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Today, I’m proud to share my first guest post from one of my best friends and fellow journalists, the author and commentator, , who’s actually French and has been an American in Paris for almost two decades. If you don’t know or follow Lindsey and her work, much of which aims to dispel French myths and stereotypes and boost Paris’s reputation as an ever-evolving city, you can do so on Instagram, Substack, or listen to The New Paris Podcast, on which I was a guest a couple of years ago!

While she and I don’t always have the same taste when it comes to certain things (see: shellfish and music like Nine Inch Nails), she has taste, full stop, and certainly has a vocabulary for all things Francais. In which case, she’s a perfect first contributor to this column. She and I visited Entre Nous — which I’d been to at least three times prior — when she was in town for a week this past April. Below is a reminder of the ratings system. — S.L.

🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Entre Nous

39 Clifton Pl, Clinton Hill / Wine Bar Hours: Tues.-Thurs., 5 p.m. -11 p.m., Friday, 5 p.m.-midnight, Saturday, 3 p.m.-midnight, Sunday, 3 p.m.-11 p.m. / Cafe/Bakery Hours: Tues.-Sun., 8 a.m.-1 p.m.

Les infos

Save for the brownstone it sits beneath, Entre Nous (“between us” in French) announces its Parisian sensibility right from the handful of rattan seats and marble bistro tables that wrap around the front of the space. The on-brand details continue inside: terrazzo tile floors, wooden bistro chairs, a long copper bar counter with stools and emptied wine bottles as decor. The server who greeted us was courteous but so blasé I nearly felt transported home to Paris (spoiler: he was French).

All of this tracks with the owners, the husband-and-wife restaurateur duo, Clement Besset and Allie Prater-Besset, who also run Fradei, a European bistro in nearby Fort Greene. Besset apparently worked at Aux Deux Amis in Paris many moons ago, and it shows. The love for apéro (aka Happy Hour) is clear. The menu attempts to offer small plates appropriate for that sweet spot pre-dinner with dishes like chicken liver parfait with cornichon, mushroom croquettes, oysters, and an array of cheese and charcuterie.

Given we had a dinner reservation elsewhere, we shared a little gem salad which was far better than almost any simple green salad in France — a tarragon dressing zhuzhed up what could’ve been a predictable vinaigrette while almond slivers and cucumbers added texture and crunch. It came in a beautiful ceramic bowl with a basket of sliced baguette. But that little salad cost $19. The wines, low-intervention and delicious as they were, began at $18 a glass. What could’ve been a 15€ apero per person in Paris turned into $30 per person. If you wanted to constitute a meal out of the menu, you’d easily clock $100 before adding wine.

Sticker shock aside, it was chill; the music played at just the right volume, the staff wasn’t overbearing, and the crowd was obviously made of local regulars, which is a pleasure to see anywhere.

Entre Nous is taken over by La Bicyclette Bakery in the morning through lunch to sell French bread and pastries and serve cold brew with more crushed ice than a Picard freezer. Clients settle in with their buns and newspapers and engage in the kind of slow morning the French know well. Maybe that alone is worth the cost of entry. If you can’t make the trip to Paris, you can get pretty damn close on this corner of Clinton Hill.

Le rating 🥖🥖🥖🥖

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EN PLUS

When in France…

• 33 Paris Restaurants to Wine, Dine and Fall in Love With this Summer, LA Times

• 2 Days in Paris: Authentic Bistros and Hidden Gems Locals Love, Michelin Guide

• The Art of the Apéro: Exploring How France Unwinds, France 24

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The second thing you must do to have a perfectly imperfect vacation is to forget to pack several things you do need. Like, say, your favorite natural bug spray, a hat to shield you from the blinding sun while kayaking, hiking, and boating, and, most importantly, the credit card you used to book the rental car with points to save yourself $1,000.

But fear not! You do not let your preparedness and forgetfulness prevent you from having the Most Perfectly Imperfect Vacation ever!

In fact, the third thing you do is have oysters at a “Shuck Station” at the start of town, after which you realize most of the cute shops on Main Street closed while you were eating oysters and nearly choking on vinegar from an overly enthusiastic slurp. Of course, you still managed to buy some fishing rope coasters and a stained glass piece in the shape of buoys to hang in your apartment, so it all worked out in the end.

Next, you will show up at the waterfront spot with live music an hour before the band starts, and arrive at another after they sell out of chowder the night you were in the mood for it, but you will see an osprey in its nest at dusk and watch the sky turn from powder blue to rose to peach while sitting on giant granite rocks.

From there, you will do a U-turn to check out a darling boutique in a barn, only to realize it’s closed that day… But wait! There’s the owner, who pops out and offers you the keys to the barn! Quelle chance.

The following day is practically perfect from start to finish, from the beach to the candy shop to the farm hosting a one-night-only pizza party. You start to count your chickens…

…which is when they hatch as you have ice cream at an old-school spot along the route to your new Airbnb despite said new Airbnb being attached to an ice cream spot. (No regrets! Coconut Chip and Blackberry Chip FTW!)

I’ve lost count, but another thing you’ll do is embark on a hike alone where you’ll see a garden snake about 15 minutes up the mountain and nearly piss yourself. You will also dilly-dally post-hike by dipping your toes in a cool, clear lake, prompting you to show up at a café serving the blueberry pancakes you’ve been craving, only to be told they tossed the batter two minutes prior.

After spending stupid time Googling “best blueberry pancakes in Midcoast Maine,” you’ll say fuck it and settle for a smoothie.

From there, you’ll paint some “bleu, blanc, et rouge” on your face and choose the least vibey bar ever to watch the World Cup match between France and Spain, only to move to another bar at halftime, passing quite possibly the sweetest new lobster shack named after the owner’s dog, Rocky, which is where you’ll finally have your chowder.

Unfortunately, your quest to pick blueberries will be thwarted, but you will find a raspberry field and fill a pint for $6, followed by a walk through a sculpture preserve named for a famous Maine artist whose works you’ll then see at a museum and the airport in the following days!

You will have another ice cream (at the best lobster joint ever — zero notes; actually perfect), precluding you from once again having a scoop at your Airbnb, but at least the yoga mat you lugged across state lines went to use outside your cabin, overlooking the harbor as the sun rose.

You’ll feel a bit rushed through the museum you saved for your final day (because it was closed on the other two days you were in the area). Still, you’ll at least have plenty of time to drink the natural wine you bought from a producer down the road while playing Bananagrams with two dear friends and discussing past loves and the pros and cons of opening a second bottle. (FWIW: You opened it and didn’t finish it.)

The second-to-last thing you’ll do to have a perfectly imperfect vacation is drive past a blueberry seller on the way to the airport and snag a pint that you’ll lug through security so you can make Maine blueberry pancakes back in Brooklyn. (You’re going to want to bookmark this recipe.)

Then, finally, the last thing you’ll do to complete this joy-filled, imperfect trip of all trips is be so close to finishing the adorably cheesy TV series you started watching with your friend that you end up sharing headphones at the gate and then on the AirTrain, where you’ll catch the final sappy scene a minute before having to part ways.

In conclusion, and if it’s not already clear: I highly recommend the perfectly imperfect vacation. Forget your favorite bug spray. (You can buy some local stuff.) Miss the pancakes. (And make them at home.) Buy the unnecessary coasters. (Protect all the surfaces!) Nearly blackout from the sight of a garden snake. (Good story.) Eat ice cream whenever and wherever. (Always.)

Perfectly-perfect is overrated. Imperfectly-perfect is where the good stuff lies. A little bit of wrong, “oopses,” and zigs make the zags that much more memorable and gratifying.

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Also overthinking this week…

…whether to let the weather dictate my upstate plans or my attending an outdoor concert…

Clickable:

• ‘Long live the dancefloor’ — sans phones. | Air Mail

• A guide to new and notable books about Paris. |

• It’s ‘THE West Village ’ not just ‘West Village.’ | The NY Times (gift link)

• What it’s like to travel with your ex…his new GF…and her kids. |

• Predicting the next 50 years. |WaPo (gift link)

• The World Cup made for great television. | The NY Times (gift link)

• The unimaginable. | The Cut

• We all “had a guy.” Long live old-school weed buying. | Dirt

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Watchable: FIFA World Cup Halftime Show

I can’t say I expected to be most entertained and impressed by BTS — a K-pop group I needed someone else to identify for me — but here we are! FIFA’s first halftime show was a real mish-mash of performers and styles, and while I went in looking forward to Madonna, who kinda phoned it in with a pre-recorded clip, I ended up more enamored by Shakira (those hips!) and delighted by the presence of the Muppets. Also, did anyone else not realize that was Coldplay with them or just me? I do love that Bieber song, but it felt like a complete snooze given the enormity of the “stage” and overall vibe. (Though, the introduction from Ted Lasso was cute!)

If you’ve ever dreamed of living in Paris — and not dealing with renovating and designing a fixer-upper — my friend Jackie has done it beautifully, and is offering up the chance to reap the benefits of her efforts: She’s selling the gorgeous home she’s dubbed Apt La Fayette. I’ve sat in front of its fireplace and snacked on cheese there. I’ve also sat around its stunning dining table and eaten more cheese there. The space truly is a wonder, and this video, along with her poetic words, encapsulates everything she went through to outfit it, and why finding it a new owner who appreciates the journey is so important to her. Could it be you?

Souvenir: Push Pops

It’s summertime, which means it’s an ice-cream-a-day time, which reminded me of a very ’80s treat we used to eat: push pops! Or, as this Instagram account described them: “ice cream out of a toilet paper holder.” LOL. In theory, keeping the ice cream covered until you’re ready to consume is smart. But then doing so does, indeed, soften the paper covering said ice cream (or sherbert, as it were), making for a somewhat cardboard-y lick. Who liked these?

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Little Falcon

360 Myrtle Ave, Fort Greene, Mon.-Sat., 5-10p.m.; Sunday, 11am.-3p.m., 5-10p.m.

Les infos

You know I like a place when I go back, and I went back to Little Falcon, which was called Third Falcon when I first visited in November.

It comes from chef Cali Faulkner — the third Faulkner in her family, hence the restaurant’s name — who worked at the veritable Verjus in Paris. Her French training is evident not just by the quality of her cuisine, but by the type of French fare she serves, which is to say not American French fare and hence making it…legit French. Stick with me.

Roast chicken. Burger on brioche. Seared scallops with leeks. “Greens of the moment.” Strawberries and cream. This is the type of approachable, seasonally-focused food the French do well. It’s what they cook at home without fuss, for guests or themselves, and what they serve at the bistro down the rue.

Cali’s dinner menu now includes the option of a three-course formule (prix-fixe), which is displayed on a chalkboard outside, listing the courses as “entrée, plat and dessert” (+10 points for the French delineation), but you can order à la carte, too.

The first time I went, with a fellow Francophile, we were very impressed with the roast chicken, the greens, and the fall-appropriate tarte tatin for dessert. We also loved the $10 house-made brioche served with Bordier butter (+20 points for this most iconic French butter — and for offering to also bring us radishes to eat with it.)

The second time I went, with another Francophile, we fell hard for the scallops in hollandaise and the seasonal verdure: crispy artichokes served with toasted brioche, dill, and capers.

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It’s come to my attention recently that people worry about me. “People” are mostly my father, with my mother as backup. When I mentioned wanting to get a dog recently, Dad quipped: “How about a husband?”1 Ouch.

And, listen, I get it! Society says that’s how it’s supposed to go. I also know it comes from a sincere place. (Thanks, Dad! Love you!) After all, he’s been married to my mother for more than 50 years. But I also know it isn’t really about husbands versus dogs. It’s about security. My father wants to know that someone will be there long after he can’t be.

But what I keep trying to explain to him and to anyone else who wonders “why I haven’t met someone yet” is that a) I don’t exactly know, b) I’ve tried and am tired, and, most importantly, c) I’m not too worried.

I’ve come to this realization because, over the last decade or so, through international (and, yes, intentional) moves, career pivots, friendships changing shape, a pandemic, installing and uninstalling countless dating apps, and a thousand ordinary Tuesdays, I got really, really good at being by myself.

Not that there aren’t challenges and frustrations with living single — logistical and otherwise. (See: the years 2020-2025, mostly.) Being independent doesn’t mean I never wish for a safety net of sorts. Some things are simply easier and, yes, more pleasurable, with another person by your side. But in the grand scheme of things, tout va bien.

—

I had a boyfriend once. OK, maybe twice. But the last one was the one most people who know me remember and consider legitimate since, despite being in our early-20s and it being my first true adult relationship, it seemed serious enough to warrant the question: “Is this it?”

We met on JDate and dated for a little over a year, commuting between the West Village and the Upper East Side, before moving in together. During our courtship, we were an active couple. Meaning, we took advantage of every event or off-the-beaten-path spot Time Out New York magazine laid out for us each week. But rarely were these recommendations ones that I’d bookmarked.

At first, I didn’t really think about it. He always had fun ideas, and I was a willing participant. Not a sheep, per se. But game to follow his lead. He planned a day in City Island. He knew that Stevie Wonder’s annual birthday celebration in a club in Midtown was truly WONDER-FUL, and that one day Domenico “Dom” DeMarco of DiFara’s pizza would be gone, so we’d better go spend hours waiting for a slice. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the activities we did together. It’s that he rarely considered my own desires and preferences, and I didn’t yet have the confidence to speak up often enough, or ever.

Some nine months into our two-year lease, I finally ended it for that reason and many others, all disguised as “it just didn’t feel right.” Everything came crashing down quite literally when, while moving out, he accidentally dropped his AC out the window of the apartment we shared on lower Fifth Avenue.

The point of that story isn’t that every New Yorker’s worst nightmare had happened to us. It’s that I finally chose myself then, and I’m still choosing myself now.

—

I’ve been thinking lots about my single situation lately because—newsflash!—I’m alone a lot with my thoughts.

The other night, for example, while watching Bleachers LIVE at the Stone Pony on YouTube, my eyes gravitated towards the drummer. And then the keyboardist. And then the saxophonist. Sure, Jack Antonoff, the popular lead singer and most well-known member of the group, was also in my purview. But I was more curious about the other guys. The somewhat anonymous ones. The guys in the band who seem to live a pretty fucking cool life as touring musicians. They seemed…dare I say it…attainable in a six-degrees, Kevin Bacon sort of way.

Man, I thought to myself, all cozy and high on my couch that I chose without anyone’s approval- what about those guys? They learned a skill that takes determination and grit. They hustled to make it to where they are now, on stage, in a fairly popular, if not niche, rock band from New Jersey. Free concert tickets! Backstage passes! But, really, what appealed to me most about these hypothetically available men was that they go on tour. We’d each have separate lives for a brief moment (or several) throughout the year.

I wasn’t fantasizing about finding someone to complete my life. I was fantasizing about finding someone who wouldn’t require me to give up the one I currently have.

“Don’t you want someone to eat dinner with each night?” a coupled-up friend asked when I presented her with this ‘aha’ realization about the guys in the band as ideal suitors. “Someone to plan and take trips with? A default person? A guaranteed plus one?”

I get what she means: the appeal of having a companion who’s simply… there. I just don’t know that I want someone there all the time.

—

Last Sunday, I had the most glorious, unplanned day alone.

I took the subway to Carroll Gardens to go to a gallery in Gowanus, then walked to get frozen yogurt, where no one was with me to roll their eyes at how long it took me to choose a flavor, then walked through Park Slope, where I paused several times to take photos of beautiful houses. Then, I stopped at a stoop sale where I scored a $5 Zara sweatshirt I didn’t need to apologize for buying, before landing at Prospect Park just as my phone was about to die. But fear, I did not! I had my book, so I sat and read as many chapters as I wanted to while listening to the birds and the kids calling “Mama! Mama!” and swatting a few mosquitoes before seeking out on a different bench with a different view and a different sliver of light because why not, before heading towards home via Prospect Heights sans Google Maps, relying on my own memory to get there, which itself was a gratifying feat.

The only failure of the day was not bringing an external phone battery, which precluded me from unlocking a CitiBike to get home so I could give my feet a break. Just as I’d relented to walking (no subway made sense, and an Uber seemed silly as I wasn’t that far from home), I passed a buzzing beer garden and decided to pop in to charge my phone while I sat outside sipping on a tangy wheat beer to read more of my book, which sparked a lovely conversation with some strangers. Before I knew it, and without having thought much about my phone at all, it had charged to 75%. Now I could unlock a bike to get home while marveling at the profound enjoyment of my epic solo day, which unfolded because I kept saying yes to whatever looked interesting to me. There wasn’t another opinion or itinerary or allergy or budget or schedule to compete with or derail me.

—

I am open to and interested in finding love and having a partner someday2, even if the possibility seems distant. It’s been so long since I’ve held a hand or a gaze in that way. Since I’ve had the butterflies or pre-date poops. You know Joni Mitchell's lyrics “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?” Well, those don’t play in my mind as much as the phrase “out of sight, out of mind” does.

But, yes, I do believe it’d be nice to text someone who will answer right away. To not have to ask a dozen people if they want the other free ticket I won to see the tall ships come into the harbor on July 4th (true story). To turn my side of the bed down for me at night. (Dad adorably does this for my Mom!) To split the cost of the hotel upgrade, to help me out of bed when I can’t turn my neck, to be the driver on a road trip while I manage the music and snack stops, or to remind me to charge my AirPods before I leave the apartment.

But I don’t feel like my current life is a placeholder. That’s the part people sometimes misunderstand. They see independence as the consolation prize you settle for until the real thing arrives when, really, you spent the last several years learning how to trust your own instincts, entertain yourself, solve your own problems, wander without an agenda, and build a home that looks the way you want it to look—zebra print dining chairs, pink piping on the couch, and iridescent placemats and all.

It’s not always the easiest life. But difficult and deficient aren’t the same thing.

If I find someone to eventually join me on life’s journey, lucky us. I just don’t want to fall out of the life I’ve built for an uncertain or potentially less-than-average alternative one. The bar is higher now. I’m not looking for someone to gallantly save me from the life I have, Richard Gere in Pretty Woman-style. I’m looking for someone who makes me excited to share it, Pretty Sara-style.

Happy Independence Day—and Tay Tay and Travis Wedding Weekend!—to all who celebrate. xx — Sara

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Also overthinking this week…

…what to do for this hot and sticky July 4th weekend (stay in the city/go out to LI)…

Clickable

• The meaning and mystery of deathbed visions. | The Washington Post (gift link)

• Unpacking the rise of ‘Greek Diner Collapse Disorder.’ | Air Mail

• We should all channel Dali this summer. |

• The great American and European divide: A/C. | The Atlantic (gift link)

• What makes America already great? | The NY Times (gift link)

• One Dunne’s obsession with his obituary leaves another Dunne in a pickle. | Vulture

• Speaking of obits, to use AI to write one or…not. |

• On Madonna as Betty Boop and what it says about aging. | The NY Times (gift link)

• Some hilarious ‘notes’ on sending your kid to camp. |

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Watchable: ‘Voicemails for Isabelle’

We contain multitudes, which is why I can enjoy an independent life but also shed many tears during a sappy rom-com, which is what I did this week while watching Voicemails for Isabelle on Netflix. Any movie that starts and ends with Robyn singing “Dancing on my Own,” co-stars Nick Offerman, and cleverly nods at other pop culture rom-coms (“If I’m a bird, you’re a bird” — guess the movie!) is a film I support. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll probably cringe. It’s all darling. Side Note: Can we please talk about being carried to bed? It’s virtually impossible to NOT wake up in the process, right? It hasn’t happened to me since, I don’t know, my Dad moved me from my parents’ bed to my own on Sunday nights when he worked late, but every time I see an adult carrying a sleeping adult in a movie as I did in this one—and they don’t at least open their eyes—I am suspicious. Who’s with me?

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Souvenir: Wet Banana

If you are a child of the ’80s and grew up with a grassy backyard in the ’burbs where summers were humid and sticky, you likely had a ‘Wet Banana’ or a ‘Slip n Slide’. (With the Wet Banana, the water came out of a banana-shaped sprinkler.) On the one hand, the idea of flinging myself onto a long, wet, plastic pad sounds super refreshing right about now, considering the weather here in New York, but on the other hand, it sounds like something that may put me in the hospital. Thanks to my sister for sponsoring today’s Souvenir. Remember: You, too, can submit suggestions!

Welcome to “J’adore,” a smidgen of declarations from moi about something I adore. (Like, for example, the fact that “adore” and “adore” mean the same thing in English and French. But no need to devote more than a sentence to that!)

It’s been a while since I published this column, but I’ve found myself recommending quite a few products, subscriptions, and more lately — all of which are completely unbiased, nonsponsored, objective endorsements. These are items and services I pay for and genuinely enjoy or that make my life better.

That said, many of them offer referral codes or discounts if you enroll via my special link or code; we may both be “rewarded” in some way, which may include a free fitness class, account credit, or more. I don’t know about you, but I love a deal and paying it forward, so without further ado…

The Fitness Program Keeping Me Fit: ClassPass

What’s the deal?

I’ve been a monthly member of this fitness subscription for many years — pre- and post-pandemic, through living in New York, SF, and Paris. I love it because it allows me to dip in and out of various fitness studios — from spin to yoga and barre in neighborhoods and time zones all over the world. You choose the number of “credits” you think you’ll use each month (studios give classes a range of credits depending on teacher, time, etc.) from, say, 2-18 per class, and then pick a plan accordingly. (For example, 80 credits = $159, 48 credits = $99, etc.)

Pros

You can look up to see which studios are offered before committing to a plan, and how many credits their classes are. Some studios like Soul Cycle eat up a lot of points per class (18 in some cases!) But I’ve done the math many times, and based on the studios I frequent and how often I work out each week, it still comes out to be more affordable than getting a pack with an individual studio or paying per class. You can also use credits for massages, nail salons, smoothies, and more. And if you’re short on credits one month, you can pay for additional credits to book a class in that current cycle, and, conversely, roll them over if you haven’t used them all. You can also pause for a month.

Cons

Studios tend to treat ClassPass bookers like second-class citizens. In addition to not offering all their classes or certain popular instructors to ClassPassers, at studios like SoulCycle, you can’t choose your bike placement when booking. (But you can often move at the studio.) It’s also often hard to book last minute (certainly no later than an hour before a class), and if you cancel less than 12 hours after the class you’ve registered for is set to start, ClassPass charges you a fee at the discretion of the studio.

Referral link - Get 20 bonus credits upon sign-up

The Meal Program Keeping Me Sated: Cook Unity

What’s the deal?

I honestly can’t believe I’m someone who gets prepared meals delivered each week, considering how much I enjoy cooking, but I also do not like eating the same thing two days in a row, let alone many days in a row, and there’s only so much math I can handle to quarter a recipe. I also don’t like wasting food. I fell into this chef-focused program about a year ago and really enjoy it. Basically, local chefs in whatever city you’re in offer pre-made, fresh meals that are delivered to your home on a certain day each week. The plan I have is 6 meals for about $60. Dishes include the likes of “Italian Beef Ragu with Zucchini Noodles,” “Turmeric and Tamarind Glazed Salmon,” and “Chicken and Rainbow Quinoa Salad,” and participating chefs range from well-known (John DeLucie and Pat LaFrieda) to others.

Pros

I find there’s a huge variety, and you can choose your menu based on several factors: allergies, calories, dietary restrictions, protein (chicken v. shrimp v. tofu v. salmon v. beef, etc.), seasonality, cuisine type, etc. Some are meant to be served cold; others warm (15 minutes in the oven or 3 minutes in the microwave). You can skip a week (or two) without penalty.

Cons

If you don’t confirm your menu choices by a certain day, they’ll pick for you (based on previous orders), but they often pick things you may not have liked or have eaten dozens of times. The algorithm, in this case, is not so smart.

Referral Code: saral03982 - get 50% off your first week

The Non-Hotel Booking Site I Trust: Home Exchange

What’s the deal?

I mostly used this service in Paris as an alternative to Airbnb and found it to be much friendlier, full of real people with real homes, aka what Airbnb used to be. Your $235 annual fee covers unlimited exchanges, cancellation, theft, and property damage coverage, plus 500 bonus guest points. (I’ll get to those in a second.)

Basically, you can choose to solely engage in even home exchanges: so you connect with a fellow member and literally swap homes at the same time or a later date you both agree on; or you earn or use “guest points” to “pay” for your booking. This is great if, for example, you’ll be away from your home but don’t need a place to stay at that time. Guests will stay at your home, and they’ll pay with “points” that you can then use to stay anywhere in the world at a time of your choosing.

Pros

Those 500 bonus guest points per year just for registering could potentially cover up to 5 nights’ stay somewhere, depending on where/how big a place you need. For example, the place I stay at in L.A. when I visit my sister is only 80 points a night — and it’s perfect for me! You can also earn points in other ways, like referring people (ahem, see code below!), uploading more photos, verifying your identity, etc.

Also, since there isn’t money exchanged (except for the occasional cleaning fee), and most people are opening up their actual homes (vs. places they’ve delineated for hosting), it tends to be a more forgiving and trustworthy community.

Cons

Sometimes it can be challenging to arrange an exchange for something that feels comparable (meaning “like for like” in terms of space, size, vibe, amenities, etc.) and on the dates you’re searching for. It’s far easier to use it as a way to explore destinations you’ve never been to if/when you have time to travel and want to let what’s available and appealing lead the way.

Also, unlike Airbnb, which can be found in even the most obscure places now, you don’t find as many options in small towns on HomeExchange, which can make it challenging to use the points you earn if you tend to go off the beaten path a lot. In addition, again, these are generally people’s lived-in homes, so unless you’ve arranged/paid for a cleaner, you could potentially end up in a situation where the photos do not live up to reality (or your standards) as I did in Paris last July. Be sure to check reviews and always conduct video calls before accepting or booking a reservation.

Referral Code: sara-a62b6 - earn 250 points

A Deal on Overthinking It!

While we’re here, did you know that if you share this newsletter, you can receive benefits, too?

How so, you ask?

1. When you use the referral link below or the “Share” button on any post, you’ll get credit for any new subscribers. Simply send the link in a text, email, or share it on social media with friends.

Refer a friend

2. When more friends use your referral link to subscribe — free or paid — you’ll receive special benefits.

• Get a 1-month comp for 3 referrals

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• Get a 6-month comp for 25 referrals

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It was the swoosh heard round the world. Or, at least in the five boroughs and across the bridges and tunnels, and then on social media shortly after. I’m not talking about the Knicks' win last Saturday night after five games against the San Antonio Spurs in the NBA Finals. I’m talking about the win a few days prior on Wednesday when, after being down nearly 30 points, the team that hadn’t won a championship since 1973 threw a three-pointer with 1.2 seconds left in the game only to miss it, but then see it tipped-in courtesy of OG Anunoby — a player whose name, yes, I learned recently. The crowd, as they say, went wild. I know because I was among them.

I wasn’t, however, among them a few days later when they won the title. In fact, I was competing in a championship of my own: the battle against my immune system and my eyelids while watching the game from a couch in Long Island with my parents and brother.

Let’s rewind, starting with a disclaimer: I don’t watch sports. Aside from the occasional baseball game in the summer to sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” while scarfing a hotdog, or hockey game in the winter where I ALWAYS forget how cold it is in the arena (cause, duh, ice), I’m mostly into sports when there’s an entertainer involved (Whitney singing the National Anthem, Taylor cheering from the crowds, Bad Bunny marrying a couple during halftime, etc.) or when it’s an international event like the Olympics or the World Cup, etc. And even with those, I’m not going to wake at 2 a.m. for a match or medal ceremony.

Still, my allegiance will always be to the home team — Oceanside/Long Island, New York/U.S.A. or Paris/France — while maintaining the moniker Sideline Sara. This tracks, considering I was captain of Varsity Cheerleading in High School despite never knowing what “first and ten” meant or the difference between a technical and a flagrant foul. Still don’t. But I was (am!) really coordinated and excel at keeping things, well, cheerful.

Sports fan or not, there was no escaping Knicks fever last week, and truth be told, I wanted to be part of the action. In fact, when I learned Game Four was the same night I’d booked a reservation at a new restaurant with a friend who was visiting from out of town, I moved it earlier so we could be among the fans lining the sidewalks, watching the game as it was projected onto a building. After nearly a decade in Paris, as a born-again New Yorker who learned that the last time we’d made the finals was when I was in H.S., aka the last time I could rattle off Knicks’ players’ names (Ewing, Starks, etc.) I felt inherently invested.

So that night, we made our way from Bushwick to Williamsburg to Fort Greene and, eventually, Clinton Hill/Bed-Stuy, where I live, passing crowds donning orange nails and blue hats craning their necks to catch every dunk, miss, foul, and free throw.

It wasn’t looking good at halftime, but we stayed out because we miraculously found a seat at a bar on my block that was playing the game with sound. It was after 11 p.m. at this point; we’d been out all day, having seen a matinee, gone to a gallery, AND eaten a big meal — aka participated in more “me” activities. We were POOPED.

And then. AND THEN. The unbelievable happened. The thing they make movies about happened. The thing that made even Larry David smile happened. We won, and it was so freakin’ epic. Like, can’t-believe-what-we-just-witnessed epic, is-this-real-life? epic. Those of us who stuck it out at the bar and on the streets and who were actually paying attention went ballistic. We hugged strangers. We high-fived the guy out walking his dog. We took blurry videos and shared external phone batteries. Just full-on NYC camaraderie. I swear if someone had seen a rat they’d have fed it a fry.

The next day, I woke up with a scratchy throat. I chalked it up to the screaming and yelling and went about my day, which included commuting to the office in Queens and attending an event back in Manhattan that I bought a $118 ticket to weeks ago because I thought “I should.” (It was a Jewish “social” of sorts, and I am now officially done with those.) Needless to say, my throat got worse, and I felt crappy. I began a round of Dr. Shen’s YIN CHIAO’s herbal pills (thanks, Anna!) and stayed the course.

I felt slightly better on Friday, but it was still festering. (Those pills definitely thwart whatever’s there from becoming a full-blown something, but your body is still a bit like ‘WTF?’) Needless to say, by the time Saturday came around and I saw the weather — 88 degrees with a chance of peacefully falling asleep on the bow of my parents’ boat — I decided to head out to Long Island to lay low, recoup, and work on my tan. The boat ride led to a nap, which led to some reading, which led to a BBQ, which led to a delightful shower, which led to me putting on my orange and blue ’fit because I am nothing if not appropriately dressed and on theme…only to remain on the couch in the ’burbs.

To be sure, there was some overthinking in the decision. The Knicks were up three games to one, so if they won this game, it was over. Written on the sidewalks. Etched into the brownstones. Reflected from the skyscrapers. They’d be champions, and New Yorkers would, without a doubt, celebrate appropriately (and inappropriately). But…there was always the chance they’d lose, and we’d have another game (or two) on the horizon where I’d hopefully feel better and be up for mingling with the masses.

Since I am a well-adjusted, almost-48-year-old, I decided to make peace with the fact that I’d experienced something special on Wednesday and was where I needed to be on Saturday: comfortably on a couch, still in New York, rooting for the home team, from my hometown with my homies.

And while I may have battled with my eyelids and taken mini powernaps during timeouts, I did at least catch the winning basket and subsequently see all the videos and memes and footage from the city — my new old home city! — some 25 miles to the West.

Sure, it stung a little not to be there, catching fireworks from my balcony or hugging some random fan in a Brunson jersey. But wherever any of us were when it happened, those of us in New York, especially, collectively experienced this historic moment just by being New Yorkers, full stop. By texting “!!!!” to everyone we know from a 917 or 646 or 516 or 718 or 212 number. By eating orange and blue bagels, orange and blue “black-and-white” and rainbow cookies, and orange and blue glazed donuts brought to us by neighbors from across the hall. By purchasing “LGK” charm bracelets from kids on the street. By waiting in lines for merch. By being targeted on Instagram for merch. By buying orange wine and giggling at the irony. By being tempted by royal blue pants at Anthro.

The blue icing on the King Kullen cake was that in the days that followed, I read take after take and watched video after video — from Jimmy Fallon, who hosted the starting line-up on the Tonight Show, to a video that brought me to tears made by someone my sister knows (see Watchable below) — and each one solidified my choice to chill rather than amplified my FoMo. But none more than , who seems to always get it right. On her wonderful Substack, , she wrote:

For years, I lived in Paris and told people New York would always be home. The past couple of weeks reminded me why. Home isn’t a place you prove. (And there’s been a lot of “Who’s a real New Yorker?!” talk lately—especially after J.Lo ruffled some feathers on ’s Subway Takes.) Home — and New York, especially — is a place you participate in. A place you feel.

Millions of New Yorkers felt it from a million different vantage points: from packed bars and crowded sidewalks, from fire escapes and living room couches, from hospital waiting rooms and restaurant passes and delayed subway cars. Some were screaming in the streets. Some were refreshing group texts. Some, like me, were fighting off a weird pre-summer cold and occasionally nodding off during commercial breaks and intermittently eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.

The point wasn’t where we watched. The point was that we cared.

Maybe that’s why the city has felt so electric. For a few weeks, we were all looking in the same direction. In a moment when life often feels fragmented, individualized, divided, and algorithmically curated, there was something wonderfully old-fashioned about this shared obsession — especially one that wasn’t rooted in politics, religion, or any of the other weighty subjects that tend to separate us. Sports are a business, sure, and serious for those with actual money in the game. But for the rest of us, they’re mostly just an excuse to gather, cheer, and occasionally high-five a stranger.

So no, I wasn’t on Fulton or outside MSG when the final buzzer sounded or even running out to my balcony in Brooklyn. I wasn’t climbing lampposts (as if) or dodging confetti cannons (more likely) or singing with bus drivers. But I was surrounded by family, wearing orange and blue, cheering for the home team. That was New York enough. That was human enough.

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Also overthinking this week…

…whether to go to the Knicks parade [editor’s note: I didn’t go — but saw a school bus getting in on the action, and watched the parade from the subway on the way to the office!]

Clickable:

• “Biology isn’t destiny, and behavior is learned more than inherited.” On one man’s daughter becoming his son. | for GQ

• Seth Rogen gives a good interview. That laugh, tho. | New York Times Magazine

• Ruminations on the meaning of apologies. |

• A doctor’s advice: learn how and when to ‘wait and see.’ | Cup of Jo

• What treasures do people’s trash really reveal? | The Atlantic

• When a devoted son lies for the sake of legacy. | Vulture

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Watchable: Michelle Obama and Knicks, Knicks, Knicks!

There have been some really beautiful clips in the aftermath of the Knicks’ NBA Finals win, but the three below, including Mayor Mamdani’s speech at the parade yesterday, were especially beautiful. And then there was Michelle Obama’s eloquent speech about her husband, our former (and best) President, as they opened the Obama Presidential Center yesterday. La classe.

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Souvenir: Limousines

It’s prom season, which means…town cars? Ubers? I don’t know about you, but back in the ’90s, nothing said prom more than renting a limo to take you and your friends from “pre-prom” to actual prom to the after-party and who knows where else. (In our case, it was The City to pop into a club followed by an overnight all the way out east to a very shabby, not-chic motel.) But think about it: When was the last time you saw a stretch limousine?

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: La Mercerie

53 Howard St., SoHo / Mon-Friday, 11:30-10 p.m.; Saturday and Sunday, 10-3 p.m. and 5-10 p.m.

Les infos

This week, we’re heading to SoHo, where French chef Marie-Aude Rose (wife of American chef Daniel Rose, who runs Le Coucou in New York and, for many years, ran Spring in Paris) helms ‘The Guild’ at Roman + Williams.

Depending on whether you enter on Howard or Canal Street, you’ll either be faced with gorgeous vessels for food that are empty and on display (that’d be the Roman + Williams part) or gorgeous vessels for food that are plated with actual food (that’d be the dining room part). Either way, this high-ceilinged, multi-room space definitely feels more like SoHo than its Parisian equivalent, le Marais, but the differences stop there.

First, the food. I went for lunch and had, quite possibly, the fluffiest, creamiest quiche I’ve ever had—almost soufflé-like—complete with a buttery crust that didn’t crumble obnoxiously. The dish was made even more French thanks to its side of lightly dressed simple greens. Beyond that, despite its $22 price tag—unheard of for a bowl of soup in Paris—the onion soup was also spectacular.

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I travel often and have lived in Europe, so while Jewish, I’ve seen my fair share of such impressive structures. This one, however, was different. Not just because, with its Baroque bell towers and spires, it was, indeed, a sight to behold. But because of what it represents to the thousands of “pilgrims” who set off each day from some 500 or so miles away, to reach it by foot along the Camino de Santiago or The Way, as the sacred path is known. People partake for reasons big and small, egotistical and altruistic, and, of course (and originally), religious and spiritual: It is said to be the burial site of Saint James the Great, one of Jesus’ apostles.

There I was, in beige jeans and silver Adidas, twirling my just-washed hair while mixed in amongst tourists and wayward wanderers, thinking how much more impressive the cathedral would be if I, too, had been amongst the haggard hikers now stretching their tired legs and airing out their blistered feet on the perimeter of the Plaza del Obradoiro after having trekked many many miles, over many many days.

As a late-in-life hiker myself, it felt strange showing up to Santiago de Compostela without having “arrived” there on foot. I mean, technically I did. But said arrival merely involved my walking 10 minutes from a parking lot where I got off an air-conditioned bus that held two dozen or so retired Americans attempting to hear a local guide talk through one of those mini personal audio devices, which I learned is known as a “whisper” and would prove to be the source of much frustration for the group during the trip.

One of the things that excited me about this cruise to begin with, aside from it being a new professional experience that involved oral storytelling vs. written storytelling, was that in addition to revisiting many places I adore and know well, I’d also get to experience a few new-to-me destinations and participate in one activity that I’d long wanted to. Those included eating the pintxos of San Sebastian, Spain, hearing the bells of Mont Saint-Michel in France, and walking part of the Camino de Santiago, which traverses both countries and Portugal.

Only, I didn’t think I’d arrive at the cathedral before having walked the path that leads to it.

Truth be told, I didn’t even know how to pronounce the city’s region, Galicia (GA-LEE-SEE-AH — you’re welcome!), let alone much about the trail beyond that a) it’s popular, b) runs through three countries, and c) is the subject of a moving film called The Way starring Martin Sheen, which I thought I’d seen, but it turns out, actually, I hadn’t. (“I’ve told you so many times to watch it, and you always told me, ‘Yeah yeah I’ve seen it,’” texted my brother when I told him I was finally watching it recently from the comfort of my couch in Brooklyn. Oops.) There I was, continuing with the unplanned theme of my starting at the end, or in reverse.

See, months before embarkation, all passengers were asked to choose excursions at each port. And while I wasn’t a traditional passenger, in addition to my storytelling duties, I’d also be joining guests during daily outings off-ship, so I had also been given the choice of where to go. (Quelle chance!) For reasons that include my inability to look at a map and truly process a place before being there, I had chosen to visit Santiago de Compostela from our port in Vigo, and then partake in the Camino hike from our port in A Coruña the following day, which would also visit Santiago de Compostela afterwards. (The city is located about 45 minutes inland and nearly equidistant between the two ports.)

So, my first experience with The Way was at the end of it, which led me to question whether I wanted/needed to come back again the next day. I wondered if perhaps I should change my excursion to see the Tower of Hercules instead, the world’s oldest continually functioning lighthouse. After all, this is not necessarily how I envisioned my experience on the Camino. Which is to say, I didn’t really envision it much at all. What was my purpose? Would walking a mere couple of miles of what’s meant to be a life-altering expedition be lost on me?

The answer, dear readers, is no. In fact, I’m so glad I stuck with the otherwise backwards plan, and now I will finally tell you why.

If there’s anything I learned about cruising, it’s that there are a lot of bus rides, and as we boarded the first of many the next day from A Coruña, I met a woman named SK from Bend, Oregon.

“You’re the storyteller!” she said. “Have I got a story for you!”

Intrigued, I twisted my body around to peer at this woman who sat with her straw hat resting in the seat next to her, while her husband, George, sat in the row across. He piped in with a smile: “Oh yes, wait until you hear this!”

She proceeded to tell me that around 15 years ago, at age 65, she embarked on a sort of spiritual journey to walk part of The Way with her college roommate. Months prior, she’d been diagnosed with colon cancer and, as a Presbyterian pastor who also does hospice work, was looking for a miracle cure. With about $15,000 worth of chemo meds strapped to her pack, she and her friend set out with a group that walked 10 miles and then drove 40 miles of the Northern route from Bilbao, eventually ending up at the cathedral.

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If you haven’t already deduced, SK is now healthy, and here she was walking a part of that same path with her husband this time—and me, and many others from our group, as well as a few bikers and even some dogs.

I stayed close to SK and George as we followed the yellow arrows on wooden fences and the scallop shells embedded in gold plaques on the ground that directed us as we walked. Her wide-brimmed straw hat blocked out the sun, while a walking stick helped her navigate rocky ground and inclines; all the while, the silver and turquoise scallop charm she’d purchased for herself upon completion of her pilgrimage all those years ago shone around her neck.

While I didn’t have any sort of personal awakening during the all-too-short trek we embarked on that morning, when we arrived back at the cathedral—now having walked alongside this near-80-year-old cancer survivor as she strode hand-in-hand with her devoted husband of 48 years—I was reminded why we travel to begin with, and how short, but also blissfully long, life truly is—or can be if we let it. We seek to learn and feel and transform and to make the most of whatever time we have, wherever we are, whether retracing steps or covering new ground. Whether starting at the beginning, the end, or somewhere in the middle. The act of doing it at all can and should be enough.

As we strode, sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting, the surrounding forest seemed to whisper these reminders with every subtle wind gust. The birdsong and scent of eucalyptus, coupled with cow manure, were a real awakening: life can be sweet, life can be truly shit. And then there was the endearing collective aspect of wishing those we passed a “Buen Camino” — the official greeting of The Way— which not only strengthened my desire to start the Camino, perhaps from the beginning one day; but bolstered my hope for humanity over all.

Even if I’d “spoiled” the wonder of viewing the cathedral first, where most people end, returning to the Plaza for a second time did feel a smidgen more gratifying now that I was wearing proper hiking pants (that I packed for this exact purpose, btw) and had worked up a small sweat. Maybe coming back to the cathedral a third time in the future after a more rigorous journey would be a charm. Maybe I wouldn’t end up there at all, choosing just a portion of the trail. Or maybe this minor effort would be it for me. Sometimes, that’s just the way it is.

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Clickable

• ‘The rise of the QTBAT’ aka ‘Queue to Buy a Treat.’ |

• Skater bois at Costco are ollie-ing their best lives. | The NY Times (gift link)

• NYC is aglow in orange — and it’s not just because of the Knicks. | Curbed

• On beauty and farming and keeping things real…and grey. |

• Now AI can sell your house, become an actress, and get you elected? Ugh. Make it stop! | Various/The NY Times (gift links)

• ‘Where have all the teenagers gone?’ | Air Mail

• Help the single ladies! (Should I outsource my love life, too?) |

• A thoughtful, but very long article no parent to toddlers I know will have time to read, about what toddlers should be watching. | WaPo

• In Paris for Roland-Garros? Check out these nearby neighborhoods. | CNT

• It’s just semantics…or is it? | The NY Times (gift link)

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Watchable: ‘This is a Gardening Show’

I HIGHly recommend watching the new show, aptly titled ‘This is a Gardening Show’ from Zach Galifianakis. You see where I’m going with that? No? OK, it’s a great watch while high. But I also think maybe it’s funny when not high? In fact, maybe you can even watch it with your kids! Hear me out: I can never tell if Zach is doing a bit or his bit is that he himself is funny, but either way, he makes me howl with laughter. Like, can-my-neighbors-hear-me? laughter. This new series is part-comedy, part-education, and just an entertaining watch. In each episode, everyone’s favorite fern lover interviews experts about a specific piece of produce or gardening concept and also interviews kids, which is always hilarious because kids, as we know, ‘say the darndest things.’ I can’t pick a favorite episode because they’re all good. Trust me on this one!

Listenable: ‘everyone for 10 minutes’

As a fairly new Bleachers fan (since last summer’s studio album), I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t get the meaning of their new album title; nor did I know where ‘Els’ was from my favorite new song, ‘Upstairs at Els.’ (Editor’s note: Els = Electric Lady Studio, thanks to OG Bleachers People Laura and Pete for that!) But I’m not ashamed to admit that, as much as I LOVE this album and have listened to it on repeat since its release, I find the cover…strange. What’s Jack doing? Lines on a table? Why is his shirt off? What’s happening? Anyway, I do love the record, though, and I’m even considering venturing to Jersey to see them, which for a Long Island is really something.

Souvenir: Black Light Posters

Last week, I visited The Brant Foundation in the East Village to see Keith Haring’s work, which was on display within the gallery’s four gorgeous floors. While there, I discovered some of the pieces he made for blacklight viewing, which reminded me of high school when I had many-a-black-light poster (and stars on the ceiling, natch).

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Quick recap: This April, I boarded a 76-room Xbow ship called the Greg Mortimer as its “Master Storyteller.” Each night, I gave presentations about some of the destinations we’d be visiting, which ranged from big cities like Lisbon and Amsterdam to smaller towns like La Rochelle and Bruges.

In some instances, I had time to myself to roam, and you know what happens when I have time to myself to roam? I eat, I shop, and I flash invaders. You are likely not as into the latter (and if you have no idea what I’m talking about, read this article and this article), but I bet you’re interested in some of the places I ate and shopped.

So, should you find yourself in any of the below cities for a short while in the near future, check out these endorsed-by-me spots. Paris will get its own post in a few weeks, but I’ve included a petite preview at the end.

Heads up: You may need to clickthrough to read the whole post if receiving this in your inbox.

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Lisbon, Portugal

It’d been a while since I visited the Portuguese capital, but this trip showed me how serious they are about brunch and coffee. Since it’s where I landed after an overnight flight from New York, with nearly two full days to myself, this was a welcome discovery for my jet lag.

Where to Eat, Drink, and Caffeinate

Hello, Kristoff - I passed by one of their three cafés and declared it cute before returning for an open-faced sandwich and ice coffee. Super bright and spacious.

Liberty - It’s a bookstore/café and also a great spot to sit for a while with your computer if you need to. Plus, the breakfast sandwich with scrambled eggs, pastrami, pickled fennel, and mustard will set you straight for the day, and I loved the espresso tonic with hints of grapefruit and rosemary.

Tricky’s - I did what I always do when traveling: reach out to friends who have been to the city recently, but also check . In doing so, I deduced Tricky’s would be my one “splurge”-ish dinner and it didn’t disappoint, not just because it was delicious, but because they halve portions for solo diners allowing you to sample a lot for a reasonable price.

doBeco - I could’ve sat at this sunny café for hours. If only the insanely delicious speciality drink I ordered (an iced latte with tahini and sesame) lasted longer than a few sips. They also make their own bread and have some super sweet merch.

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Bibs - I passed this cute spot on my way to doBeco, and had grand plans to return for one of their sandwiches, but it just didn’t happen. The inside looked like a super charming diner, and their sandwiches (such as roast beef with burrata, coppa di Parma, chimichurri, cheese, and kale) sounded divine.

Amun Cafe - This craft coffee spot was a block (up hill) from my hotel. I wouldn’t necessarily stay in this area again — closer to the river is better — but at least there was a great cold brew nearby.

Pomme Eatery - I didn’t eat here, but discovered it halfway up the aforementioned hill, in between my hotel and Amun, and made a note to return. Someone from the cruise dined here, though, and gave it a thumbs up.

Where to Shop, Shop, Shop

Embaixada - Do not ask me how to pronounce the name of this multi-floor concept space that houses various independent Portuguese fashion and accessory brands in an old mansion. I remember going here 10+ years ago on my first trip, and the building itself is as impressive as the designers selling their wares inside, which include Hirundo sneakers and Latitid swimwear.

LX Factory - You could easily spend an entire day at this former textile manufactory-turned-mini-mall in the neighborhood of Alcântara, a bit outside the city center and easily accessible via tram or bus. Come for street art, unique food and drink, and under-the-radar crafts and independent designers such as Vera Manzoni (for unique jewelry) and Dreamcatchers (for dip-dyed marble dresses).

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Brus - If, like me, you want to purchase every handmade ceramic mug you see, you’ll have a hard time resisting the well-priced ones at this lovely little shop. I got one and then proceeded to use it daily on the cruise for my morning cuppa!

MADEPORELAS - I discovered this brand (and its friendly designer) at the end of my first day bopping around the city outside the Jardim Franca Borges and across from Embaixada. I am such a sucker for anything locally designed and made — plus I was looking for a new unique pair of sunnies that were also polarized, so score!

Tania Gil - Y’all know I have a thing for cockles (littleneck clams), so when I discovered this lovely jeweler whose necklaces, earrings, and bracelets all featured shells, I couldn’t resist a gold-plated clam necklace. It’s now part of the pile-up on my neck!

Porto, Portugal

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If I told you it was exhausting to be aboard a 17-day cruise up the North Atlantic coast of Europe you’d probably throw a Mai Tai in my face and tell me to take a long walk off a short pier. Especially if I also told you my expenses were paid, and I was getting a day rate. You’d even be forgiven for thinking such a job is almost too good to be true. I know I did.1

Back in early February, when I first received an email (sent through my website’s “contact” form), the opportunity confounded me: “We are looking for a Master Storyteller for a voyage we have coming up in April. Please email me if you are interested and potentially available! I think you would be a perfect fit!”

I hadn’t done any cruise-writing (or actual cruising, for that matter), so I couldn’t imagine what the role entailed or why they thought I’d be a “perfect fit.” I am nothing if not self-effacing and unworthy, despite actually being worthy and working my ass off for something like this for over two decades, so forgive me for thinking it might be a hoax.

Things took a turn for the believable once we had a Teams meeting to discuss the opportunity, but until my flight was booked and I’d been assigned to a cabin on the 4th deck, I remained pragmatically dubious like any self-employed, anxiety-ridden Jewish New Yorker would. (And, yes, I’ve been unpacking this with my therapist.)

The specifics of the job were somewhat open to interpretation, but essentially, my role involved giving nightly presentations about the destinations we’d be visiting. The majority of them were in France, which is partly how and why I was sought out. In addition, I was to mingle with the passengers day in and day out when we disembarked at the various ports to, say, learn about the meaning of “MOF” (Meilleur Ouvrier de France) or navigate rows and rows of tulips in Amsterdam.

Then there were the midday and nightly meals, where I was to dine with the 115 or so passengers from the likes of Kentucky and Alabama to Texas, Oregon, and Ohio. By the time we’d gotten to Belgium, I’d declared several of them as my “adoptive parents.”

The first person I met was Pamela, traveling with her friend Susan. Pamela was from Oregon, but one of her twin sons lives in Brooklyn and hence she became the first (and, shockingly, only) person to inquire about my single status: “Are you partnered up?” she asked, as we walked around Lisbon on the first day. It didn’t come up again, but I enjoyed catching her doing laps around the ship’s top deck later in the cruise.

There were the retired oboists from Michigan, Bailey and Robert, who have traveled to over 60 countries, and Mary and Jim from the Poconos, who love visiting aquariums in each city they go to.

I fell in love with SK from Bend, Oregon, the day we walked part of the Camino de Santiago in Spain. More on that in another post, but she and her husband George adorably called me “dear” and always sat front row in the lecture hall each night when I gave my talks.

Amidst an actual sea of Americans, Adrian and Cori (pronounced “Car-y” — an inflection she often corrected) stood out for simply being the loveliest of Australians and one of two couples traveling with a partner living with dementia and Alzheimer’s. “He doesn’t remember one day from another,” Cori told me one evening, while crocheting something yellow, “but I don’t want to leave him home.” My heart tugged a little every time I engaged in conversation with Adrian. His eyes were sad, but his body seemed to say: “Just keep swimming.”

Dana from Austin, whose drawn-in eyebrows were a shade that could only be classified as “black and blue,” asked me if I liked her jewelry while urging the server to pour her a third glass of white wine. “It’s Walmart!” she proudly declared. “I only wear Walmart when I travel.” She was traveling with her husband, the other man with Alzheimer’s, which she told people quietly to explain his passivity, and her friend Kit, a real pip who took to the hot tub each night with her wine.

My evening with the Kentucky ladies—including identical twins Kay and Clay—was a real hoot. They were traveling with Susan and Carole, a former librarian for “DAR” (Daughters of the American Revolution). They’ve all known each other for 20 years, and are avid readers and gardeners, so we spoke about mystery books and whether they thought their roses back home would survive without them.

I didn’t dine with Julia and Steve from Alabama, but I did learn that he’d discovered a blue footed boobie in their town, which was obviously quite rare. You could hear him wherever you were on the ship or off, as he had a hacking, phlegmy cough that I could only hope wasn’t Hanta.2

Missourians Kathleen and Bill were ballroom dancers traveling with their cousin Michael, an avid theater lover, with whom I properly geeked out when the Tony nominations were announced on our last day. “Kathy,” as she’s known, had the most adorable brown bob and bangs, wore bright colors, and loved Disney. We promised to all see a show on Broadway together one day with the oboists who “know their way around Carnegie Hall.”

It took me a few days to find the few fellow Jews aboard: Sharon and Joe from Maryland, whose son lives in Brooklyn with his family. But once I did, we fell into an easy, natural rapport. Sharon, with her little neck ties, was the most fashionable woman on the ship (Robert, the oboist, takes it for the men), and after I ordered a red wine, she changed her order to the same.

Catherine and Vern—originally from Nebraska, but now in Texas near their five sons and nine granddaughters!—bought me a piece of cheesecake in San Sebastian, and introduced me to a few other fun couples including Long Islanders, Jackie and Walt, who retained their “lawng-island” accent despite now living in California, and David and Donna, who don’t have kids, but have proudly hiked up Machu Picchu.

Lastly, I spent the most time with Susie and Alison, two widows who practically finished each other’s sentences. I’d find Susie in the gym each morning practicing yoga on the mat she brought with her, while Alison was always the first to ask questions or participate in some way on the daily tours.

I thought a lot about my actual parents throughout the journey, as they are the average age of all these folks: 74 and 76, respectively. (Though, there were a few just-retirees, and still-hanging-on-for-dear-lifers thrown in for impressively good measure.)

Whether or not my parents from Long Island, New York who have, in recent years, begun dabbling in cruising, would fit in with the demographic of this particular group was debatable. Mostly, it just seemed impossible for them to be my parents’ contemporaries. Southern drawls and politics aside (at least three asked me “how I like my new mayor”), many of them carried canes or walking sticks, wore hearing aids, and had white hair that could be mistaken for a dull periwinkle. It made me wonder: Are my parents…old? I can’t quite fathom it, tbh, but I suppose it’s the natural order of things and makes sense seeing as I am inching closer to 50 myself.

The two of them came into Brooklyn last week to hear all about my trip and help me assemble an outdoor table I got for my terrace—a feat not many people their age would volunteer for, let alone actually do. While my father and I twisted in screws and got an accidental sunburn, Mom sat inside, reading the weekend Times. Once we’d finished, I thought we might all go to Home Depot to get some flowers. (Read: So Dad could tell me which flowers had the highest chance of survival rate with me as their caretaker.)

They were tired, though. Brunch, complete with mimosas, and a 12-minute walk back and forth on a warm spring day, plus some physical exertion better suited for a Task Rabbit, was enough for one day. (Also, they had to feed the dog.)

“I wasn’t supposed to drink or be in the sun with the pills I’m on,” said my Dad, ever the concerned patient who despises medication beyond anything, ahem, grown naturally.

I couldn’t help but think he sounded like my cruise “parents.”

But the strange thing about spending nearly two weeks with people mostly 20 or 30 years older than you is that eventually they stop seeming “old.” They are just amplified versions of themselves: the widow who loves yoga so much she travels with her own mat; the former pastor who survived cancer and hikes the Camino; the fashionable Jewish grandmother who orders red wine; the ballroom dancer who adores Disney; the theater geek who can confidently predict the Tony nominees; the gardeners who worry about their flowers back home.

Given that I’ve spent my whole life with my parents, maybe that’s why their aging suddenly feels so abrupt. In my mind, Dad is still the person who smashed his birthday cake into his own face at his 40th party and can rip it on the dance floor, and Mom is still the person who has a second scotch and will walk thousands of steps around a foreign city, not complain, and then soak her feet in the toilet. That’s the disorienting thing about aging: the personality remains oddly intact while the body slowly begins making separate arrangements.

Maybe that’s why I came home so exhausted myself. Not because the trip drained me, though the days were long. But because it required a different kind of attention. Not just storytelling, but story listening. It asked me to notice all the nouns. The people, the places, the things, the stories—theirs and mine!—more carefully. To recognize that aging doesn’t flatten us into caricatures of old fuddy duddies. If anything, it distills us into more concentrated, effervescent versions of who we are and aspire to be: more openly sentimental, more set in our ways, more honest about loneliness, pleasure, love, fear, desires, grief.

Cruises, it turns out, are less about escape than proximity: to other people, to the accumulation of their lives, and, perhaps a little uncomfortably for me, to one’s own future. But I have to say: the view ain’t bad. I think (hope!) my parents—adoptive and real—would say the same.

What a ride.

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Also overthinking this week…

…outdoor furniture…Memorial Day sales and deals…whether to commit to monthly, biweekly or daily contacts this year…

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• Oh, so that’s how to win Jeopardy. | The Atlantic

• Follow these rules of befriending a friend’s friend. | Air Mail

• The ‘girl’ du jour: Lena Dunham has eccentricities and haters. | The Guardian

• The merits and complications of leaving America. | The Bitter Southerner

• Ashes to sea in Antarctica: a mother’s dying wish. | NY Times Magazine (gift link)

• Nobody’s right/wrong, everybody’s right/wrong re: Love Story. |

• Would you read aloud with strangers? | The NY Times (gift link)

• When there are too many cooks—and cats—in the kitchen. | Air Mail

• AI is going to break us — and our relationships. |

• How to vacation when you travel for a living. | NY Times Magazine (gift link)

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It’s a sad week for late night with the final Late Show with Stephen Colbert airing last night. There have been some incredible performances, guests, and tributes over the past few weeks, but I especially appreciated David Byrne’s “Burning Down the House”—complete with Stephen’s groovy dance moves.

It’s also a sad moment for 60 Minutes who’s losing journalist giant Anderson Cooper after 20 years. This 17+ minute composite about his time on the groundbreaking show offers just a glimpse at his talent, empathy, and drive.

Souvenir: Wayne’s World

I’m not sure who agreed to allow the radio to play aloud in the office each, but it’s often a mix of songs like “I’m Walking on Sunshine,” “Like a Prayer,” “Paradise City,” and “Man in the Mirro.” Sometimes it’s annoying and in go the AirPods, but other times I get really into the nostalgia like yesterday when Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on. It took me straight back to High School when Garth and Wayne repopularized the banger in Wayne’s World the movie based on their popular SNL sketch. Party on!

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Zimmi’s

72 Bedford Street, West Village / Mon.-Sun. 5-11p.m.

Les infos

Located on, quite possibly, the most charming intersection of the most charming neighborhood in Manhattan—Bedford Street and Commerce Street in the far West Village—you’d be forgiven for thinking this place has, like the area’s crooked cobblestones, been there forever. But, in fact, it opened at the end of 2024. Like any Parisian bistro worth its sel, they’ve got discreet half-curtains in the window, allowing the light in while keeping curious passersby out.

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Rue Saint Paul

313 Court St., Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn / Tues.-Fri., 11-7p.m.; Sat. & Mon. 10a.m.-7p.m., Sun. 10a.m.-6p.m.

Les infos

With a name like Rue Saint Paul, which—newsflash, is not only a street in Paris, but a street in Paris’s popular bobo shopping district, le Marais—I obviously had to pop into this boutique, which is located on an equally popular shopping street in an equally bobo-meets-yuppie Brooklyn neighborhood. Its window display of baskets, feathers, and colorful denim drew me in.

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I’m the first to admit I can be…particular. About a lot of things, but especially where I eat. It’s not just about what I’m putting into my body; the flavors, nutritional value, price, etc. But the feeling of the space where it’s served, how it’s served, and its location. In an ideal first-world, all of these things line up.

I know I’m not alone in having high standards, especially when it comes to dining out. (See/read: Every food critic, ever.) But with the majority of my friends in New York, I sorta am. As a result, most of the time, they let me choose the restaurant, which I appreciate. But also…PRESSURE!

Anyway, I don’t want today’s letter to be a diatribe lest it not end up in your inbox at all, so I’ll just say this is how I found myself feverishly overthinking where to get a sip and a snack yesterday, before a show that my friend and I purchased tickets to two hours before curtain. If you are a New Yorker who likes the theater, this is probably something you hate-do quite often: panic search for where to eat in the city’s most meh neighborhood.

My friend did the dirty work of going to the TKTS booth (in Lincoln Square, at least, where it’s devoid of lines and tourists), so she was likely idling outside in the cold waiting to be told where to go, as I sat comfortably on a warm train, scrolling in search of the perfect spot. (I’M SORRY. I CAN’T HELP IT. DON’T HATE ME.)

After locating the theater on Google Maps and checking some of the stars I’d saved nearby, I fired up the app. Having written for them a bunch, I know to trust them as a source because they dine anonymously and tell it like it is, so I texted Rebecca a few options. After spending double what we’d intended to on tickets (orchestra seats, tho!), the goal was cheap — and quick. We had about an hour. Save for choosing something like Los Tacos or a slice, you are (sadly) going to spend at least $50 in NYC if you’re also drinking, which I was because my new pre-theater party trick is an espresso martini. (Enough buzz to settle me after a long day, but enough jolt to keep my head from bobbing before we even get to intermission.) We agreed on a place called Dutch Freds, which had a varied menu of “small bites” and “big bites” ranging from $12 on the low end to $27 on the high end, some of which were gluten-free, all of which were of the “bar food” variety (sliders, fries, dips, etc. etc.)

When I rocked up and saw the fake flowers, my heart sank. Whyyyyyyyy do places think this is appealing? Fake anything is…fake and speaks volumes for a place’s priorities. (My favorite story to tell about this is when I washed my hands in the bathroom of a restaurant on Long Island only to find they’d put Dove soap inside an Aesop container! YOU CAN’T FOOL SOMEONE WITH GOOD TASTE!)

Despite fake flowers actually costing a pretty penny because of their “longevity,” I personally think it says: cheap. But I digress because there were also an offensive amount of twinkle lights and flags for St. Patrick’s Day. None of these design elements appeals to me, but there was no turning back. My aesthetic standards didn’t stand a chance against our hunger and the ticking clock.

Friends, I will not beat around the bush any longer: It was great. The espresso martini was cold and served with the requisite three coffee beans in a coupe (not an old-school martini glass — la classe!), and the chopped kale salad was chopped evenly, fresh, and full of other crunchy bits like apples and pecans. What’s more, the sweet potato fries came with both a fiery aioli and ketchup without my having to ask. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised, since I did find it on , but those damn fake flowers threw me off. All of which to say: Sometimes I will eat my words and snobby preconceptions along with a kale salad, sweet potato fries, and an espresso martini. Would I go back? Given the same circumstances, maybe! It served a purpose.

Here’s to having high ideals and occasionally being humbled by them. Bon week-end, friends. Lots of goodies for you below. xx — Sara

Also overthinking this week…

…what U.S. city to see Bleachers in (contenders: Philly and SF)…

Clickable

• Notes from a Jewish preschool Mom. |

• Do you have a WhatsApp group in your building? | (Me for) Curbed

• Passion first, fame and money later. Create to create. |

• That time I hiked nearly a whole island in Spain. | (Me for) AFAR

• A fun take on Partiful, committing, and birthday celebrations. |

• Commodifying “Free Time” — a fantastic parody. | McSweeney’s

• A PSA for CBK minimalist fans. |

• Inviting in synchronicity with long walks and friendships in France. |

• How to distinguish between your “inner voice” and “overthinking”, aka chatter. | WaPo (gift link)

• The hike date from hell that ended in an ‘alpine divorce.’ |

• What it was like wearing the headache-inducing headband CBK wore. | The Cut

• Style your ’fit around your zodiac sign in Venus. |

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If you’re not following ’s “Subway Takes,” this is your cue to get on that train. (You’re welcome for the pun.) This episode, featuring actor Sterling K. Brown’s hot take that Red Delicious apples are not, actually, delicious, is so niche (and spot-on). His opinion that Honeycrisps are the best apple is also…correct.

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I don’t know Rosalia’s music all that well, so maybe this performance shtick with what appear to be mimes is par for the course for her. Either way, it’s freakin’ cool — especially in an age when AI is taking over. Here’s something no bot could ever do.

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Souvenir: Kangol Cap

Ryan Murphy’s FX production, Love Story, has caused all sorts of uproar about papparazi protocol, NYC nostalia, and, of course, fashion trends—including the ubiquitous Kangol hat. Hence, today I’m throwing it back to this flat cap best worn backwards, which John-John gave some major street cred to in the ’90s. Who among your guy friends rocked one?

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French Friday is a new series for Francophiles and/or anyone with an opinion and good taste by moi, a former almost-Parisienne for nine years and other almost-or-actual-Frenchies that know their ‘oof’ from their ‘bof.’ The goal? To rate venues outside France on their Frenchness. Plus, an ‘en plus’ section with like-minded recommendations in France itself. On y va!

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Bibliotheque

54 Mercer Street, SoHo | Sun–Thurs., 10a.m.–10p.m., Fri–Sat, 10 a.m.–11 p.m.

Les infos

Let me start by reminding you that I judge based on a place’s Frenchness — and French this is not. The name, yes. (But technically, “bibliotheque” means “library” in French, while bookstores are called…wait for it…librairies.)

They do have a few sad-looking pastries kept in a small glass-covered box up on the bar, but save for that, this one-size-fits-all concept for bibliophiles (or those who pretend to be) would not pass muster in the land of Sartre, Hemingway, and the woman who gathered them all in her salons, Gertrude Stein.

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🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: St. Jardim

183 W 10th St, West Village, NY / Mon. 7:30-5 p.m.; Tues.-Thurs. 7:30-11 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. 7:30-midnight; Sunday 8 a.m.-10 p.m.

Les info

Franchement, to be honest, there aren’t many places in France or beyond that do coffee and wine very well. I know what you’re thinking: What about every corner café open continuously all day long with the rattan chairs and harried waiters? Yeah, those places serve coffee and wine, but their offerings don’t tend to be very…curated or high-quality. When La Fontaine de Belleville opened many years ago, les bobos rejoiced at finally being able to arrive during le matin for a really good filtre or for apéro for a glass of fruit-forward grenache. Sadly, they closed, and while a few spots replaced their likeness in Paris, doing both well remains rare.

Which is why this corner cafe in New York City is such a gem and feels super French in that “is it or isn’t?” knowing way — and the hipsters, or whatever they’re calling the bobo equivalent these days, are onto it. (See: hard-to-get tables at all hours.)

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There are people who like to play in the snow. And there are people who like to look at it. Can you guess which one I am?

During the (second) great Blizzard of 2026, I didn’t have to go far to engage if I wanted to. There was at least a foot of snow out on my balcony, but the thought of stepping onto it and falling backwards to make a snow angel didn’t occur to me until after I’d changed from my day pajamas to my night pajamas. And even then, those thoughts were: “That would make such a mess on the way back in,” and also, “Do I really want to look at an outline of my body for the next three weeks?”1

I did eventually go out. At around 3 p.m. on Monday, I threw on my HeatTek gear from Uniqlo and stepped into my sheepskin-lined Uggs with no destination in mind.

I barely made it around the block.

Some of the sidewalks were only half-shovelled, leaving a hardened slush better suited for swizzles on skates and someone with Alysa Liu’s dexterity.

Nearly everyone I saw either had a shovel in their hand or a dog or a kid by their side. All I had was my I.D. in my pocket and the new Mumford & Sons album in my ears.

Those people had purpose; I had curiosity. Still worthy, to be sure. But not enough to trump what else I had: anxiety and intolerance. The trees were pretty to look at with their drooping branches covered in powder, but they also seemed like they’d crack at any second. I didn’t feel like dying alone under a pile of snow on a one-way street in Bed-Stuy, so I opted to return home.

Also? I don’t like the cold. I don’t like being wet. I don’t like finding hardened, week-old tissues in the pocket of my coat and wiping my nose with my gloves instead. I don’t like having to wear gloves at all, let alone layers and hats that make my hair look limp and feel itchy because it’s been on for so long.

I had to remind myself of these admittedly sour indifferences as I lay there on the couch, with my curry-flavored potato chips from Trader Joe’s, scrolling through account after account of New Yorkers rolling giant snowballs and fashioning giant snowmen and sticking their face in giant snowmounds. Just. For. Fun.

“I love NY,” wrote one caption. “NYC at its best,” wrote another.

I double-tapped them all and shared a few as the FoMo radiated off my been-warm-for-hours-on-the-couch-with-snacks skin despite knowing that someone else’s fun is always another person’s meh. Beautiful, heartwarming, and soul-tingling, oui. But brrrr pass me some hot chocolate, please!

Determined to get to the bottom of my snow-way José attitude, I went to the source and the ultimate Winter Lover, my Mom.

“We always went out and played in the snow,” she said. “We’d watch movies, bake cookies, and drink hot chocolate…”

“Mom, the majority of those activities are indoors.”

We laughed. She reminded me that we also went to the nearby park with sleds, which she was sure I enjoyed. I thought of Calvin, who enjoys the beach, but doesn’t enjoy staying in a wet bathing suit outside the body of water that got him wet to begin with. Would this California kid be down with this kind of dampness?

Mostly, though, I remember the clothing. Freaky Freezies (or was it Freezy Freakies?), and their lack of any mobility, at least changed colors once you put snow on them. But those thick snowsuits with stirrups that required putting the socks on first, lest the snow creep over and in? So uncomfortable. Meanwhile, 40+ years later, I somehow ended up with a similar hat.

As a teenager in the mid ’90s, I tried to embrace winter by taking up snowboarding thanks to my first love, a blue-eyed artist from a few towns over who was already adept at the still-new sport. Somehow, after a few trips to nearby slopes covered in fake snow, I convinced my parents to buy me a board and all the Burton accoutrements. Eventually, they’d end up covered in a layer of dust in the attic after the blue-eyed boy broke my heart, and I subsequently broke my wrist when I attempted to “teach” my brother how to ride some years later. My problem? I never had “No Fear,” which is what the Stussy shirts that all the boarders (and us wannabes) wore, declaring it as a prerequisite for success.

Let’s also not forget the time in college—Syracuse University, mind you, which was more prone to serious snowfalls than where I grew up on Long Island—when I drove the backroads to a mountain one weekend and hit a dog who came out of nowhere. The fucking worst. Still makes me shiver.

In recent years, most of my romps with the white stuff were accidental or adjacent. Hikes in Sicily, Peru, and Wales took me to elevations where I suddenly found myself faced with flakes (accidental). While a glamorous work trip aboard the Orient Express took me to the French Alps, where I did little but sip vin chaud on a mountaintop (adjacent), and a late-spring dumping in Lake Tahoe showed that yes, Ms. Swift, snow on the beach is “weird but fucking beautiful” (accidental/adjacent).

I suppose if Dolly and Cal lived nearby, or any of my friends did, I’d be more apt to partake. Then again, I’m also not one to shy away from doing anything alone, or acting like a kid even without a kid around. Maybe I’m just a 47-year-old who much prefers sand in her bathing suit to snowflakes on her eyelids. In other words, the snow equivalent of people who come to yoga for savasana. I think the proper term for it is aprés ski, but I don’t ski (or snowboard, as it were), so let’s go with aprés snow. I am firmly on Team Aprés Snow! (But sans any clothing that states as much.)

On Tuesday, after a serious case of I-Ate-Too-Many-Chips took hold, I decided it was time to bask in the aprés snow by leaving the house for some exercise, fresh air, and, yes, to mingle with the merrymakers. Or, at least, their masterpieces. By this point, the sidewalks were in much better shape on my way to a nearby park, which had been dubbed “Snowman’s Alley” and “Snowmanhenge” on social media. While I’m sure it would’ve warmed my heart to see all the artists at work the day before, and to witness their glee and delight IRL rather than on a screen, this decidedly quieter after-effect was full of its own kind of joy.

I carefully shuffled through the park, mesmerized by all of the finished sculptures, most of which were fully intact. I saw mermaids and minions. Igloos and pyramids. A Snoopy and a snake. Frosty and Frosty’s friend with a scarf, and, of course, a carrot for a nose. It felt like being at a museum, which is far more my style than the slopes or a subway staircase covered in precarious precipitation. At first, I stuck to the perimeter. To the walkways designated for voyeurs. Then, not wanting to miss one, I decided to hop the small fence and zig-zag through the works themselves on the lawn, only to discover more and more, and to see their every curve and detail. What effort! And what perfect inspiration for this writer who, in the winter at least, is more comfortable basking in that aprés snow glow inside at the keyboard, writing about all she sees, feels, and thinks.

Also overthinking this week…

…whether my (overuse of my) phone is causing the headaches I’ve been having…which limited pre-sale seats to get for the Mumford & Sons tour in NYC…

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• The resistance is in the carpool. | The NY Times (gift link)

• On losing teenage idols and staying present. |

• Investigating “Ski Girlies.” | Air Mail

• When rooting for the home team means also rooting for the away team. | The NY Times (gift link)

• Fashion Week: What does it all even mean? |

• Recapping a life in magazines. The desire is real! |

• Watch ‘The Pitt,’ get an empathy exam. | The NY Times (gift link)

• Prepare to be amazed by these 50 people shaping society. | WaPo (gift link)

• The importance of “expertly curated experiences.” |

• “The Post has always been a writers’ paper, a newsroom so thoroughly scrappy that simultaneously anything seems possible.” | The Atlantic

• Why are we optimizing out of ‘the middle’? |

• How you wear your scarf dictates your age. | The NY Times (gift link)

• “Whatever you’re doing today, that is your life.” | The Cut

• The dating profile prompt that will at least get laughs and likes. | Food & Wine

• Alysa Liu “moves like water on a frozen surface.” | The NY Times (gift link)

  Look at all those gift links! Consider upgrading your subscription to OI as a gift to me! :)

Watchable

I love love love that it’s Kate Hudson singing “California Dreamin’” as a promo for the LA Olympics in 2028. Not any other number of pretty young SoCal singers. But a 46-year-old Mom, mostly known for rom-coms and being a Nepo Baby from a star-studded family (of talents, no doubt). She is finally — finally! — getting the recognition she deserves following her award nominations for her role in Song Sung Blue. (Let it be known that I’ve been a fan since Almost Famous, which is my all-time favorite movie.) Well played, Olympic Committee, well played.

On Repeat: “Prizefighter” by Mumford & Sons

“I like the new Mumford, though all their music sounds kinda similar,” texted my sister after I urged her to listen to the sixth studio album, Prizefighter, which dropped a week ago today. To which I wrote: “💯” And “that’s why I love them! Reliability is good!”

She agreed and days later also became obsessed with the song “Badlands” sung with singer-du-jour Gracie Abrams. I’ve had the whole album on repeat for days now, and can confidently say it’s another banger with other songs such as “Conversations With My Son” and “Prizefighter” among those I’ve been caught singing aloud on the subway, in the shower, and, likely, in my sleep.

Souvenir: Popples

I’m editing the newsletter , and just this week we published a wonderful feature on a woman who runs two companies, has four kids, and is the very definition of Getting Shit Done. In it, she expressed that the best part of her day is when she’s rearranging her kids’ Jellycats. Friends, I didn’t know what a Jellycat was while editing that piece, but I obviously looked them up and was instantly reminded of Popples. Maybe it’s not quite like-for-like, but remember the stuffed somethings that folded into themselves to become a ball for some unknown reason? They weren’t quite as personality-driven as Care Bears, or even as endearing as today’s Jellycats, but they were still sweet. Pretty sure my sister had one. Did you?

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To banish any freaky Friday-the-13th fear, and to honor tomorrow’s Hallmark celebration of love, I’m bringing you an extra special (and final free) French Friday — and serving it up with a sweet discount:

Become a paid subscriber and get 15% off your annual subscription. Offer ends Sunday.

Paid subs get access to French Fridays, Haiku Reviews, travel and restaurant recommendations, and to feel good about supporting my independent writing efforts!

Won't you be my Valentine?

Before we get into it, a reminder of the rating system:

🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Lysée

44 E. 21st Street, Flatiron / Mon.-Thurs., 11 a.m.-6 p.m.; Fri. & Sat., 11 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sun., 11 a.m.-7 p.m.

Les infos

In NYC, when you want something sweet — be it a quick something or a more elaborate treat to bring to a gathering — you generally opt for cookies from Levain, cupcakes from Magnolia, donuts from Fan Fan, anything left from Radio Bakery after waiting in a giant line, ungodly expensive ice cream from Van Leeuwen or Anita, or a box of Italian cookies from any old-school Italian bakery include “jelly,” “lace,” and “rainbow” cookies (my personal favorite).

In France, you pick up les patisseries, be it something seasonal like a Bûche de Noël or a Galette des Rois, or minis that may include eclair, choux, or any number of other delectable desserts that pastry chefs such as Cédric Grolet, Cyril Lignac, or Yann Couvreur train their whole lives to craft for your enjoyment. These pieces are art forms and quite literally almost too pretty to eat.

So when I learned of the so-dubbed “gallery of confections” from Eunji Lee, a Korean chef who trained under Alain Ducasse and one of the aforementioned pros, I made it a point to pop in — and I brought along a bona fide Frenchie who happened to be visiting New York at the time: of the wonderful Franglais newsletter .

Not only can you dine in at this enchanting spot, but you can even order from a menu! (Booking a table is also an option, but be advised: There are only a few.) In Paris, most bakeries are grab-and-go. Unless you’re at a restaurant or a hotel, you’re not eating fancy desserts like this elsewhere but à la maison. I either had to eat my treat back up-up-up at chez moi, find a park bench somewhere, which I often did with a choux from Popelini, or wait until the end of an inevitably long dinner party — including the cheese course. These desserts deserve a starring role, more than a lap, and should be handled (admired, photographed, etc.) with care, so I appreciated being able to sit and indulge!

Lee’s offerings change with the seasons, like any legit bakery in France (her Valentine’s Day treat features “Korean winter strawberries”… in New York 🤨), but she also has a few signatures, including the flower-shaped Lysée, which she describes as a “delicate harmony of Korean brown rice mousse, pecan praline, and sable.” While creations can cost upwards of $28 a pop for the millefeuille for two (in France, you won’t pay more than €12 max), they are, at least, a delight; a real special occasion splurge for your taste buds. Like, you know, that special holiday known for sweets and love and all that.

Le rating 🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖

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EN PLUS

When in France…

• Favorite Paris Pastry Shops,

• Mangez Bien: Only Choux, Yours Truly

• Paris Pastry Shops to Love,

• The Pastry Palaces of Paris, for Air Mail

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Rebienvenue, or welcome back, to French Friday. As a reminder, each week, I briefly dissect a spot outside le bleu/blanc/rouge that claims to be French — or maybe doesn’t, but achieves it naturally — and rate it for its authenticity:

🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: French York

98 Thompson Street, SoHo; Mon.-Sat., 11 a.m.-7 p.m.; Sunday, noon-6 p.m.

Les infos

Back in France, my dear friend Amy and I used to politely make fun of the French and their misuse of the English language and American puns.1 We even had a shared photo folder called “Bad Franglais” featuring a variety of poorly-worded puns we saw around town. Some gems included “Titty Market,” “Chicken’s King,” “Yolo Baby,” “Presty Women,” and “And& Co.”

All of which to say, this darling boutique in SoHo gets off on the French pied (foot) just by the mere fact that they’ve called themselves “French York.” Bless them, as Amy would say. (Amy, who also deals in words as a copywriter, is from the south.)

While I might have gone with something like New York Cité, NYLycée, or The Big Pomme, they’re forgiven because it does the trick. Plus, it’s otherwise such a sweet store full of Frenchie-themed items from an actual French designer. Beyond simple “bonjour” sweatshirts, there’s “oh putain!” (oh fuck), “Salut, New York,” and they even tap into their Syrian heritage with beanies, socks, and more featuring phrases in Arabic such as “yalla” and “habibi” — all of which you hear regularly on the streets of cities in France.

Their demo is clearly very niche — how many people will be drawn to a shirt that says “see you in Paris” on the front and “or in New York?” on the back?2 — and while some are a bit cheesy (I’m looking at you “la vie en rose”), they’re honest and super fun. Duman started the brand in 2018 following her arrival in New York, but only just opened the brick-and-mortar shop a few months ago.

In addition to clothing items, all of which are manufactured in California with the embroidery work done in New York, they sell scarves (trés French), simple stud earrings, artwork featuring visual representations of the two cities (expect lots of croissants), and some beauty items, too.

To be honest, I feel like it’s all exactly what many tourists visiting Paris might want to bring back to New York. I won’t tell anyone if you get your “souvenir” in SoHo.

Le rating 🥖🥖🥖

EN PLUS

When in France…

Some actually French, like-minded resources:

• 28 Places for Shopping in Paris, CNT

• The Most Popular ‘It’ Bag in Paris, AFAR

• Unpacking Paris as a Fashion Capital,

• A Style Icon’s Expert Shopping Guide to Paris, BBC

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People ask me all the time: “Why, Sara???? Why??? Why America?? Why now???” I’m going to politely direct those of you new here to the following posts:

But the tl;dr for anyone who doesn’t have time or interest in going down the rabbit hole is: “it was just time”, and also “it’s personal”, and also “family”, and also “logistics.”

Two years on, all of those answers remain valid, and I still have zero regrets, especially as I finally settle into a new Brooklyn apartment following over a year of lingering in the messy middle.

Am I often embarrassed by the country I now live in? Yes. Do I think things would be better in France? I don’t know, maybe? Certainly different. But that’s always a given, anywhere. Everything is relative and circumstantial. There are no guarantees, here, there, and everywhere. Even The Beatles knew that.

Before last Saturday’s events in Minneapolis, I began writing a post about one of the main differences between France and the U.S. that I’ve come face-to-face with recently: America’s “more is more” mentality. I still think it’s worth getting into; however, now there’s a new, surprisingly lovely twist, which I didn’t consider before.

First, though, let’s start with Exhibits A, B, and C:

Last week, I popped into McDonald’s. Not a thing I’ve typed, let alone done in…I don’t know…a long time. (No judgement! Just the facts!) I hadn’t eaten breakfast before the long commute to the office and had a hankering for a hash brown. Not a hash brown AND an egg McMuffin. Not a hash brown AND a coffee. Just a hash brown. For that, it’d cost a whopping $4.25. BUT! If I wanted to ALSO get the egg McMuffin and a coffee, it’d only be $7.29. Can’t they just…make the hash brown cheaper? Why do they need to force us to spend more money to get something we don’t want that will likely kill us faster?

A few days later, I found myself in a local coffee shop near chez moi that advertised a pastry called “puff puff.” I’d never had or heard of a “puff puff” and wanted to try one. Just one. Not three. But if I wanted to try a “puff puff,” I had to purchase three. For $5. Meanwhile, the giant pile sitting behind the counter would one hundred per cent be tossed in no less than three hours. Why not just sell me one?

Cut to me at Victoria’s Secret — another place I don’t often frequent. I had a gift card, so there I was surrounded by lots of pink and red, trying to find the least offensive garments sans a VS logo. I found some super soft leopard-print leggings, and still had money left over, so I also picked up a pair of undies. The cashier informed me that it made more sense to get 5 undies for $32 rather than just the one for $12.50. My credit was only for, like, $10, which meant then I’d be spending even more money. Friends, I fell for it! (I do love a deal.) But I didn’t NEED FIVE NEW UNDIES! (You’re welcome for using the word ‘undies’ now four times.)

WHY IS AMERICA LIKE THIS? WHY IS EVERYTHING SO CHER? WHY DO WE LIVE IN A MORE IS MORE SOCIETY?

In France, you could legit break apart a six-pack at the supermarket to buy just one can of beer if you wanted. Or get three courses for lunch at a restaurant for less than one at dinner — and every day, not just during Restaurant Week. Or buy a cauliflower as big as a bowling ball to feed an entire family for the cost of a bus ride across town. This makes it hard for me to accept that less is anything less than, well, more.

Until that is, help is needed. Then, more is most definitely more, as evidenced in Minnesota ever since ICE showed up uninvited. No one’s trying to sell anything there, so maybe it’s not quite apples to apples. But maybe that’s also the point: There’s no value exchanged but human decency, respect, and kindness. In which case, bring on The More, no silly deals or markdowns necessary.

It’s clear, based on the first-hand accounts of what’s going on in this city, which we can all see with our own eyes thanks to social media and, importantly, trusted journalists on the ground, that people are SHOWING UP for each other and their city in ways they are legally wont to do. This is heartening. This is courageous. This is healing and worth honoring — especially for its moreness. I found the following threads especially telling, and I hope you’ll click through:

I’m not sure how to wrap this up, other than to say we all make choices. To move from one country to another. To stand up for ourselves, our neighbors, and strangers on the street. To fall for a deal on some undies, to miss out on “puff puffs,” or buy a giant head of choufleur even if it won’t fit in your mini fridge because it’s cheap and too pretty to pass up. (True story.) Choice itself is universal to the decision maker, yet it’s also a currency not all decision makers can afford. So I suppose if we can lean into choosing more in the form of goodness for goodness’ sake without it being thrust on us; if we can all gather and yell and donate and document and boycott and…and…and…and…together, as a unified front, well that’s what I call a bargain without a pricetag. In other words, freedom. And I am here and grateful for it, wherever here/home may be.

Also overthinking this week…

…whether to say anything…what to say…how to say it…what really matters…where to make my spot on my new couch…whether the new stupidly expensive pillow that I bought for the kink in my neck that doesn’t want to unkink is worth it…

(We clearly contain multitudes!)

Clickable*

*As you’ll see via the hyperlinked publications in pink below, I’m spending a lot of time on Substack, where some really talented writers are publishing thoughtful work. Whether you subscribe to their letters or not, consider downloading the FREE Substack app to save your inboxes from overload and to be part of the conversation. In between what I send to you and publish here, you can find me on the Notes feed yapping about this and that!

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• A humanizing remembrance of hero Alex Pretti. | The Verge

• Informed ads have been superseded by science. | The Atlantic (gift link)

• Justice for the pumpernickel bagel! | Grub Street

• Precisely why I am a nervous hiker. And yet, up I go! | WaPo (gift link)

• It’s time to “friction-maxx.” | The Cut

• Why isn’t asking for help as easy as it is to give? |

• Changing the way we talk to ourselves makes all the difference. |

• What’s the difference btw LWH and SLH? Hotel collections, decoded. |

• Hello ! Lena Dunham exposes her social media alter ego. |

• How to forgive a country—or not. | Intelligencer/NY Mag

• Writing causes ambition anxiety even for successful authors. |

• Humans are miraculous. | WaPo (gift link)

• On titles and ambition. |

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Who knows how long ago Lady Gaga recorded this version of “Won’t You Be My Neighbor,” once sung by everyone’s favorite cardigan-wearing hero, Mr. Rogers, but its release couldn’t have come at a more perfect time—even if it’s part of a sponsored Super Bowl ad (cleverly for mortgage lender Rocket Redfin). “Mr. Rogers was so clearly someone who stood for something, and it is powerful to think of what he would say right now,” said Gaga in this BTS video of her rendition. I’ll be honest, at first it felt strange to hear the simplistic tune sung with such vibrato, but after a few plays, it’s hard not to feel the beauty and poignancy in it.

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Listers is a full-length documentary about bird watching, and it’s freakin’ hilarious. Basically, these two dudes learn about the annual competition to spot as many birds in North America in a year as they can and set out to beat the record. (I didn’t see the 2011 feature film, Big Year, with Owen Wilson and Steve Martin, but it’s basically that…just real.) From the guys’ deadpan, unscripted dialogue to the production graphics and stunning captures of some of the world’s most beautiful winged creatures, it’s a truly wild ride. I recommend watching it on a TV screen (and stoned if that’s your thing). I promise you’ll have a giant smile on your face throughout. Happy Birding!

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Souvenir: McGruff the Crime Dog

I recently went to the New York Transit Museum for the first time, which, after posting about it on Instagram, sparked an enthusiastic response from two very different groups of followers:

From most people in NYC, the majority of whom are Moms: “I spent the first 10 years of my kids’ life there!”

From everyone else, either not in New York or not a parent: “Wow, that’s so cool. I’ve been meaning to go!”

It is, indeed, a fantastic way to spend a cold afternoon: touring the old trains, gawking at past advertisements from various eras. One of them caught my eye: McGruff the Crime Dog from the “Tough on Crime” ads of the early ’80s. The campaigns urged citizens to help “take a bite out of crime.” Quite apropos, eh? Yesterday I made five easy calls to my state reps. (Seriously, so easy! They give you a script!) Be like McGruff!

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Hello! Rebienvenue to French Friday. As a reminder, I’ll briefly dissect a spot outside France that claims to be French — or maybe doesn’t, but achieves it naturally — and compare, contrast, and rate it for its authenticity:

🥖 = Mais non. (No)

🥖🥖 = Pas mal. (Not bad)

🥖🥖🥖 = Bon. (Good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Trés trés bon. (Very, very good)

🥖🥖🥖🥖🥖 = Parfait. (Perfect)

Le Spot: Welcome Home

1047 Bedford Ave, Brooklyn | Wed-Mon 8 a.m.-4 p.m.

Les infos

This corner spot in Bed-Stuy will catch your eye thanks to an outdoor wall emblazoned with a NYC skyline of pastries and baked goods. Perhaps a little on-the-nose for traditional French bakeries, which are not that clever and tend to be more formal or classic in decor and design, but here it’s trés cool and charmant. (Bonus points for it saying “Hot Bread” in the concrete by the door outside and for the collection of quirky carb- and food-forward candles on display inside.)

Most French bakeries don’t have seating, let alone free WiFi and quality coffee, but this year-old spot does, which is a delight for those of us who live nearby and work from home. That said, they lean into their Frenchness by occasionally being closed despite what Google says, resulting in a few “fuuuuuuks” upon showing up unannounced for a fresh focaccia sandwich.

I love that they have baguette sandwiches — despite the whopping $12.50 pricetag for what appears to be a half-size, but is actually just a mini-baguette. Every bakery in Paris offers baguette sandwiches, namely jambon et beurre (ham and butter), but there’s no mini-size. You can order the whole baguette sandwich or a baguette sandwich that’s been cut in half.

Here, the ham was a bit too maple-y for my taste, and they went a bit funky with the butter by adding chives, but I appreciated the cornichon garnish on top, and the baguette itself was perfection. More bonus points for not destroying the roof of my mouth, but still managing to retain some bite.

Their pastry selection costs between $5.50 and $7, and often causes much indecision on my part because they all look and sound so good. There’s often a sundried tomato, pesto, and feta pinwheel, a potato ranch danish, “the cinny” (a cinnamon bun — increasingly popular in France), and a classic kouigan amanm with a sign that says “pronounced ‘queen.’” That’s not how I’d say it, but that means nothing as it’s widely known as a tough one to pronounce and, well, I’m no French linguist. They reminded me of the options at Mamiche, Tapisserie, and The French Bastards, all bakeries in Paris, shaking up the game and trying less traditional flavor profiles.

In the three months I’ve lived in the ’hood, I’ve tried a variety of the pastries, but the American “cinny” and the French kouigan amanm are definitely top of their class.

Overall, I’m very pleased that there’s such a high-quality bakery so close to my house — wallet and thighs be damned!

Le rating 🥖🥖🥖🥖

EN PLUS

When in France…

• The 20 Best Bakeries in Paris, The Infatuation

• The 15 Best Patisseries in Paris, Eater

• The Best Paris Neighborhoods Most People Miss, AFAR

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