MONTAUK SPONTANEITY

THE WEEK I KEEP MENTALLY RINSE AND REPEATING TO KEEP IT FRESH

Take me back.. To the hours just before I was Montauk bound. I’ve reminiscing a TON this week.. wishing somehow to keep that week of May 1st - 9th on permanent rinse and repeat.

5 a.m. on May 1st couldn’t have come soon enough, though technically it did arrive three hours after I stopped sleeping. The alarm sounded and by 5:09, I was on the road. I’d packed the car the night before… a large suitcase that suggested low-level evacuation: shoes for every possible climate, three books I did not read, a cooler of all the provisions that I figured would congeal by the time I returned, and of course… winter coats. I know!!! It’s nearly summer!! But this had been prompted by a text I received around 11 p.m, the night before from Pam: “Remember your flannels!” The kind of warning usually reserved for wood chopping or cult retreats. But, she was right. I checked the forecast and discovered that Montauk, during the week I’d chosen to visit, would hover somewhere between brisk seaside cozy and frigid no thank you temperatures. 49° consistently at nightfall. Burrrrrrr! (I’ll have you know, in a burst of optimism bordering on delusion, I did also pack every bathing suit I owned. Unfortunately, like the books… I did not use.)

Days leading up to the long haul, I’d been checking the Google Maps drive time. Hour by hour, refresh by refresh, trying to determine the exact moment I should slip out and attempt to outrun the East Coast. I settled on 5 a.m… giving me a full hour before sunrise to enjoy my coffee on empty roads and before filling up at a gas station where night before hot dogs (disgusto) will have achieved room temperature. Most importantly. I decided this time to beat the D.C. traffic. Or so I thought…

Unbeknownst to moi, the citizens of our nation’s capital apparently report for duty at something closer to 7 a.m., meaning by the time I hit Washington it was already wall-to-wall government issued … aggression. I caught a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial from the highway and gave him a little wave, just like I would do to our Mother Liberty some 6+ hours later down the same 95 straightaway. I blew her, though, a smooch.

Baltimore came next. There wasn’t enough time to swing by their epic aquarium, though there was somehow plenty of time evidently for my GPS to send me through an unnecessary loop-de-loop involving toll roads, existential regret, and at least one lane that appeared to lead directly into the Atlantic Ocean.

Philadelphia arrived after that, where most travelers might stop for a cheesesteak, but not me. I snacked instead on a gallon sized container of carrots that I had packed with peanut butter. A combination that makes me feel both satiated and vaguely … starving. But we don’t care. It kept me movin and groovin so I didn’t have to stop.

And then: the New Jersey Turnpike. A road I genuinely love(d. (note the past tense) before this trip). Peaceful, wooded in part and most importantly wide enough that no one expects emotional outbursts to cross the yellow lines. Until, of course, you find yourself looking in your rearview mirror and mistaking a man’s furious gesturing for friendliness.

I thought we were having a cute little commuter camaraderie. But no. At the exact same moment we locked eyes, he met my smile with a blatant SCREAM_,. My sister, who I happened to be chatting with on the phone, asked (knowing me too well), “You are driving the speed limit, right?” which prompted me to glance down at the speedometer and discover I was going a solid ten miles under. Eeeek. Now, was I technically in the wrong? Yes. However, did that fully justify the bulging neck veins and theatrical rage display from the “gentleman” in the Subaru sedan who was trying to give off chill hippie vibes? I’d argue no.

I gave him a little forgive me wave of apology as he floored it by me. Unfortunately, he interpreted this not as remorse but as an invitation to es.ca.llllllaaaaate the situation… flipping me his you know what (get your heads out of the gutter!) … the bird.

About an hour later, I exhaled as I exited the Turnpike and got a call from Fiona just as the skyline came into view. New York City, my girl: moody, loud, offensively expensive, and somehow still impossible not to love. Fi, my equally impossible to not love New Yorker, was biking through the city while I admired it from afar. Upper Manhattan to the Lower East Side… so close, yet so far away! Meanwhile, I was trapped in a Staten Island backup, crawling past yellow cabbies and monster trucks trying very hard to intimidate this slow poke Virginian. Where was that very angry “chill hippie” when I need him to flip somebody off for me already?! I crept along en route to Long Island, both of us moving through the same city … in entirely different tax brackets of transportation.

Eventually, the chaos loosened its grip. The highways narrowed. The air changed. The chain stores disappeared (for a bit anyway) and were replaced by weathered farm stands selling peaches for $14,000 apiece. I had entered the Hamptons.

I made it to Springs where I swung by to pick up Vivian and finally meet her besties, Charmaine and Mark, in person. (Technically, I’d already met them about umpteen times during Covid when we all practiced yoga together via the almighty (newly learned at the time) Zoom. Each of us freezing occasionally in bizarre poses while someone’s internet lagged mid warrior two.) Viv was about to move to Paris on May 5th (I like to think I was some sort of l'inspiration for this changement de vie), so we’d coordinated seeing each other while we were both out east for those 30ish minutes before she met with other friends and then caught a train back to the city.

I stole her away to do what we do best: thrift. LVIS was closing in 35 minutes, so we made a beeline for East Hampton, found parking on Main Street across from the Palm, and split up like contestants on a game show. I found, of course.. true to form.. all menswear. One being a man’s waistcoat I fully intend to wear this winter as a shirt to some vaguely elegant event where people will pretend not to notice the oversized lapels covering my itty bitty breasts that will hid behind the peek-a-boo fabric by my pure optimism alone. Vivian, on the other hand, found a precious and playful neon cap that read “Union Square”… which felt deeply sentimental somehow as her looming city-life expiration date neared.

After settling up, I spun her back around toward town to meet friends at the playground behind the East Hampton cinema while I went to pick up my fairy godmother, Pam, from work. The second she spotted me turning the corner she lit up like a christmas tree and yelled, “Annnnnnne Caroliiiiiiine!” in her best Southern accent despite being a purebred Northern Montauker. Pam has the contagious happiness of a woman who can always see that double rainbow when everyone else only saw the tornado hit and destroy moments before. We squealed and hugged and waved to her colleagues good bye as we sped off.

I dropped her at the train station and I swiftly changed out of my comfy no for public road trip uniform and into my new oversized striped band collar men’s shirt that I stole… I mean bought at LVIS for a whopping $2 because it was sooooo big. So, in spite of two policemen who just patrolled right past me on Newtown Lane… think Mayberry Main Street and you’ll have the perfect image… I stripped down. Then I took a left on Old Montauk Hwy and followed the road all the way to Amagansett where I met my friend, Laura, at Rosie’s and dissected the past year of our lives for hours and with the intensity of an archaeological dig.

I pulled in late that night to Lovage .. Pam and Sunny’s house in Ditch Plains, Montauk. The downstairs was ready for me: clean, cozy, thoughtfully decorated and crashable. Which I did.

The next morning I wandered upstairs to make coffee, and found Pam already settled on the couch like a queen awaiting counsel. Outside, the sky took turns misting and down pouring all the livelong day. So, we took that as permission to settle in. I mean from about 9 a.m. until, no exaggeration, nearly 5:30 p.m., the two of us barely moved from the couch except to refresh coffee or reposition a blanket. Honestly, it felt like a luxurious upgrade. Not the Hamptons version involving teak lounges and a green juice, but the real kind: being tucked under a blanket while fascinating women tell their stories for eight straight hours.

Pam talks the way some people quilt … every thought stitched to another. Mid-conversation she’d suddenly grab a yellow notepad and jot something down furiously so she wouldn’t forget a single detail she wanted to tell me later. Maybe it was a line from The Birdcage, her favorite movie. A memory from thirty years ago. A book quote. A Sunnism (as we call the precious and funny memories we have of her daughter, Sunny). A person I simply must know about. Conversations with her aren’t linear so much as beautifully tidal. And what else would I expect from someone who self proclaims as the Dutchess of “Ditch” – the name of the beach in Montauk where tides are anything but still.

And through all of it is this completely unbelievable life story of hers that really should be adapted into a television miniseries. Especially when she casually throws in anecdotes like ... “Oh yeah… that was when I lived on Peter Beard’s property…” while she’s pouring milk into her coffee as if that isn’t a HUGE DEAL and should be the pilot episode Because for Pammy, it isn’t. It’s just her unbelievable life story. It’s wild! And such a treat to be told them all in person. (That’s just the tip of the blow your mind who she knows and what she’s done in life iceberg. My SHEro!)

On our beach walk that evening with Shadow… their mini rescue who answers mainly to “Littttttle Maaaaaannnnn” we ran into Janet O’Brien. Fellow surfer of Sunny and Pam’s, the happiest woman, and caterer to nearly every chic event on the South Fork of Long Island. She has a cozy home in Sag Harbor, a condo in Vail where she lets Sunny Boog stay some when they’re doing what beach people do and “wintering” there at the same time, and a trailer in the Montauk Trailer Park. (Note to reader. “Trailer park” in Montauk translates loosely to mini chic bungalow camp where your neighbors may or may not (but 100% do) include the likes of Jimmy Buffett (RIP) and professional surfers.) Only in Montauk can someone casually mention living in a trailer while draped in Egyptian cotton and discussing yellowfin tuna, am I right?! Chic malique!

Afterward we walked the beach as the rain finally cleared. The sky turned that bruised pink and gold color that seems invented specifically for oceanside towns trying to seduce you into never leaving. The temperature was perfect. The light was perfect. Everything smelled like salt and dune grass and damp wood shingles. It was one of those moments where absolutely nothing extraordinary was happening and yet you knew, even as it was unfolding, that you’d remember it forever.

Making a pit stop by Hooked for their famous Kick’n Crab & Corn Chowder for dinner, we drove all the roads while Pammy narrated the real estate like a docent in a museum of other people’s lives… “Ben Watts,” she said, as we passed his gorgeous spread that back in the day I’d get invited to (only because he had a massive crush on one of my besties, Coni), then “Julian Schnabel”, “Bruce Weber”, “Cynthia Rowley”… and the A-list list went on and on…

Sunday, though, was the best day Pam and I have ever had, which is saying something if you know our track record for EPIC days.

Let’s kick it off with the morning… or… early afternoon. Pam is notoriously “running a good 45 minutes to two hours fashionably late.” So, on brand, Pam and I made our way to Springs for her 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. volunteer oyster shell meeting (an earnest, heroic effort to preserve oyster beds in Long Island and serve as a sort of diplomatic bridge between restaurants and bays, ensuring the shells are returned to where they came from). We arrived at 12:01 p.m.

They were already finishing, of course, but we slid in just in time for what can only be described as the “victory lap” portion of the meeting: a one-on-one meet-and-greet with the leading lady, plus croissants, coffee, and a T-shirt supporting the cause.

Next, onward to Gerard Drive. Where now, sadly, the peninsula feels more like an inevitable island… and all the houses are up for sale or under water. The wild part is that the houses for sale are listed for - wait for it… wait for it… something to the tune of 3 MILLION DOLLARS or higher! She grew up summering here in the old cabins with dirt floors and sea air functioning as natural air conditioning. The kind of old Long Island that barely exists except in stories told by people like Pammy who are just sun kissed enough to remember it correctly.

We walked the sound and picked up as many pieces of “dashboard art” (shells that would ultimately live on my car’s dashboard) as we could, then went yard selling. There is nothing, truly nothing, better than a yard sale in the Hamptons.

We pulled up on one in the middle of Springs that appeared at first glance to be mehhh. But lawd… did I have that wrong. I was about to declare it a wrap and leave empty handed, when I spotted Pam knee deep in a pile of unfolded clothes. Yuck I thought… until I saw the gems she was uprooting. Patrick, the young boy manning the lot, had wandered over shortly after and offered a paper bag: “Fill it up for $10.” Hummmmm…. You sure about that, bubba? I thought as I spotted a RRL dress that was likely a good 55 Xs that amount of the fill it up bag would cost. Instead, I said, “I’d love to. Thank you.”

I felt like I was stealing... Because I was. By the time we left, our bag was holding the following (all name brands): a wool grey sweater, chinos, the RRL dress, two wool beanies, an indigo scarf, a tee shirt, a lace top for Sunny, and the crown jewel: an Eddie Bauer peacoat that felt like it had been waiting for me specifically. I briefly considered asking for another bag because did I mention? I felt like we were stealing!! But again, instead, I just handed over my cash and fled to the next Yard Sale down the road… where the day really began.

Enter Bruce.

Seconds after we arrived, the man running the sale announced, “Everything is half off,” which activates something deeply primal in people. Suddenly you’re holding a taxidermied duck lamp thinking, “Honestly… this could work.” So, as I was mid math equation in my head trying to justify the half price cost to make the space of bringing home an oversized Chinese basket, I caught Bruce eyeing it. “Don’t get any ideas,” I said, half joking to this stranger. He laughed and that broke our ice.

As we browsed together and made our casual introductions, we all started sharing our “good find” thrifting stories. After about ninety minutes and seven different groups rotating through the driveway where we’d apparently become the unofficial ‘welcome committee’ later, he told us his favorites….

Years ago, he spotted a painting at a yard sale but didn’t buy it right away. Later that same day, at another yard sale a few miles down the road, he randomly picked up a book for $2 and discovered the exact painting featured inside. He bought the book then raced back, found the paint was still there somehow, and bought it for $75. Stuffed it in his convertible and sped off before they cuffed him for highway robbery. Because ummmmm, turned out, it was worth somewhere around $20,000!!!! He never shared what it was.

He told us about the ruby red Olivetti Valentine typewriter he spotted at an estate sale, which his friends mocked him for buying since he’s not a writer until they discovered it was the same typewriter calling the MoMA… home. (he later showed us in person … but more on that to come.)

Then the story of a photograph of Keanu Reeves that Bruce had lined up to buy for a friend for $5 when a man behind him casually announced, moments before the money changed hands, “You know that’s an Annie Leibovitz, right?” Urrrrg. If you can’t read between the lines, the price immediately went from $5 to $500. Bruce passed, of course, because the thrill of the hunt is finding the deal, not paying retail because some guy suddenly became an expert five seconds too early.

And finally, the lamp that he absolutely had to have. Instead of Bruce negotiating for it though, the bickering couple selling it somehow started undercutting each other... “We could do $200.” “No, no, say $150.” “Honestly, just give it to him for fifty bucks.” Which is what he paid. Again, later he showed us this in person with “it’s actually worth about 3k.”!!

By the end, he was helping me load my haul… a modern coat rack, a brass umbrella stand and the Chinese basket that he didn’t steal from me. As we were leaving, we asked where he lived. “Amagansett.” And as he began to trust us more, we got “the Lanes in Amagansett.” Then, finally, the full address on Hand Lane.

Later, as promised, (after surprising mhy old land lady Anna Moss for a smooch and gab in her beautiful home) we drove by what he had described as “modern, unmistakable, impossible to miss” and honked. Within seconds, truly less than 10, Bruce appeared on the lawn and waved us in. Eeeeep! He wasn’t wrong… the house was like NOTHING I had ever seen.

“Bruce, I told Pam we could only stop if you had a pretzel for us to snack on.” (We were starving. Remember, the last thing we munched on was that croissant at noon… it was nearing 5 p.m. now). Without missing a beat, and as a true Jewish American would, he replied, “I’ll do you one better. How ‘bout a bagel.”

That afternoon we broke bread, Goldberg’s bagels to be exact, together in Bruce’s fantastic home. A moment that somehow felt both entirely spontaneous and completely familiar.

He gave us a tour of his house, which is probably the wrong word for it. “House” implies something you move through in a normal, box/wall way, whereas this felt more like being gently absorbed into a single, continuous idea that had learned how to hold furniture. Everything had been kept exactly the same as the day it had been moved in by the original owners (only one owner before Bruce). It was kept this way intentionally, almost religiously preserved. He mentioned, almost casually, that design enthusiasts knock on his door constantly asking for tours (just to be shooed away. Pinch me! I couldn’t get over that I was in the place that AD had shot many moons ago and all other chic magazines were chomping at the bit for the “scoop”) .. the kind of people who arrive with language like “iconic” and “important” already queued up on their tongues. On the other hand, he said, there’s also the other side who are completely tone deaf to architecture (and some who live in his neighborhood) who say things offering the exact opposite review like: “Wow. What a teardown.” The way he said it wasn’t bitter. More like … what idiots. We agreed 1,000,000%. This was the mecca!

The house was full of intricacies. As an example, at one point, a doorway opened onto a shower … somehow both inside and outside the house at once. An outside shower… inside. What?! Was I dreaming? And… Would it be wildly inappropriate to ask to move in so soon? I mean we had only just met. It was unreal!

And, the sunroom in the center of the house that he told us when his mother first laid eyes on the space, said... “Yes, a place I can finally sunbath… in the nude.” Window treatment be damned! Because, no matter where you stood in the house, no one could really see in. Unless, of course, someone intentionally left that shower door ajar… which would feel less like a design flaw and more like a personal choice. (He mentioned that its happened on occasion and is funny because whoever’s rub-a-dub-dubbing can see the road but the road can’t see them.)

I didn’t dare take photographs inside. It felt like the kind of place that would tolerate memory but not documentation. I was told though, while there, of a book that had covered the house in depth. Sadly, for the life of me… and for my poor bruised fingers from all the googling I’ve done to attempt finding who the architect was… The title is still not surfacing in my mind. I’ve texted Bruce so that I can share with ya’ll. No response yet, stay tuned…

We stayed at Bruce’s house until almost 6:30 p.m., gradually losing any sense that there was anywhere else we needed to be. Because nothing (even our hunger pain…) was more important than this spontaneous moment with our newest friend. We were in love with Bruce. And after receiving a text from him later that night! It was official… he loved us too!

Several of my days at The End (Montauk’s nickname) were also spent with my Erika from America. You guys have met her many times in previous En Routes (but a mini recap for the reader joining us for the first time… she’s my Mexican-American sweetheart who now lives full time in Montauk, but who lived in London before that, who I met in Montauk in 2012, but bopped around with in NYC, and who was born in Mexico but grew up half there and half in the USA in, this is wild, my newest stomping grounds… Richmond.) Her presence makes life feel, if not fully upgraded, at least operating on a better software version 100% of the time. Seeing the world through her eyes is a kind of ongoing disco party that doesn’t abide any slow tunes.

The morning after Tavo’s baseball game (her and, her husband, Bryan’s son) and our late-night conversation (there’s something about the air out there that convinces everyone it’s still early evening, even though the clock reads 1:47 a.m.), I read Joni’s cookbook cover to cover and noted, with genuine delight, the shout-outs to Sunny and Pam in her pages. They’re the mayors indeed!

Next morning: beach. A quick stop at Flo’s house, the coolest French woman who lives around the corner from E and has fully committed to communal garden life in a way that makes the rest of us feel vaguely underachieved. She invited us to the Ranch to see what she’s been planting, cultivating, and creating while the rest of us are deciding what to have for lunch. Then Pilates at New York Pilates, which costs somewhere between “absolutely not” and “why not” … a phrase you think each time your credit card is swiped now that you’re in the Hamptons. After that, Joni’s, where I ordered my usual Mucha Maca smoothie and went back to her house where I logged on and pretended to work full heartedly even though I was itching for more beach time. Tavo, her (by the time this is published) 8 year old who is simply … DELISH… played his little heart out for the Montauk Orange team, which is nothing short of the cutest possible thing in the world to watch.

And finally. Our girl’s arrival home. Waiting for Sunny’s arrival, Helen, Pam’s bestie, escorted us to The Bird, where I somehow got roped into singing with the incredible paid talent, a rendition of Harper Valley P.T.A. Now, I should say I have only ever performed this song in the relative safety of our family’s old beach house porch, typically about five beers deep and operating under what can only be described as a toddler-level delusion of talent. Here, however, there was no liquid courage, just a lot of locals chanting my name in French, which made me feel… well, famous and out of this world (at least out of this continent). We met Sunny back at Lovage around 11 p.m. where we stayed up until 2 a.m., laughing and being debriefed on everything: her new loves (notice that is plural), her favorite towns visited over her past 5 month travels, her time with her dad in LA, the concerts she attended with friends, her general emotional weather report from the West Coast to the East Coast and all the rest in between.

At 10 a.m. the following morning, while everyone else was still snoozing, I threw on some clothes, made myself a piping hot cup of coffee from the French press, and walked down to Ditch, where I sat and did what can only be described as surfer watching. Not unlike people watching, except more ritualized: they share the waves, stretch in unison like they’ve agreed on choreography, and zip themselves into black wetsuits with hoods as if preparing for something far more serious than a hobby.

When Sleeping Beauty finally awoke at.. are you even ready for this?.. 2 p.m… I blame the jet lag and possibly being 23… I made them both speed dress so we could still make it to Calm Bar before it closed at 4 p.m. This had been on the list for days. Today was the last day to make it happen. And wait for it… good gawd did the universe have its hand in why it worked out to go on this day. Just you wait.

We pulled up to find a full camera crew and two striking models arranged under the sun like a scene already in progress. Pam and Sunny, naturally, sent me to crank up my Southern Belle-ism and investigate.

I walked up and offered them my two questions: “Did y’all buy the place out, or can we still eat here? And… what are we shooting?” They laughed, said no, we could sit, and that they were shooting… wait for it… a campaign for SKIMS. Sunny used to be obsessed with the Kardashians when I took her to school in the mornings (sidebar. If you’re new to En Route. This is how I know Sunny Melet. I used to take her, who I called “Boog,” to Rudolph Steiner every morning starting at the age of 6. She’s now (hiding my eyes as I type this in disbelief) 23!! A long precious history we have.) There was even a Halloween once in Tribeca when we passed Kourtney Kardashian pushing a stroller with Scott Disick and their new baby. I, at the gentle insistence of Sunny’s parents, was asked to again crank up that Southern Charm volume and ask for a photo with Sunny and KK. It did not go well. Kourtney’s tone was less than shall we say (keeping the “k” theme going) kind. No photo was taken let’s just say.

We sat in the center of the outdoor restaurant, carefully positioned just outside the frame but very much inside the experience. Within minutes, the camera crew was practically sitting in our laps to get the shot when all of a sudden Kim Schraub… a neighbor of Pam and Sunny’s from Ditch and ummmm Creative Director of SKIMS… made her way over. During our conversation, she hit us with two groundbreaking headlines… one, she was expecting another baby, at 50, and two, she asked Sunny if she’d be down for doing a vintage Pre Loved (Sunny’s shop) pop-up for the upcoming SKIMS Clam Bar takeover in July. I nearly squealed. I, as always, was absurdly proud of Sunny “Boog “Melet. The way opportunities seem to orbit her without explanation, as if she’s simply aligned with a frequency the rest of us are only occasionally able to tune into is UNREAL.

As the crew loaded up and the models scarfed down their solid gulps of air… as they left ummm all of the food untouched. We charmed the staff into packing up the model food for us. No shame. “Well, you were with the crew, right?” they said, with that side wink that suggests a loophole has just been discovered. And so it was packed, and I ate like royalty on the drive home. Peanut butter carrots be gone with you! This ride back would permit lobster roll fancy food .. only!

The rest of the trip unfolded in the most perfect Montauk rhythm where time stopped and everyone came out… Bryan (Erika’s husband and Tavo’s dad) ran into us at Joni’s after his golf game, Erika came to join him .. unbeknownst to her that we were all together, Sunny’s first eyes on her beloved Pre Love vintage shop was captured in the sweetest moment, dinner together at The Dock, where waitresses delivered mounds of whipped cream for Sunny after the peanut butter pie was served (a must-order when there) - “There’s a ratio, you see, Anne Caroline. We have to have the exact same amount of whipped cream as peanut butter pie in every bite.” - drinks at Rooted, being picked up by Pammy who answered our call from her shower (yes, IN the shower.. suds and all) and came to retrieve us in her her robe with hair still in a towel, another baseball game where Tavo was the start and the cutest little 3 year old boy there ever was answered to the name of two chains (because he wears two gold chains around his neck) while sucking down on ring pop sporting a New York Yankees ball cap and Montauk sweat, and our final 2am snuggle down love fest in Lovage with my leading ladies: Duchess, Pam, and the Lady, Boog.

The next morning. More like just 3 hours later… I drove home. And from last week, ya’ll know the rest!

More to come next week. But before I leave you. A few things from RVA…

I left you last week wheeling out with the Bike Monday Bros… where I made friends: Corey (fellow South Carolinian), Bill (beer loving vegetarian who had me in stitches talking about “Black Dog” a urban myth here in RVA), (another) Bruce, and Matt (who’s son just graduated from USC, my alma mater), and made the front post of their Instagram which I would think means I’m officially IN the club.

I rejoined The Shed, where I’ve become embarrassingly motivated by receiving “perfect form” and “way to go, AC” from my Pilates teachers who are half my age and sport frightening core strength. I fell completely in love with TBC, my book club (again). At this particular meeting last week, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for the group. Like the women in the Briar House Club … the book we just finished, which I rated a solid FIVE (outstanding) and now insist everyone add to their list immediately. We are all wildly different people who, without one another, would be missing this delicious sense of belonging and community. There’s something deeply comforting about being known by people you did not grow up with, people you chose now and who chose you back.

And finally, I had a precious night listening to Christina belt out John Prine songs while Mariah, Faith, and I talked all things France, England, and Morocco. Enough future travel on the books for us to keep the stories coming for months.

Richmond continues to keep me double booked and lightly overstimulated. I made a quick appearance at the final Museum District Women’s Club meeting of the year, secured my Instagram proof-of-life for (fingers crossed) continued membership. I’m feeling grateful for this station of life I’m in (more on that word in later posts). So until next En Route…

Xx ac