Everything you read about New York this June was true. It was electric. There was truly something in the air—a collective gratitude that we all get to call the city home, a run of incredible weather punctuated by sudden, sweeping summer rainstorms that peppered in far more opportunities to laugh hysterically with strangers while running through the streets for cover than would usually exist in one month, and of course, the Knicks win.
Usually, I’d give a bit of context here that the Knicks are a New York basketball team who hadn’t won the NBA championship in 53 years yada yada yada, but given that my brother’s girlfriend’s guyanese aunt was telling them about how she’d caught the game the night before their family function, I think it’s fair to say the whole world sort of clocked the significance.
After a ridiculous amount of travel for the first five months of this year, I approached June with elation because it would mark the first since February that I would be in one place (I know—yawn, your life is sooo crazy) and could finally spend some actual time with friends beyond quick catch ups.
In June, everyone leant in. I had plans almost every single night of the week, laughed in parks, chatted in bars, gossiped on street corners, tanned on my fire escape, and sang Empire State of Mind arm-in-arm atop a table with my best friends.
Spontaneous plans, watermelon, summer rainstorms, orange wine, reading new authors, the hum of chatter in a park on a sunny day, flirting, city spirit, being tipsy when the sun is still out, New York City, keeping a bikini in my handbag just in case.
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