What use is it being young and hot in New York City if you don’t have places to be hot and young in? What, am I supposed to wander the streets, padded cups and a combative nature on display to the public? For free? No, no. When the shoes are this expensive, they’ve got to have somewhere to go.

And suddenly, there I was, prostrate to the porcelain throne. 

Somewhere between the ages of “pay your own insurance” and “stop taking the risks that require it,” a person is faced with certain options. Some choose to get really into a physical challenge— running, training for a marathon so their mother can post about it on Facebook, or— God forbid— rock climbing. And then there are those— faced with the growing loneliness of being out of college, the soft-basil-plant-on-the-kitchen-windowsill wilting of their career, or the sudden realization that their life is interesting and meaningful— who decide to start a TikTok.

There’s a special kind of phenomenon that occurs only when an adventurer of the foreign variety travels far and wide, until they find themselves somewhere wild and exotic. Where nothing is as expected or practiced. Somewhere, for example, like Florida.

If any of you are looking for recommendations for times and places to have your first seizure— aren’t we all— a rehearsal studio post-show is actually the best case scenario. I felt an immediate sense of comfort knowing that I would be “yes, and”-ed into an ambulance faster than you can say thank you, five.

Let me paint the picture for you:
We were in a rehearsal studio with an audience of—I don’t know—maybe forty, and mercifully, the last performance had just finished. Not because the performance was anything less than incredible, which it was, but because the stage needed to be clear for the day’s next show-stopping performance….

Ah, the cats of New York. A city too sophisticated for the feral—at least on the island.

Of all the things to acquire in this city, the best is hotly disputed. Some say a hedge fund. Others, a trust fund. Personally, my heart is split between a rent-stabilized apartment and a cat. Because once you have a house in New York—and a creature to make it a home—there’s not much else left to conquer.

Not only did I brave Newark at midnight two weeks before Christmas, with its clusters of crowds making the entire journey to and from the ladies’ room not unlike crossing the Rubicon at high tide with a carry on and a large mid-western woman who insists that — no, actually you’re in her way — but I also ran through the Porto airport to make a connection in a manner that did not improve the reputation of Americans, AND I didn’t slap the cranky woman in the middle seat who for some reason thought I was the next Lee Harvey Oswald. All for one purpose: to get to Paris on time to commune with God.

Boomers had to share a family phone. Connected to the wall. With a wire. Millennials texted—perfected the LOL, OMG, and of course the ROFLAMO, which I am still trying to decode (I assume it’s either a government code or a cry for help). That means Gen Z, with its abundance of connection, has become the supreme phone call generation.

Shopping is a job? Kate Oldham lives the age-old dream as a Senior Vice President and General Merchandise Manager for Saks Fifth Avenue, finding the perfect products in Beauty, Jewelry, and Home just so they can go from their shelves to your front door. She unpacks what it was like to move to New York to start a new life in her late 20’s and offers advice to any and all who dream of being retail royalty.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m American, because I’m a woman, or some heinous little cocktail of the two (my therapist would call it “internalized misogyny;” my father would call it “liberal guilt”), but when it comes to my career, I always look before I leap. An admirable quality, or so I was taught. Move boldly, but strategically. Do the work, send the invite, shake the hand, don’t get blacklisted— eventually the ladder will lower. I thought that was as fast as things could possibly go.

And then this motherfucker…

We arrive an hour and forty minutes into the two-hour set. Fashionably late. Outside the venue stands an ironic smoker and two halfway tipsy women debating left door or right. We dust the pavement off our shoes and enter with an air of pretentiousness that lets the room know: yes, we’ve been to a reading before.

Am I fearless? No, I’m stupid, but still, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve genuinely felt unsafe. There’s a difference between brave and reckless, and baby, the sweet spot lives somewhere between doing Molly you bought from a cab driver in Ibiza with a group from the hostel (brave) and crossing against the light in Rome without checking for Gay tourists on Vespas (reckless).

Ciao, bella— straight to il hospital.

At three o’clock in the morning, the Athens airport looks about the same as any given Athens street: littered with strays. Everyone is folded up on a bench or sprawled on the floor. People-puppy-piles rest on backpacks, friend curled into friend. This is the best time to travel—before the rush, before the slog, before the delays. This is when the mighty [read: foolish, cheap, or unable to read with confidence] — yes, those who power through the night and fly into the morning—stake their claim to destiny and a window seat.

Imagine, if you will, settling in on a Saturday night. Pizza— ordered, thankfully. Wine bottles—empty, orphaned on the kitchen counter. Your roommate beside you, denting the cushions and lighting a blunt, generous with puff puff, less with the pass. The outside world may be churning with headlines and heartbreaks, but inside— inside, Saturday night is a sacred place. 

And like all sacred things, it must be guarded.

How unfortunate, then— would it be— if someone were to interrupt you.

Media maven Roxanne Donovan, the founder and President of Great Ink Communications, breaks down the trials and tribulations of starting your own business as she explains how she went from interviewing musicians for her college paper, to managing communications for some of the biggest names in New York commercial real estate.

The Jane Ballroom in the Jane Hotel on Jane Street — commonly referred to as The Jane — never failed to provide the boring with stories and the interesting with cocaine, though I’d recommend partaking in neither. But now, with The Jane long gone, I can’t help wondering if that ballroom was less a place than an Era— and if the lack of it has hit me harder than expected.

Because— oh, the memories…

I was staying at a friend’s house in the Hamptons.

I thought I knew what soap looked like.

I was wrong.

I planned the fantasy before I booked the flight. And after I planned the fantasy, I built the outfit. That’s always the order. Dream, then dress, then go.

The simple act of jumping the Atlantic was enough to drain my coffers and the blood from my young, rosy cheeks. But I had a comfort that stood above all my worries and what-if’s.

I was going to win in Monte Carlo.