didn’t know were acting like they knew me so well just because they read my words. That pissed me off.

The girl behind us at the Comedy Cellar kept saying “yeehaw” after every joke instead of laughing. That pissed me off.

My boyfriend couldn’t read my mind about what I actually wanted for dinner????? That pissed me off.

My friends and I went to Evil Trivia and it was the 200th trivia so they made the questions really hard and kept us there for 4 hours and I’m not kidding it felt like taking the SATs. That pissed me off.

I tried to get my landlord to lower my rent increase and he stopped responding until it became the deadline and I was forced to renew at the new price. That pissed me off.

I had to pay my taxes. That pissed me off. (Obviously.)

My leather bag charm got stuck in the rolling conveyor belt at airport security and got ripped to shreds. That pissed me off.

My company announced it was switching from Zoom meetings to Microsoft Teams. That pissed me off.

Cafe Select got new tables outside so they’re not red anymore like they have been for years. That pissed me off.

Pitchfork rated Djo’s new album a 5.9. That pissed me off.

The weather in New York was 80 degrees on a Saturday and then 29 degrees the following Tuesday. That pissed me off.

I kept getting invited to things and trying to say no because I knew I was overextending myself, and it was giving me anxiety so I would explain why I was saying no, but then I would get booooo and laaame and you should cooome, so then I said yes, and then I ended up canceling anyway and feeling even more guilty because I hate canceling on people, and I felt like I was spreading myself too thin with my friends which is the worst thing in my life I could possibly do. That pissed me off.

I had convinced myself I was over Substack. Lunch on Friday had run its course. The greatest hits track list included We Should All Talk to Strangers, Everything Everywhere All at Once, Yes, You Have Time to Read, and I’m Talking to Strangers (Again). It would all be a matter of time before Angelina Hazzouri was a Ghost of Substack Past. Where was she now? Would there be a reunion tour? Did she still enjoy having lunch on Fridays? Was she still updating that weekly playlist on Spotify? (Yes, always.)

That didn’t piss me off. That just made me kinda sad. (((I am so grateful.))) <3

It was April 22, and I hadn’t written anything in over a month. It wasn’t like I was lacking experiences to write about—I’ve lived so much life in the last month. I went to a concert where the crowd was so eclectic that my boyfriend and I smiled the entire time and then laughed the entire walk to the car and danced on the sidewalk in Brooklyn. I had friends over on a Thursday night to drink bourbon and eat homemade carrot cake, and I laughed so hard that I got a stomachache. I went to TEXAS for work with some of my best friends and line danced at a rodeo bar and drove around pretty neighborhoods and ate the best barbecue of my life. I watched Call Me By Your Name, one of my favorite movies of all time, at the Paris Theater next to my best friend and cried for basically a week after that because those characters are tethered to me in a way that I hope you get to experience at least once in your life with a movie or a book. (If I’m being honest, maybe that’s how I got into this funk. Lmao.) I took hour-long lunch breaks with my Real Friends Whom I Happen to Work With (not Work Friends, there’s a difference). I went to a vintage poster store on a rainy day and lost track of time scrolling through their catalog of old cigarette ads and retro diner posters. I ran into people I know on the street. I sat in a glowy room of 13 beautiful people for my best friend’s birthday dinner and didn’t stop smiling the entire time. I attempted to see Lorde in Washington Square Park. I wore some killer outfits. I wore some highly wrinkled outfits. I got a new pair of sunglasses. I read a few marvelous books. I watched Lost in Translation and couldn’t stop thinking about how important it is to talk to strangers.

All that’s to say, I was busy living.

I kept attributing my lack of creativity during this time to being in a “writing rut,” but I knew it was just an excuse. I could easily sit down and write about all of these lovely experiences—I just didn’t want to. I wanted to be negative for once, but I didn’t feel like there was a place for me to do that.

I finally arose from this dispirited state on Tuesday after an enlightening conversation with two of my Real Friends Whom I Happen to Work With during our lunch break. I don’t remember how it came up, but I half-jokingly said, “I feel like I crashed out this month.” One of them immediately piped up, “Ohhhhhhh you have to read my latest post. I feel that.” I hadn’t even realized she’d posted anything. I hadn’t really been on Substack in weeks, and when I mentioned this, my friends asked why.

I explained how although I’m so proud of the “brand” I’ve built, I feel like I’ve put myself into a certain box of wholesomeness. I’ve been a creative person my entire life, but I’ve also been a good person my entire life, and good people with corporate jobs and loving families are supposed to adhere to a certain set of standards. Or so we’re told.

I said that I wanted to be able to express myself more freely but sometimes felt like I couldn’t do so because certain people may not get it. Certain people might be worried about me if I start an essay with the line “Everything pissed me off in April” and then proceed to write about things that aren’t that big of a deal—but if your feelings are valid then so are mine. I said that certain people might think differently of me if my personal essays started including a few more negative remarks or used profanity or covered provocative topics or slightly deterred from the usual romanticization of my otherwise charmed life.

Maybe I was overthinking it, I said.

My other friend validated me. He has his own brand outside of our corporate jobs and said he feels the same way sometimes. We talked about Instagram, for example, and how a certain post that might not seem indecorous to us might ring alarm bells to someone else. (One time I posted from a party on a Wednesday night, wearing black eyeliner and a lot of leather, and one of my aunts asked my brother if my family should be worried.) Being a creative from a Normal Family is one thing, but being a creative in a corporate environment walks a fine line that isn’t often talked about. I get into the elevator in the morning and I’ll have a man in a suit standing next to me as I’m wearing an oversized Popeye graphic tee with a distressed white denim mini skirt. I’ll be explaining our merchandising strategy to a group of Columbia University MBA students on a Wednesday and then asking to see a sample of a shearling carrot with eyes and a mouth on a Thursday. (Don’t ask.) (This is my dream job, and I digress.)

All that’s to say, perception of art can be stressful to think about no matter what medium you’re in, and I let that get the best of me this month. My friends and I ultimately decided that it’s best just to let go. I should stop worrying I might disappoint someone else before I end up disappointing myself. Wouldn’t that be tragic!

I felt so inspired after our lunch conversation—I was absolutely reeling the rest of the day, thinking about what bothered me in the last month, and more importantly, what I loved about the last month.

I loved so many things in April.

• Justin Bieber’s incessant Instagram posting—he is not crashing out, he is EXPRESSING HIMSELF

• meeting a new friend and an old friend over wine at Moonflower

• walking down Bleecker Street at night and seeing the string lights on the fire escape of my old apartment glowing, just like I left them 3 years ago

• leaving my phone in the kitchen when I go to bed

• watching Donnie Darko at the Metrograph on a Thursday with wide eyes at such brilliant shots

• mezcal cocktails at home

• running into people I know in the most unexpected places

• my Popeye graphic tee

• Central Park on a Saturday when it’s 75 and sunny

• Texas

• Rejection by Tony Tulathimutte—even though I think I hated the process of reading this, I have never read anything so shocking

• the newfound energy I felt after changing my daily alarm from 7:30 AM to 6:30 AM

• the Coconut Pandan Pudding from Bangkok Supper Club

• Emily saying “sick as hell” 25x a week

I am so happy to be back, and I am so happy in general. It’s important to feel all the emotions in order to appreciate the good ones. I wasn’t crashing out, I was just living the normal human experience. Fin.

HAPPY FRIDAYYYYYYYY xoxoxoxoxoxox

I pad into my pink kitchen, once again ignoring the lease renewal form that’s been staring at me every time I walk past my 1950s Formica kitchen table in the center of my apartment. I’d love to renew my lease, I just wish it wasn’t becoming more and more expensive. I’m playing hard to get. I pull out my phone and send yet another email to my “landlord” (who I’m convinced is just a robot firing off emails from the severed floor) following up about the counteroffer I sent him last week. He’s giving me the cold shoulder.

Hi Kendell,

Following up.

Thanks,
Angelina

I’ve lived in my apartment for almost 3 years and can’t imagine leaving right now. It’s in a perfect location, and if there’s one thing I took away from my Retail Studies classes in college, it’s Location! Location! Location! It’s a small one-bedroom railroad apartment that, to me, feels like a whimsical oasis in a brick tower where my fire escape is actually an expansive balcony and my oven-that’s-so-small-I-could-lift-it-myself is actually a blank canvas for all the birthday cakes and Christmas cookies and Malted Forever Brownies I’ve made over the years. This is my home.

I try my best not to get attached to material things, but when it comes to apartments, I admit I get attached. We still have my childhood home that I lived in from the day I was born until the day I left for college, so I’ve never really had to say a formal goodbye to my “home home.” My previous New York apartment had 17 mice, 6 cockroaches, 3 ceiling collapses, and one 43% rent increase after Covid, and I still tried to find a way to renew the lease. I just didn’t want to say goodbye to a place I loved so much.

It’s hard for me to put into words the magic of my current apartment. The furniture and items that decorate the space have their own stories and lore, an eclectic combination of new and old that feels inherently me. I’ve long found it important to decorate my space with objects that feel meaningful, and if you saw them eventually strewn to the curb as trash, you’d look at them and say, “Oh, that 1920s seafoam green wooden nightstand that she repurposed as a bar cart was sooo her.” I learned this methodology from my mother, who is an interior designer. She made sure that our childhood home felt current and exciting, while simultaneously infusing antiques and vintage art into the decor. It created a unique space that I didn’t understand as a child, often critiquing my mother’s use of antiques because I thought they looked too old. I remember one night while my mom was making dinner, my brother and I were playing tag in the house (always a great idea!), and I knocked over an antique magazine stand that stood next to my piano. As it crashed to the floor, spilling copies of Cook’s Illustrated and piano sheet music all over the living room, part of the wood from the magazine slots broke off. My mother was furious, and I couldn’t understand why—the magazine stand was so old and ugly to me. “You will understand one day,” she seethed. I didn’t think I would, but I do now. The antique had sentimental value to her, and it was also just straight up cool. My mom was always coming up with ways to repurpose discarded objects. Until I became an adult, I thought everyone had a clothes hamper that was actually a hollowed-out antique Victrola phonograph record player from the early 1900s. (Doesn’t everyone put their dirty clothes in their record player?)

When it came to decorating my apartment, I was inspired by the black-and-white tile floors in the kitchen, the history of the neighborhood around me, and the furniture I already had. Naturally, many of my belongings came from my previous apartment—like my cerulean blue velvet sofa, my books and records, my white Brooklinen towels (I always have and always will buy only white towels, like a fancy hotel), my ornate gold mirror, and my various knick-knacks. I wanted my kitchen to feel like a retro diner, so I painted a hot pink accent wall and bought a print of a vintage Barbie doll smoking a cigarette (this was all before the Barbie movie came out, mind you). I wanted my bedroom to feel like a quintessential historic Greenwich Village space, so I had a contractor build floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the nook next to my closet, making sure the bottom shelf measured 13-inches in height so that my hundreds of records would fit perfectly. I wanted my living room to have only one pop of color—the sofa—because it was to be a place where my friends could gather cozily and where I could relax and feel a sense of calm. Of course I looked at other sources of inspiration, but ultimately, I let the space guide me itself. I remember posting an Instagram story of my living room after a few months of living here, and one of my friends replied, “If there’s one thing you’re gonna do, it’s make a house a home.” I agreed.

Over the last 3 years, every day in this space has been in celebration. Regardless of whether it’s an ordinary Monday or I’m hosting 70 people for my birthday party, whether the heat is working or not, whether the fridge is filled with fresh produce or is totally empty because I’ve been Eating Out Too Much, whether I’ve had several visitors or none at all, every day in my apartment feels special and I take none of it for granted. It’s a space I’ve created for myself and for my friends to feel comfortable and happy and nourished. I’ve hosted countless dinner parties and party parties and “bourbon nights” and movie nights. We’ve laughed in my living room when someone’s telling the Funniest Story Ever for the 97th time and cried on my bed when someone’s going through a breakup and danced in my kitchen as we’re scratching candle wax off the tablecloth and gossiped in my bathroom during my parties when there’s nowhere else to get any privacy and smoked cigarettes on my fire escape while the NYPD is on the sidewalk below telling me that one of the neighbors filed a noise complaint but I don’t have to stop the party, I just need to lower the music. I’ve built an entire world in my 3rd-floor castle in the sky, which is why it makes it so hard to think about ever leaving.

All of this is why every year for the last several years, I’ve struggled when my lease renewal form shows up in my mailbox. Every year, it gets more expensive, and every year, I say, “Well, I’ll just renew for another year.”

As I write this, I still haven’t signed or mailed back the form because there’s a part of me that wonders whether it’s time to move, whether moving would actually be less expensive in the long run. I think about my morning walks on the West Side Highway and my evening walks around Washington Square Park, and I can feel part of my heart shatter at the thought of not seeing the same neighbors and the same dogs and the same babies in strollers. I say things like I wish someone would just give me the answer as I refresh the “My Applications” page on the NYC housing lottery website, expecting my application to an apartment on W 96th St to be approved (which I pray does not happen because I will take that as a sign to move to W 96th St even though that’s quite far from literally everywhere I frequent). I return to a screenshot of a dear friend’s text that I keep in my Favorites folder, from the last time I threatened moving to the Upper West Side.

I think we should stay downtown forever, it says. I believe him.

I want to live here forever for now. I won’t live here forever, but for now I will.

Over a week passes since I’ve sent my follow-up email, and it’s crickets from my landlord. This is all weighing on me, so over the weekend, I take to writing about it. (MAKE ART NOT WAR!!!!!!)

As I finish my thoughts, I decide to give it one more night before making my final decision. The next day as I’m sitting at my desk, wrapping up for the day, I receive a text at 4:42 pm that there’s an email regarding my application for the apartment on W 96th St. My jaw drops. I haven’t heard from their offices since 2024. Here’s my sign, I say to myself, hesitantly tapping the Gmail icon on my phone screen.

Application not approved. Requesting further documentation.

Sign accepted.

One more year in the pink kitchen.

One more year of saying “good morning” to the pigeons on my windowsill.

One more year of living downtown forever. For now.

(And thank God!)

Thank you to Brooklinen for sponsoring Lunch on Friday this week. I am literally obsessed with your products and have become a sheets snob, thanks to you.

One morning as we were sitting on the blue line in the blue room, the door to our classroom was open and I was able to see down the hallway into “the yellow room,” which was the pre-school classroom. I noticed my little brother sitting on “the yellow line” through the yellow room’s open door. We had never before been able to see each other from our respective classrooms, and I was so excited that I tried to get his attention by waving to him. It worked after a few big waves and pssssssts, and soon enough, he was smiling and waving back at me. We were both so happy that we started laughing—not paying attention to whatever French or sign language lesson was happening in our respective classrooms—and all of a sudden, The Mean Nun came charging out of the yellow room and stormed right into the blue room. I was in big trouble.

“YOU’RE DISTRACTING HIM!” she yelled at me, interrupting The Nice Nun’s lesson and silencing my entire class. “You’re in kindergarten now. You need to learn to ACT YOUR AGE!” she bellowed. I’ll never forget her words because it was the first time I heard the word distracting. As she yelled at me, all eyes were on me, and to this day I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed. The Mean Nun stormed out of the blue room back down the hallway, and I saw The Nice Nun whisper something to her “teacher’s helper,” who noticed that I was on the verge of tears and brought me into the bathroom to intercept my meltdown. After she consoled me, I walked back into the blue room with my head held high and vowed to myself never to be disruptive like that again. I was 6 years old, after all. It was time to act my age.

Ever since the Blue Room Incident, I’ve always been told I’m mature for my age. I’ve constantly wanted to set a good example for my younger brother, and I’m proud to say I’ve done a good job. When I was in grade school and high school, the teachers would tell my parents during conferences, “Angelina is very mature.” “Angelina is friends with everyone.” “Angelina sets a good example for the other students.” I never fully felt like I was acting my age, however; I often felt I was acting an age or two above mine. As I’m “old for my grade” with a July birthday, I was the first one to get my period and the first one to get my license and the first one to be of legal drinking age—I had no choice but to act a little bit older than my friends… because I was a little bit older.

During my freshman year of college, I still felt more mature than a lot of my friends. They were worried about which fraternity boasted the hottest guys, and I was worried about the feng shui of my dorm room. I wasn’t too eager to go to frat parties at first—I just wanted to go out to dinner at good restaurants and get 8 hours of sleep. (I honestly laugh thinking about this now, because I’ve always been a Good Kid. Way to go, Mom and Dad.) It took me a couple short weeks to realize that if I wanted to make friends and enjoy a normal college experience, I should probably try my hand at becoming a Responsible Party Girl, and I’m glad I did; but by senior year, I was ready for whatever was next. Always a step ahead. Always mature for my age. In my grandmother’s words to my dad, I was “already there.” I think after college, I caught up to my age because of the pandemic—and I try not to think too hard about what my life would be like if that hadn’t happened.

More recently, I read Lola Kirke’s memoir Wild West Village and was immediately locked in as soon as I read the first page. (Actually, I was sold when I saw her and her sister Jemima talk at a Warby Parker event last week, but that’s beside the point.) (It was awesome, btw.) In the introduction of the book, Kirke shares how when she told her mom she was writing a memoir, her mother replied, “Wait—aren’t you a bit young to be writing a memoir?” Kirke is 34 years old, which in my opinion, is a great age to write a memoir. Thirty-four years of content is a lot! After reading her introduction, I closed my book and thought for a moment about how so often we’re told that we’re “too young” or “too old” for something. Who set these thresholds? Where’s the book about what to do at each age? (Besides American Girl’s The Care and Keeping of You…) With social media especially, it feels like there’s a mile-wide spectrum of what you’re supposed to feel like or be doing at your age. To put this into perspective, I know people my age who haven’t quite figured out what they want to do (totally fine), and on the other hand, I have friends and mutuals who are becoming millionaires or are already married or already have kids. (For context, I’m in my late 20s.) Regardless of what end of the spectrum you fall on, I firmly believe that whatever your status is, it’s fine. I say it all the time: comparison is the thief of joy. I don’t think there’s a right or wrong thing to be doing at any age—within reason of course. (Stay in school, don’t do drugs, refill the Brita, etc etc.)

I often reference ’s wonderful piece “How to Make the Most of Your 20s,” which I believe is a great read no matter your age. My favorite takeaways unsurprisingly have to do with lifestyle and the inner self. I believe that if we really are trying to define what it means to act our age, we should look inward. Simple as that. (Maybe that’s not simple? Just pretend it is, and it will be.) In Catherine’s gorgeous words, “You’re not a girlboss, a clean girl, or such a Pisces, you’re you, and there’s no one else quite like you.” Lean into that! It’s all you’ve got that’s distinctly yours.

I’ve recently been watching those “What makes you confident?” videos on Instagram (TLDR; guy walks around NYC asking people what makes them confident), and I’ve been thinking about what my answer would be if he ever were to find me. What makes me confident is that I’ve pretty much always known myself. I know what I like, and I know what I don’t like. I know which clothes I like to wear and which foods I like to eat and what time I need to go to bed in order to be my best self (10:30 PM) and how I prefer movies over television and how I think TikTok is a waste of time (for me, not you!) and how I’ve always wanted to live in New York and how I probably always will. I think because I’ve always known what I like, I haven’t had the time to let others influence me too much, and that’s what makes me confident—because I know that what I’m doing is what’s best for me. I remember going to a friend’s birthday party in 2nd grade where we went to a hair salon and could have our hair done however we wanted. The birthday girl said she wanted a crown braid pinned low on her head, so then everyone wanted a crown braid pinned low on their heads. I, however, did not want that. I distinctly remember telling the hairdresser that I wanted my long hair down and straightened… and that was it. (And I’m smiling as I write this because I basically still wear my hair like that every day.) Straightened hair might’ve been considered “too old” for an 8-year-old, but it was what I liked. It still is what I like. At the end of the birthday party when my mom picked me up, I remember the birthday girl’s mom telling my mom, “She was so well-behaved at the hair salon. She knew exactly what she wanted.” The age didn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter now. What mattered was that I knew what I wanted and it worked best for me.

Speaking of hair, earlier this week I was having my hair dyed from black to very dark brown, which is not much of a difference but Spring Is Coming, and I heard an older woman’s voice croak behind me, “Mariano, do you like Ice Spice?” My hairdresser chuckled, and replied to her, “Honey, I don’t know. I listen to whatever the girls have on.” Then to another hairdresser he said, “Do you like Ice Spice? Roseanne is talking about Ice Spice.” Without waiting for a reply, Rosanne said, “I like Ice Spice,” to herself, smiling. “I like her songs.” Roseanne is a 70-something-year-old white woman with yellow blonde hair and pink lipstick. As the younger hairdressers around her were laughing, I glanced at her in the mirror of my station and could see her looking at her reflection in hers. She was so sure of herself as she talked about her love for Ice Spice. There was no reason to question it. Ice Spice’s average age demographic is nowhere close to Roseanne’s age, but it doesn’t matter. Roseanne’s not too old for Ice Spice. Roseanne just knows what she likes.

I don’t think anyone—children and adults included—should be told to act their age. In reality, I don’t think it means anything. If you know what you like and you know what makes you happy, go after it. Your age will meet your aura. Some of us are using the same eyeshadow palette we’ve had since high school (I can’t be the only one), but it doesn’t mean we’re acting the same as we did in high school. It just means that Urban Decay Naked3 worked for our skin tone and hair color in 2015, and it’s still working for us now. (That was cringe of me but I didn’t know how else to phrase it.) Your outer self will match your inner self however it’s meant to, but that can only happen if you look inward. Figure out what you like. There’s no one else like you!!!!!

did that make sense? i don’t know if it made sense, but if it resonated with you, you might also like my best friend ’s piece “if you want to dress better, stop thinking about it”

anyway thank you for 10K+ subscribers i literally am so grateful and still haven’t wrapped my head around it but i love you guys so big THANK YOU FOR READING LUNCH ON FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! follow my new (and very WIP) instagram account (@lunchonfriday_) if you want more xoxoxo ⋆｡♡˚✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“I just have to finish my book this weekend,” I kept saying. Our book club, Literary Snobs, was meeting on Monday, and I’d had over 200 pages left in Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. It was my own fault for having started it only a few days prior, but I’m typically a fast reader and knew I’d have time. On Friday, I figured I’d read in the evening since our reservation at Tokyo Record Bar wasn’t until 10:30 PM, but I ended up writing about things I love (which was therapeutic and well worth it) and found myself not wanting to read while I made our pre-dinner lychee martinis. It was Valentine’s Day, and I was too excited to have gotten the last of the canned lychees from Wegmans. The book would have to wait.

On Saturday, we headed upstate for the day, so it was never a question whether I’d be reading that day—I wouldn’t be—but I figured I’d read when I got home since we’d probably stay in for the night. In Beacon, we looked at minimalistic art and ate maple-glazed doughnuts and stumbled into an adorable bookstore where I purchased Yet Another Book. On our drive back home to the city that evening, with disco and electronic coming out of the car speakers, I expressed that I was in the mood to dance (it was so ambitious to think I’d be staying in). Suddenly, I received a very important text from a trusted friend saying that Black Flamingo, an old favorite club in Williamsburg, was closing soon and we all had to go. It wasn’t a question. Black Flamingo is where my friends and I spent so many of our best nights in the summers of 2022 and 2023, sweating on the dance floor to punchy techno and staying out until sunrise. Two of my friends started dating after a Black Flamingo night. I got into a fight with a Brooklyn Witch and had my favorite coat stolen there. One time, we even started the limbo in the back of the dance space. (I digress...) So on the drive home from Beacon, it was decided we would be going out as soon as we got home. No time to read. There was always Sunday.

On Sunday, I slept until 11 AM, which was Breaking News. I usually don’t sleep past 7 AM, so when something like this happens, it’s a canon event. (Overheard from one of my friends to another friend later that day: “Did you hear Angelina slept until 11 this morning?”) All I had to do on Sunday was bake brownies for my dinner party that night. And read my book. Easy.

To begin my day, I did what my mother would describe as “dilly-dallying.” I read everything but my book, including Danya’s last post in which I literally laughed out loud reading: “I’m reading Martyr! right now (do you guys think I can read the next 300 pages by my book club tomorrow night?)” — so everyone in our book club was on the same page, huh? Pun intended.

After reading Everything But My Book, I took about 40 minutes to finish my breakfast, like a toddler. (Mind you, this breakfast was happening at approximately 1:00 PM.) I then went through all of my saved recipes in the NYT Cooking App and pondered what to cook in the coming weeks. Next, I pulled Claire Saffitz’s Dessert Person cookbook down from my cookbook shelf and thought, What better time than the present to organize my cookbooks! Eventually, I made the brownies and cleaned my kitchen and before I knew it, it was 5:00. My friends were coming over for dinner in 2 hours and I still had to set the table and buy more alcohol and tidy the apartment and chill the martini glasses and take a shower and prepare for my guests and needless to say, I did not read my book on Sunday.

Monday morning. T-9 hours until book club. 200 pages to read.

First and foremost, I had to go to the gym to do push-ups and listen to the Cocteau Twins. I brought my book with me and tried reading on the treadmill for the first time since college. Despite having to adjust to the words bouncing in front of my face with each stride, I eventually got the hang of it and managed to read about 60 pages while walking uphill at 3.2 mph. I was committed now.

After the gym, I returned home to shower and read about 20 pages more, before I headed to the W 4th Street stop to meet my boyfriend for lunch in Carroll Gardens. My app said the trains were running on a modified schedule due to Presidents’ Day, so I played it safe and left earlier than necessary. On the subway, I read about 30 more pages, and then had time to kill before our lunch reservation at Frankies Spuntino, so I sat in a coffee shop nearby and got through 20 more pages.

T-4 hours until book club. 70 pages to read.

While all of this was happening, I had been texting Emily and Valerie, who were also trying to finish the book. Collectively, it seemed like all the Lit Snobs decided to start this book too late, but now it had become a funny bit, and we were all taking finishing this book as seriously as studying for the AP English Language exam. (How did everyone do on that btw?)

I beat my boyfriend to the restaurant, and while he was parking (yeah, he has a car), I did not pull out my phone and open Twitter like I normally would.

I read my book.

T-3.875 hours until book club. 60 pages to read.

I will not bore you with the remaining details, but all you need to know is that I finished Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar in a Blank Street Coffee with evil energy while sitting next to a couple on a first date as I drowned out the first-date conversation with my noise-canceling headphones. And I still had a full 1.5 hours until book club.

The point is: I finished my book. I read 200 pages in a day and found time to read in several situations where I’d normally be mindlessly scrolling on my phone.

I do read often, and thus, I am a fast reader. Practice makes perfect—and I often hear people say they want to read more but have no time to read. Let me make this clear. You have time to read.

I’m aware that if you’re reading this essay right now, maybe you don’t have the “I don’t have time to read” problem. Or you’ve skipped to the bottom where the paragraphs are smaller and have found yourself here. Totally fine.

Here’s the summary:

Everyone has time to read. Before cell phones, many people carried a book with them to pass idle minutes spent waiting. Many people still do this! I’m one of them.

I found myself in a rushed situation that turned into a fun challenge last weekend and finished 200 pages of a book I really enjoyed in under 8 hours. I didn’t sit down and read it for more than an hour at a time, but rather, I found myself squeezing in pages every chance I could get. On the treadmill. Waiting for the subway. On the subway. At a coffee shop. At a restaurant while waiting for someone. So often I hear people say they have no time to read, but if you have time to scroll on Instagram or shop online or read Tweets or go into a rabbit hole on Reddit, you have time to read a book. (Only if you want to! Do what makes you happy!)

Remember that book I said I bought in Beacon 6 days ago that I didn’t need? I’m almost finished with it.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve loved very easily. Earlier this week, I saw a Substack note that said something along the lines of, “You can tell when someone grew up receiving love from their parents because they move through life so sure that everything will work out. It’s beautiful to watch.” I’m very grateful to have been loved, which is why I know how to love. I’m constantly saying things like, “I loved the movie.” “I love that song.” “I love Dame’s sticky toffee pudding.” “I love my job.” “I love your dress.” “I love texting.” “I love how they let you try as many samples as you want at Salt & Straw.” “I love running into people I know.” “I love my life.”

An ex boyfriend once told me that I love everything. He said it condescendingly, as if loving everything makes my love any less credible. So here’s a list of things I love!

Things I love:

• Halloween

• lychee martinis

• “text me when you get home!”

• watching wax drip down a taper candle onto the tablecloth and not caring that it’s going to be a pain to clean out because all that matters is that everyone’s laughing and wine drunk and having a gorgeous time at your dinner party and the music sounds better when it’s louder and the neighbors haven’t complained and you’ve spilled olive oil on your dress but it doesn’t matter because you’re happy

• getting 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep

• Dame’s sticky toffee pudding

• the note in my phone that says “STICKY TOFFEE PUDDINGS: RANKED”

• how they let you try as many samples as you want at Salt & Straw

• learning that a co-worker is Cool

• our new SoHo Sneakers at Coach <3 <3 <3

• the bunny slippers from Coach’s runway show this week

• Moonstruck (1987), specifically the part where Cher slaps Nicholas Cage and then slaps him again. And just all the dialogue in that movie. And Italian-Americans in general. And Lincoln Center. And the moon! Ugh

• the feeling of completing something you worked hard on for a long time

• sneaking my grapes and Poppi into the movie

• TJMaxx

• closing down a restaurant because you’re laughing so much (as long as you’re having fun with your server and the time is within reason)

• when it’s too loud in the bar and Annie covers my ears for me until I find my ear plugs in my purse because she can tell my tinnitus bothers me

• how Jason willingly goes wherever I tell him I want to go <3 (for example, bakeries)

• how I’ve converted Jason into a sweets person to the point that he suggests bakeries we should go to now

• the acidic punch of fragrance you get when you peel an orange

• free stuff

  • who doesn’t love free stuff

  • if anyone would like to give me free stuff,

• when men are obsessed with Clairo

• Paramore’s cover of “Burning Down the House” — this was polarizing at this time last year but I love that cover OKAY?

  • Hayley Williams

• running into Emily in our neighborhood, especially at CVS yesterday as I was about to send her a photo of a wall calendar called “Glamour Chicks” that has exotic, fabulous chickens on each page but then I looked up and saw a flash of pink hair and thought “oh good she’s here” and then we both started dying laughing because I had just welcomed her into CVS as if it was my own home because I had been there for so long that I had become friends with Ron, the cashier who was working, to the point that when Emily and I were checking out, Ron and I shook hands

• watching Elise tell a story

• The 1975

• a cold shower after a night out in the summer when it’s 95 degrees outside

• the way my dad texts about food with so much passion

• when Jack calls me on a Friday morning to gossip

• when you make the recipe and it looks exactly like the photo

• ballerinas

• the Chanel Beads album

• when my mom texts me screenshots of CVS coupons

• Twitter always

• when I just look at Valerie and say one word and she immediately knows which obscure memory I’m referencing

• a bit

• dressing up

• Amy Winehouse

• July 13

• when JC says, “imma fuck witcha”

• pink peonies and white roses and blue hydrangeas

• my pink kitchen

• my pink nails

• Pink Friday

• the color pink

• everyone who reads my Substack and everyone who subscribes and comments and messages me on Instagram and listens to LoF Radio and just all of it I literally am so grateful this is so cool and I still can’t believe people read this I’m serious I love you

Tell someone you love them! Make a list of things you love! Happy Valentine’s Day xoxoxoxox

Over a month later, I’d received an invite from Madeleine and Steven for their “NYC Decade Party,” a night celebrating their 10 years in this city at their cheerful new apartment in Carroll Gardens. Toward the end of the invite, the description read, “Wear your NYC uniform and bring something that reminds you of this city.” The former part was easy—I’d obviously wear all black. It was the latter part that still had me perplexed.

A couple weeks later, the day of the party rolled around, and I had not yet discovered what reminds me of this city. I’d expected to know by then, having received the invite weeks ago, but I still had nothing. I decided to take myself out to lunch to (A) enjoy a good meal, (B) finish Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, which I’d been enjoying for most of January and needed to finish, and (C) hopefully have a transformative epiphany about what reminds me of New York. Only one place came to mind where I knew I’d accomplish all three: Via Carota. That was something that truly reminded me of New York. I’d been dining there since 2018 and had had many perfect meals there. Whether they were solo or with companions, they’d always been memorable.

On my walk to the restaurant from my apartment, I kept my head up and was sure to take note of my surroundings. Washington Square Park reminded me of New York—could I tangibilize that? (And was tangibilize a word?) The way I couldn’t feel my hands because they were so cold reminded me of New York. (That was something I didn’t want to tangibilize.) I noticed bundled-up New Yorkers and tourists enjoying slices of hot pizza at Joe’s and thought maybe I’d pick up some pizza on my way to the party, but that felt unoriginal. I kept thinking.

As I turned onto Grove Street and walked up to Via Carota, I experienced a quick wave of nostalgia. It had been about a year since I’d been there, and I was a totally different person now. I pulled open the swinging door and let the warmth of the restaurant welcome me inside. A brunette hostess with a chic-bob-that-I-could-never-pull-off walked over and smiled at me. “May I have lunch at the bar?” I asked her. She pointed to the right side of the bar and said there was a seat open for me. “That’ll be perfect.”

I plopped my black leather bag on the floor beside the barstool and hung my coat and scarf on one of the rusted hooks along the wooden wall toward the back of the restaurant. (I’ve always loved how Via Carota feels like you’re in an old Italian woman’s farm house.) Returning to the bar, I noticed that the older man next to me was dining alone as well. We exchanged a solemn glance, and he returned to his tonnarelli cacio e pepe as I pulled my book from my bag. Before opening it, I looked around to see if I felt inspired yet. Via Carota reminded me of New York, but that was my New York, not my party hosts’ New York. I looked down at the paper menu that had just been placed in front of me and glanced at my dining neighbor’s plate in front of him to my left. Via Carota’s tonnarelli cacio e pepe reminded me of New York, but bringing any sort of meant-to-be-served-hot food to the party felt unoriginal (and cacio e pepe is best served immediately). I opened On Writing as the tall server behind the bar came over to interrupt. I told him I’d be having the roasted beet salad and the tonnarelli. He took my menu and turned away. He didn’t ask what I was reading, I thought to myself. He usually does. Had things really changed that much?

The roasted beets—a special menu item for the day—arrived delicately piled on top of a generous dollop of crème fraîche in a puddle of extra virgin olive oil. A nest of chopped fennel and pickled red onions sat atop the beets with almonds to garnish this masterpiece. The hot pink juice from the beets immediately started to soak into the shiny white crème fraîche, and it looked like pink and white paint swirling on my plate. I thought about my pink kitchen, another thing that reminds me of New York—and another thing I couldn’t tangibilize. (I don’t think tangibilize is a word, but I’ve used it 5 times now. Bear with me.) The beet salad was divine, and I savored every bite as other diners down the bar pointed to my plate asking what it was. I finished it with gratitude, and my server removed my plate as I returned to my book. He still hadn’t asked what I was reading.

A middle-aged couple sat down at the bar and, after ordering champagne, asked one of the servers, “What neighborhood is this?” I figured they must be visiting from out of town and thought how lucky they were to have stumbled into such a magical restaurant that, to me, is quintessential New York. They had a bag from Magnolia Bakery with them as well as a few colorful shopping bags, and I pictured what their day had looked like. After stopping for banana pudding at Magnolia, they’d walked down Bleecker Street and popped into a few stores, feeling hungry for some real food after passing the line for pizza in front of Mama’s Too. The woman asked her husband if he wanted to try this restaurant she’d just found on Google that had a 4.4-star rating and Looks So Cute From The Pictures, and here they were. I looked up and noticed them watching me. Something about a person dining alone at a restaurant with a book really throws out-of-towners for a loop.

“Careful, the plate is hot,” said one of the servers, placing my steaming hot bowl of tonnarelli cacio e pepe in front of me. I immediately pulled the bowl closer (when someone tells me the plate is hot, I’m obviously going to touch it—especially when my hands are this cold) and twirled the thick noodles with my fork, the cheese melting more with each spin. Bringing the hot bite of pasta to my mouth, I glanced at the couple’s shopping bags again. I used to live in an apartment on top of the Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker—what if I brought cupcakes to the party? A lot of people go to Magnolia Bakery when visiting New York, and having lived in the same building as one for 1.5 years, the smell of those cupcakes certainly reminded me of New York.

Unoriginal, I told myself. I had to keep thinking.

After eating a little over half of the bowl of pasta, I declared myself full and asked to take home the rest. My server took my plate away and I returned to my book with just a few pages left. One of the main things Stephen King writes about in his memoir is to write what you know, which was part of the reason I found myself having lunch here on a Friday—a reminder that for some reason, this was where I usually found my inspiration, and I figured I’d be writing about this dining experience later. As I finished reading the last page and closed my book, my server asked if I’d be having anything else, and I ordered an Americano. He put this order in and then turned back to me. “Finish the book?” he asked. I smiled and nodded. “How was it?” I guess things hadn’t changed that much.

After slowly enjoying my Americano and paying the bill, I put my coat and scarf back on and braced myself to return outside. The sun was starting to set (this was a very late lunch) and I still had not found what I was bringing to the party. I thought about the party hosts Steven and Madeleine—my older cousin and his girlfriend of many years—and tried to think what reminded me of our New York. Red bean buns from Fay Da Bakery. Warm summer nights at the Philharmonic in Central Park. Long, happy dinners with our aunt and uncle who live on the Upper West Side.

Our Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gérald seemed like the impetus of it all—Steven and I are their only nephew and niece who live in the city, and if it weren’t for them, there’s a chance we wouldn’t live here. I thought about what reminds me of them. That was it.

Later that night, wearing black jeans and a black top and black boots and my black coat and black scarf and black gloves, I got off the subway at Carroll Street and found Jason standing on the sidewalk with a bag of New York apples. (The Big Apple. Ha.)

“Where’s your thing you brought?” he asked me. I’d have to explain it when we got to the party. In true New York fashion, Steven and Madeleine’s buzzer wasn’t working, so we rushed up the stoop to catch the door behind the couple who had just entered before us. I hugged our hosts hello and pulled two jars of dijon mustard out of my black leather Coach bag. My cousin Steven started laughing, as I began my spiel in one breath.

“Okay, so I tried to think of what reminds me of New York, but I thought of everything and nothing and then realized that what really reminds me of New York is Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gérald, and they never have anything in their fridge except for several jars of fancy mustard,” Steven was laughing and nodding as I continued, “so I brought you two types of dijon mustard—and I tried to find that one they have that comes in a big matte black jar, but I’m pretty sure they get that from France and this is New York. So this is all I have.”

“This is perfect,” Madeleine said smiling, finding little spoons to use for the mustard. She had a tray of pigs-in-a-blanket in the oven.

I looked around at the party, and there were all different walks of life. New York is a place that’s easy to call home if you’ve never felt a sense of home anywhere else. It’s a place where you can be yourself and find people who have the same interests as you—or interests totally different from your own, but you’ll learn something from each interaction about those interests. New York is known for pizza and bagels and yellow taxis and skyscrapers and the Yankees and freedom and Carrie Bradshaw, but there are so many other things that remind me of New York. This goes without saying because it’s an unoriginal thought, but it truly is the people who make a place what it is. It’s my aunt and uncle on the Upper West Side with their fridge full of fancy mustard. It’s Ryan at Via Carota who always asks me what I’m reading, even when I don’t think he’s going to. It’s my best friend Emily who lives 3 floors up in my building and handled our power outage with our superintendent while I ignorantly wrote this from a cafe in the West Village, where the girl behind the counter always says, “Remind me your name?” when I order a coffee because I’ve been here so many times and have written so many essays from here. It was hard for me to think of something that reminds me of New York because there’s nothing that doesn’t remind me of New York. That’s what makes it so special.

Thank you for reading! I love New York!!!!! What reminds YOU of New York?

And I was so dramatic about it.

I was dramatic to the point that loving summer meant loathing winter, regardless of what anyone tried to convince me. Christmastime would come and I’d relish in the excitement of the season and the magic of the holidays, but when January arrived, my life was over.

I grew up in Pennsylvania and hated the cold. I hated looking outside our kitchen windows at dinnertime to a pitch black sky. I hated how dry my bare legs felt under my wool school skirt. I hated skiing and couldn’t understand how anyone found fleeing down a mountain with cold wind whipping in your face under 16 layers of clothing to be fun. To my childhood and adolescent self, winter was a time of melancholy. I never wanted to get out of bed. I never felt warm enough.

As I got older, I slowly shed this juvenile pronouncement, realizing with each passing year that it’s quite dramatic to hate an entire season when every day on this Earth is such a gift. (!) I decided that if I was going to live on the East Coast for the rest of my life, I’d have to do something about those 3 months that I typically dreaded. This year, I finally embraced winter for what it is.

Winter means repetition. Winter means introspection. Winter means patience. Winter still means coldness and darkness and all those things I hated as a kid—but I see them differently now.

In American culture, we’ve been impressed that this season is not meant for us to enjoy. We associate winter with seasonal depression and suffering through an environment that’s a conduit for distress. In Scandinavian culture, however, winter is embraced. Winter is a time for gathering with loved ones, spending time outside and enjoying(!!!!!) the cold, eating hearty and warm foods, and creating cozy indoor atmospheres that celebrate the season. I listened to a podcast about this concept early in December, and it helped me reframe my thinking. Never one to shy away from a party, I decided that celebrating winter was something I was perfectly capable of. After the holidays this year, rather than settle into a depressive state, I set out to embrace January with a fresh perspective.

I clothed myself in layers—thick turtlenecks and wool sweaters and shearling coats—reminding myself that my spaghetti strap tops and miniskirts would all still be there in the spring. I woke up early every morning and made strong black coffee in my French press, sitting and savoring it in my pink kitchen before bracing myself for the cold commute to work. I lovingly cooked a white wine miso braised pot roast for my friends and served it over buttery mashed potatoes that soaked up the crimson juices to palatable perfection. I baked brown butter sugar cookies that never lasted more than a few hours after coming out of the oven. I decorated chocolate cakes with shiny mascarpone frosting and homemade candied nuts that looked like jewels.

I went to the Metrograph in the middle of a snowstorm and watched a shitty movie because it was the middle of a snowstorm and no one expects you to go to the Metrograph in the middle of a snowstorm and watch a shitty movie, but I wanted to. It was magic. There was no one on Ludlow Street and everything was quiet. It felt like a New York of the past, as absurd as that sounds. No people, no cars—just snowflakes and silence. I scooped snow off the lid of a trash can on the sidewalk and made a snowball. It didn’t feel cold in my bare hands. It felt like snow days off from school as a kid. It felt like building a snowman with my brother and our neighborhood friends on Violet Terrace. It felt like my mom in the kitchen making hot chocolate from a light blue Swiss Miss packet that was probably past its expiration date. It felt like a warm memory.

On the way out of the Metrograph, I thought about how few people were in the theater and wondered if it was because the movie was bad or because it was snowing. Upon making my way back outside, I realized that it was because of the snow. I live in a walkable city with a very accessible subway system, and hardly anyone was outside enjoying the snowfall. Of course, it’s easier to stay cozy inside when snow is falling outside your window, but had I never gone outside and embraced winter, I would’ve never experienced the physical memory of packing a snowball. To be outside devoid of other New Yorkers felt wrong in a good way. It was like I’d cracked winter’s code.

Too many of us have accepted the false idea that winter isn’t meant for our enjoyment, but what I’ve realized is that it’s possible to evolve from this learned notion. Although it’s tangibly cold, winter can feel so warm. Wear layers, cook a hearty meal, go to the movies in a snowstorm, listen to music that makes you happy (or music that makes you sad. Embrace both). Gather your loved ones and keep each other warm. Make plans, and don’t cancel them because it’s too cold. Go outside. Embrace the season.

I wrote this in the past tense, but I am well aware that it’s still winter and we have a long way to go.

It’s a good thing we’re celebrating.

Happy February! Rabbit rabbit! xxx

A lot had changed since our dinner a year prior, but one thing I couldn’t help but notice was that we didn’t really have as many New Year’s resolutions as we had in the past—or at least I didn’t. I’d been trying to come up with a my list a few hours before our dinner, and I somewhat did. “Wear my retainer” is always one of them (and I’ve actually been doing it this year). I also typically have certain writing goals, but there didn’t seem to be one resolution in particular screaming out at me. Maybe this just meant that we’d been growing. Maybe this just meant that I was headed in the right direction and could continue working on my resolutions from last year. (Or maybe it meant something totally different and that I’m just delusional.) At some point during dinner, after one glass of red and several glasses of water, I left the table to use the restroom. As I was washing my hands, I noticed a little framed piece of paper next to the sink with three quotes. I don’t remember what two of them said, but one stuck out at me: use what you have.

It’s been over a month since our dinner at Dame, and I haven’t stopped thinking about that quote. I’d heard that sentence before, of course, but the fact that it was spelled out in front of me on that particular evening was a sign to me. There is nothing I need that I don’t already have.

When I returned to the city after the holidays, I made a vow to myself not to buy things I don’t need. I cleaned out my closets and rediscovered silky black tops and pants that make my legs look longer and a Stella McCartney dress I’ve never worn. I cleaned out my pantry and took inventory. (Like, why do I have 3 different bags of quinoa and why am I paying for quinoa at my-company’s-cafeteria-that-should-be-free when I can make my own quinoa and bring it to work?) I found sumac and tahini and hydration multipliers and hot chocolate mix. I cleaned out under my bathroom sink and deconstructed the fragile mountain of beauty products and perfume samples and unopened Band-Aid boxes and that Beambo lip plumper tool which was Totally A Scam.

I’ve been bringing my own coffee to work. (It tastes so much better.)

In doing all of this, I thought about the rapid pace of the fashion trend cycle. The beauty trend cycle. The fucking food trend cycle. (If you haven’t read Emily’s and my Winter Ins and Outs, describing food as “viral” is out. Let food be thy medicine, and LET FOOD BE FOOD.) There’s a forced pressure around consumption, especially at the beginning of the year, and I feel as though I’m noticing it more than ever.

I get text messages

and emails

and subway ads

and Instagram ads

and ads on NPR.

KICKSTART THE NEW YEAR WITH

a new subscription

a new skincare routine

a new pair of boots

a new workout set (free gift with purchase!)

a new lip plumping tool (SCAM!!!)

a new body.

I’ve decided that what I have right now is enough. I have the food in my pantry, and if I really need something, I’ll buy it. (But if it’s something like quinoa, I’ll check if I have it first.) I have the clothes in my closet and the Stella McCartney dress I’m going to wear soon, and I’ll find new ways of wearing the things I’ve already worn. I have my friends who come over to drink tea and sit on my sofa with me and talk about how they predicted so much during Conclave, but I predicted so much during The Brutalist and maybe that doesn’t mean that the movies were predictable it just means we’ve been watching too many movies.

God, the movies. I have the movies.

I have my bookshelves and I have Patti Smith and I have A Little Life to re-read when I’m ready. I have recipes bookmarked in cookbooks with my handwriting in the margins and chocolate fingerprints on the pages.

I have music. I have The Sundays and Joni Mitchell and my JANUARY IS AWESOME playlist, because January is awesome. I have Barry White vinyls passed down from my dad and his siblings that I just know my neighbors are dying to hear.

I have this space to create and share writing even if it’s Not Long Enough to my standards but it still counts as Writing More.

I have New York.

I have love.

I have everything.

Hiiiiiii! Thank you for reading :) I feel like it’s been a while lol. I hope everyone’s new year is off to a wonderful start, and I can’t wait to share more writing in 2025. I hope this essay inspired you to use what you have!!!!! You have more than you think. x