I thought August was supposed to be the slowest month of the year, but this summer is different. There’s that “Knicks in Five”-Mamdani’s New York-Fifa World Cup-Taylor Swift’s-wedding-magic crackling in the air. No one’s leaving. The eastern tip of Long Island is losing its luster. And on any muggy downtown night, there always seems to be something worth going to. What a delightful surprise!
I hope this isn’t too hubristic, too close-to-the-sun, too melting-wings of me to say, but I like to think that my being back in New York—running around with orchids in my hair and a beat-up light-blue Goyard bag that may or may not have a Siamese cat in it—is contributing to this electric spell of a summer. The world is healing, and it turns out that all along the antidote was all of us together in New York going to more parties. Why didn’t we think of this before?
