N and I walked out of the cinema disoriented after watching Backrooms — like we’d just woken up from a long nap and didn’t know what time it was or who we were. I was grateful, then, that I’d bought a ticket to Officially Ex’s EX’S PRIDE party at Honey’s. The thought of sitting at home alone, slowly turning every corner in my apartment and seeing every door as a portal to some terrible, liminal place freaked me out. I love horror, it’s my favorite genre, but I’m kind of easily affected.

On the train, N and I tried to decode what we just watched. I informed her I’d have a sigh of relief at this party, a couple of cocktails to ease the post-horror dizziness. Her phone was at 3% — but we made a plan for her to go home, charge up and eat and get ready, and meet me at Honey’s. She got off at Montrose and I got off at Jefferson, jeans hanging low on my hips, cheekbones bronzed.

I arrived 15 minutes after the event started; already thirty-some people waiting in line. I’d heard of the party from a new, gorgeous acquaintance named O, and her partner. O said the party would be filled with good-looking, chic dykes — they were right. I was thrilled to smell high-quality perfume, see glossed lips catching the light, heels clicking and button downs that were mostly unbuttoned. I always feel this rush of excitement in queer spaces, like I’m home, and can be the best version of myself, who also happens to be the hottest version of myself.

I sat at the bar, which had a foggy window peeking out onto the indoor dancefloor, which was empty. The DJ was going hard though: I wiggled my shoulders and moved my hips in my seat while I waited for the hot bartender to make my mezcal negroni. While I waited for N to arrive, I watched others arrive, enthralled by their outfits: a black bikini top with metal hardware, low rise jorts, and a racing jacket; a knit tank top dipped in silver and leather jeans; and standing next to me, a gorgeous blonde with a shimmery top, covered in large sequins, held together by delicate strings on either side of the top. I complimented her on her outfit and we talked about the party — how we’d never been to an Ex’s event, how she’d never been to Honey’s, how an acquaintance once threw a “10 Year Anniversary” party for her 10 years of living in NYC. I felt like a man because I was getting turned on just by talking to her. I pointed her in the direction of the bathroom when she asked, and she said she’d see me later, and I informed N via text of the exchange.

N arrived just a few minutes later, greeting me by the bar. I realized a woman had been standing there, waiting for a drink, and the excitement of seeing my friend had pushed her out of the way. I informed the bartender to take her drink order first. While she did that, I laid eyes on a woman with a perfect face, wearing a blue button down with her hair tied back. She reminded me of 070 Shake, which is to say I was very attracted to her. We chatted about soccer — Ecuador beat Germany 2-1, which was incredible, and Turkey beat the USA. We promised to run into each other later that night — her friends wanted to go upstairs.

When it was time for N and I to grab our drinks, the bartender informed us the woman behind us had paid.

N and I found her and thanked her — let’s call her W. An executive assistant to an investment banker and from Manhattan, I found her to be beautiful and with sturdy convictions, and a wonderful sense of humor. I told her I was excited to see 2 of the DJs in particular, and we went up to the rooftop to dance.

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Reggaeton, Latin house, it doesn’t get better than that. Alejandra Sabillón played Dansa by Klassik Frescobar and the mezcal negroni was hitting. N, W and I were up at the front shaking our hips and my knees were bent, ass inches from the floor. I watched a woman walk by with a cigarette in hand. I asked her for one and she informed me she rolled it. I followed her to a corner of the rooftop and she rolled it swiftly while she answered some of my questions. Name’s E, lives in Bed-Stuy, has picked up Djing after being a semi-famous child DJ on MTV.

“What?”

“Yeah, I played with some hip-hop legends…” she was rather shy and humble. She dropped some names I didn’t recognize but I believed her. I took her email down and said I’d like to interview her.

I returned to the dancefloor in time for Enur’s Calabria 2007. There’s a line to get onto the rooftop, slowly getting packed and W and N and I thanked our stars for getting here as early as we did. We went downstairs, still, out of curiosity — N grabbed us another mezcal-based drink — but the music wasn’t hitting the way we want it to, although the tracks were solid and the DJ seemed to be confidently transitioning in between them. We’re in the mood for Latin music, is all.

Upstairs, I ran into a woman I went on a date with once, but who I didn’t text ever again after that despite a hot makeout session outside of the wine bar we drank 2 glasses at. She had told me at the beginning of the date she had plans afterwards, but I guess she liked me enough to reveal she actually didn’t have plans and wanted to keep spending the evening with me. I didn’t appreciate this — commit to a 2 hour date if you want to be a person with boundaries, don’t make spur-of-the-moment decisions based on how well the date goes! — so I remember making a decision not to text her. I guess she remembered that because she said hello to me awkwardly and I realized she was with a woman who might e her girlfriend, and I say this not to be mean but to be honest: I was waaaay hotter and better-dressed than her, not to mention not white. Minutes later I feel someone pushing up against me and it’s them, making out quite furiously. I didn’t realize someone could hold a grudge for that long, but I do admit I’ve done some interesting things after no-text-backs.

I started to yawn and get hiccups. W wagged her finger at me and demanded I purchase another drink, so I did. A mezcal negroni for N and a mezcal soda for myself. It takes only fifteen minutes. All of this gets written off my taxes, thanks to this Substack.

W, N and I made some new friends. A group of friendly, cool women who like to dance. k.tea came on for her set and started to play soulful mixes, including multiple Beyonce tracks, and when Pyramids by Frank Ocean came on the whole rooftop was vibing. I’ve never been to a party with men that has ever emitted the kind of beautiful, strong, ethereal energy emanating from that rooftop last night.

O informed me that she and her partner were arriving. When I saw them, I was floored by how stylish they were, and was reminded of how good they smell. O asked N if she’s gay, N declared she is, and I know there’s no need to mention the boyfriend — boyfriends are irrelevant here!

Tacos are being sold on the rooftop. The smell can no longer be ignored. N and I, fully tipsy, managed to get through the crowd to the woman selling the tacos. We scarfed them down, spicy grease dripping down my fingers and burning my cuticles. It was too delicious to stop. was fully satisfied and so is N. And considering I was three drinks deep at that point, I know it’s time to go home.

W wanted to leave too — kismet. N and I waited for her downstairs while she used the bathroom, and I saw the woman from earlier — 070 Shake with her friends. We kept making eyes at each other but I knew it was my move. So I went up to her. I got her number, not her Instagram. She was even prettier and sweeter than I remembered before. I squeal with W and N on the walk to the subway, where N then catches her Uber.

W and I sat on the train, my stop before hers, and talked about Ariana Grande and Phoebe Bridgers and how W will see Hayley Williams live in concert soon. Man, I made a fucking friend last night.

When I transferred to the G, and then got off the G, a woman’s mason jar fell from her backpack and dropped onto the subway platform right as we exited. She apologized profusely and asked me if I’m okay. I am! I wanted to tell her something about the glass breaking feeling like a good omen, a sign of something new beginning, a signal of good luck — but I kept the thought to myself and walked home, holding onto the thought for dear life. I needed last night.

I didn’t start the night out alone, which often feels like a bit of a cheat code: warm yourself up with the company of a few good friends and linger long after they leave so you can understand what that night is really about.

One of my best friends, M, is Haitian, so obviously we needed to show up and show out for the game against Brazil. The only problem here was that 1) Brazil has made 23 World Cup appearances and Haiti only two and 2) we both love Brazil and Brazilian music, so ultimately this was an emotionally difficult game to watch.

I took the train to Astoria while the Scots were playing the Moroccans, 0-1. I got to the venue — a place called Pig Beach, which evoked the image of sweaty pigs rolling around in the sand, but obviously it was a barbecue place. I ran into M in line and once we were in, we found our way to a large backyard filled with at least 500 people — mostly Moroccans cheering their team on and Brazilians lingering by the tables to snatch a seat before the game, just like us. It was intimidating being the only Haiti supporters there, and while we found a few others we realized we could count them on our hands.

A group of old, wrinkly Brazilian women — the kind who very well might be racist because that’s definitely a problem in that country — moved up on us to steal the table we had already laid claim to politely by way of standing next to it and smiling at the Moroccan family who was currently inhabiting it. This pissed us off, so we proceeded to mumble under our breath, and luckily the other table we were standing next to was filled with South Asian women who overheard our conversation. After another friend joined us and I continued to rant about the Brazilians, to which she responded “Talk your shit!” — one of the South Asian girlies turned around and said “Wow, I love your vibe — do you want to sit here?”

Another two friends joined us and now we had a table. Two middle-aged Mexican men stood by us drinking beers and I told them how much I loved their team. I said I had a couple of ex-boyfriends who were Mexican, the most recent one being a psychopathic narcissist, and this actually didn’t surprise them.

M and the others grabbed us beers, and M pointed out that there were tons of hot Brazilian guys, but she saw the hottest inside and he was certainly gay, but incredible to look at. I was noticing the same, and the gorgeous women were a given and not surprising at all.

Haiti was playing terribly. Luckily the first goal scored was offside. But then the goalkeeper fucked up in a way the Mexican goalkeeper wouldn’t have, as in he stopped the ball the first time and it bounced back into the reach of the opponent, and instead of trying to prevent the second kick he sat down there hopelessly. The Brazilians erupted into cheers, and this happened two more times and while I usually love watching the game I started to feel sad for Haiti so I chose to talk to the girlies instead.

They informed me they were going to C’mon Everybody to meet up with the rest of the group after this, and while I hadn’t planned on going out I knew Toribio was playing that night and I love his sets. I decided I would go.

After Haiti lost, the Brazilians were in the best of moods. I think a lot of people there were Brazilian and the others, like M and me, huge fans of the culture and accepting of their futbol empire.

While we were getting up to leave, I noticed three Brazilian guys checking me out, and one of them was exceedingly hotter than his friends and honestly hotter than the average man. Strong jawline, perfect haircut, glasses, tattoos up the wazoo. He asked me to go over and I did. He said he liked my style and that I looked like Rihanna, and I laughed. I think what he meant was that I’m just as beautiful as her, which is true because we both have symmetrical faces and perfect smiles on account of our parents. He was still holding my hand as he said this, after a handshake meant to test out physical chemistry, and I let him. He said he lived in Southampton and owned a construction company, which to me translated to: We’re either fucking tonight or never seeing each other again. He asked for my Instagram and I said that was a juvenile request, and that I don’t give it out to strangers, so he took my number instead with no intention of ever reaching out to me again.

That’s OK; as I walked back to the girlies they were giddy with excitement for me because he was just that hot. Considering my ex-boyfriend was not just a terrible person but punching seriously above his weight, it occurred to me that the Brazilian guy was a perfect example of the type of man within my league and that I could continue to keep such high standards for myself. M then said with excitement: “THAT’S the gay guy I saw inside who I said was the hottest man in the world! Oh my God he’s NOT GAY!” We waited until we exited the location to fully freak out together, and I was holding my head even higher. I appreciated the boost.

Our Uber driver arrived after the Empower one canceled on M and I had to send her a link to the complaint form. Our sharp, incredibly sexy dancer friend sat in the front and asked if she could play music; he handed her his phone and she happily took it and opened YouTube. When she pulled up J.Lo’s “Get on the Floor” we squealed because we could see he had already watched the full music video before. He sped and nodded along while we screamed the lyrics with the windows down. I think he was having the best ride of his life. After that I requested Enrique Iglesias’ “Tonight I’m Fucking You” and that seemed to really knock our socks off, and the song ended right as we pulled up to M’s apartment.

We stopped for beers and a chaser. I’d already had a Stella at Pig Beach and drank half of our dancer friend’s mango-flavored beer which she didn’t really like because she doesn’t like sweet things. At the apartment we drank Peronis while M and another friend got ready, drinking Casamigos with lemonade. (I can’t use their initials to differentiate because everyone’s name started with M.) Dancer friend and I cracked open our bottles and talked about Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which she got her diagnosis for and which I suspect I might have. We compared symptoms and she explained that while a blood test would confirm, everything I was doing for my body to offset symptoms was a telltale sign that I had it, and since there’s no cure, the doctor would simply tell me to do everything I was already doing.

I messaged Toribio and told him I was a writer and asked if I could get on the guest list. It was just C’mon Everybody so it wasn’t a huge deal, but he responded: “U’ll get lost regardless of writing. U on.” I was thrilled.

M played one more song before the Uber arrived and it was “I Don’t Care” by Michel Martelly. She explained this was a track all Haitians knew and that they all played at their parties, and that the singer might have been involved with the assassination of the president. I shook my ass and then when it was over, we hopped into an XL where we sang more — “Lollipop” by Lil Wayne, Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me” and a few more.

No one checked anyone’s ticket and no one even asked for my name. We got in. The rest of the group was outside smoking though, having arrived there a couple of hours earlier. I kept telling all the friends about the “guest list” and felt like a little kid or fangirl because I thought it was so cool, but I was tipsy and so it made sense that I was giddy and had gotten what I’d asked for. Plus, I was still riding the high from the Brazilian dude.

Inside, a few more pals were scattered. One of my friends told me she’d gotten broken up with earlier that day. Our friend who’d been there the whole time asked her to sit in the booth and chat, and with a regretful smile on my face I said I was going to go dance. I made a mental note to reach out to her in the morning.

Most of the group prefers music with words, while some of us are neurodivergent enough to indulge most in the freedom that lyric-less music provides. But this meant that mostly everyone was getting ready to leave while I was only getting started. I wasn’t sad about this, and it didn’t surprise me, because everyone was being chatty and restless and I am a dance floor purist and don’t expect anyone else to be.

Toribio was wearing a shirt that said HOOD CLOSED TO GENTRIFIERS, which I hoped and imagined was making a few people either amused or uncomfortable. Es verdad, you know. He played a remix of Kendrick Lamar's "DNA," which was soulful as much as it was hard. His set was just that — soulful — and mostly a mix of house and disco, the kind of music that makes your shoulders wiggle and your hips turn and your limbs roll like waves. My joints felt loose and my muscles like that of a centipede.

At some point, as the dance floor started to clear and left only the most dedicated dancers, a handsome gay man came round with a 12-inch platter of fruit arranged by color. Strawberries, red grapes, orange slices, lemon slices, pineapple, mango, kiwis, green grapes … I popped a few grapes in my mouth and felt a boost of energy.

I ended up dancing alone for another hour, and was reminded of how important it is to surrender to the music. Yes, sometimes you just don’t fuck with the DJ, or it’s not the vibe you’re looking for. But ultimately losing yourself to the music is a metaphor for how we surrender control in life — oftentimes you can find yourself enjoying it more if you just let go. I’d learned how to do that thanks to techno, and ketamine, and could do it sober or stoned or tipsy or fucked.

Toribio was making me sweat with re-enlightenment, which is exactly what I wanted. Once he started playing his last track, I exited the dance floor and gulped down five cups of water while a woman watched me with a smile. When I walked outside, the handsome gay man with the fruit was holding a nearly empty platter out for a few hungry individuals. I watched them chat for a bit, and when I was ready I hopped on an electric bike at three in the morning and made my way home, feeling sexy and blissed out.

I start getting ready after eating a bowl of spicy daal and rice. The mango pickle tinged it red, and I eat it with a spoon. I video call my mother to pass the time while I get dressed. I rant about friends; she listens quietly. She asks about my agent and I get aggravated. She calls me volatile, and I realize I really do need to let some energy out.

I feel better once I’m dressed. I try on a denim mini skirt and my mother tells me to wear the white pants instead. She’s right, obviously. I wear gold glitter eyeshadow, concealer, blush, and mascara. Then I’m out the door.

I stay on video with her while I walk to the G. A young Arab dude pulls up to a stoplight in his car, blasting Arab music (yallah, habibi). He leans out the window and flashes me a heart sign with his hands, and I give him a bashful eye roll. Not exactly a catcall, and I admittedly look incredible.

It’s dangerous to be a woman, but it’s slightly beneficial to be a beautiful woman. Another man opens the gate for me at the subway station so I don’t have to pay my $3 fare. Returning the karmic favor: I’ve done this for strangers many times before, in addition to carrying strollers and grandma carts up the stairs.

On the G, I admire the other Young Hos who are well-dressed for a night out. A woman in a flowy lime-green dress and silver winged eyeliner catches my eye. Another woman in a tight playsuit takes a selfie with her arm stretched all the way out at a forty-five-degree angle from her body. This is like a pregame of its own kind: sharing a ride with other people on their way to have a good time.

I’m listening to “That’s How I’m Living” by Tony Scott before switching to Fred, Again’s album “USB”. I’m walking from Nassau Avenue down Wythe, looking at all the billboards and murals along the way. Hinge, Book of the Month, Deli Boys. I realize I have strong opinions on all of these brands, and realize it’s because I’m connected to the people involved in either the ads or the brands by zero to one degree.

Williamsburg is littered with corporate folks fiending for an escape, and by escape I mean a drunken Thursday night that serves as a preview of how they’ll spend the rest of their weekend. Their ids have taken the steering wheel, craving excitement like little kids needing a snack after a day at the pool.

I arrive at Gabriela and mix up the entrance and exit even though I’ve literally been there over twenty times before. I order a mezcal Negroni and try to find a seat, but realize all the booths have been taken by straight couples. Makes sense; it’s Romance Thursday at Gabriela, after all, and despite this being a gay club, we are indeed in Williamsburg.

Sitting with a couple just because there’s space isn’t a good move unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences: the implication that you’re lonely, looking for a threesome, or threatening to the woman. I stand at the bar and bounce to the music, currently oldies that could be played at weddings or during karaoke. I see another woman standing alone, so I walk up to her. Her name is Sarah. She tells me she’s waiting for her friend, wearing the biggest, most gorgeous smile on her face.

A man waltzes into our conversation. It’s her friend.

“What an entrance!” I say.

He likes this comment and thanks me for it. I can’t tell if he’s gay or her lover. He looks like a bootleg Heath Ledger, I’m sorry. Later, I see them kissing on each other’s necks, him holding her waist, so that ends up being my answer.

I let them know I’m heading onto the dance floor, and she says she’ll see me there.

The dance floor is empty, but a handful of people are dancing despite being stuck in the corner of the room, nursing their drinks on the skinny ledges provided. I see two friends standing at the front, close to the DJ, dancing their hearts out. Their energy draws me in.

We dance to “Enjoy the Silence” by Depache Mode which transitions into “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealers Wheel. I’m always pleasantly surprised when certain songs which I associate with the radio are played in a club setting, and people know exactly how to move to them.

I’m slightly disappointed because I was looking to dance to electronic music—but miraculously, or skillfully rather, the DJ takes a hit of their blunt and transitions into something wavy and optimistic. A wish granted: we’re getting to the really good stuff.

A one-sided dialogue plays over the synthy yet bass-heavy track.

“How are you feeling?”

“You look fucked up.”

“Do you need water?”

“What’s your name?”

The crowd grooves and giggles. For the next thirty minutes, the DJ plays what I can only describe as optimistic tech house. Bubbly, poppy melodies with deep bass lines. I’m completely enraptured and catch sight of another solo dancer. Somehow Sarah, her lover, a frat-bro solo dancer, two normies with Apple watches, and I end up dancing in a circle. Our bodies just gravitate toward one another like that—no eye contact exchanged, just pure energy.

I get secondhand high from the DJ’s blunt smoke and step outside for a cup of water. I drink while taking notes on the night so far. Gabriela is significantly more crowded now, and unfortunately I see more normies in jeans and going out tops than I’d like. Everyone is hot in their own way, admittedly.

I debate going home or heading to H0L0 in Ridgewood to listen to a vinyl session. It’s twenty minutes away on the L, which is not bad at all. I take a shot of tequila and go back onto the dance floor for one more boogie, and then I’m off into the night.

Earlier in the day, a friend invited me to a party in Alphabet City. I realize that’s also an option, and that I’m tipsy enough to show up to a party alone with 300 strangers without having to practice diaphragm breathing to regulate my nervous system.

Still, when I get to the tracks and am about to hop on the Manhattan-bound train, I decide against it.

I hop onto the train going in the other direction and run into a guy I used to have a big crush on. We used to box together. He’s a sommelier and has the cutest face.

We catch up. He says he’s coming from work. He looks exhausted, but he still indulges me in conversation. I tell him I’m writing about my nights out for my Substack so I can write this shit off on my taxes. He tells me he remembers seeing my name all over the subway last summer.

He says he doesn’t go to the boxing gym anymore because he’s too busy with work. We talk about the state of the world and agree that it’s a pretty dark place. He says he wants to go to Italy for the harvest this fall.

I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to get off at the same stop, but instead I get off three stops early because I’m worried I’m burdening him with conversation after a long day at work. I hop back on the L and get off at Halsey.

Everyone in Ridgewood is on their way home from work, while everyone in Williamsburg was on their way out to start the weekend. It’s amazing how there are these little mini-worlds in Brooklyn.

When I get to H0L0, I realize there are only about fifteen people there, and we’re in the bar part of the venue, not the club which I’ve been to before to listen to musclecars. I need to pee really badly and find the bathroom, which smells terrible and looks like it would be a solid hideout during a zombie apocalypse.

A man asks me for a lighter on my way into the stall. I tell him I don’t have one, but I do ask him for a cigarette. I meet him outside when I’m done peeing.

He’s Irish and his name is Aiden, though he goes by Ado. He’s from the southern, middle-of-nowhere part of Ireland. He wears his hair in a low ponytail. He could be good-looking if he put in more effort.

One of his Irish friends joins us outside for a smoke. Tall dude with a mustache, from Dublin. He’s wearing a shirt with a Care Bear graphic on it—the purple one. Very talkative, going on and on about how he’s a chef and wants to open his own restaurant in NYC. It’s his dream. Pretty sure he can do it, and I tell him so. He says he’s going to play later that night, and that DJing is just a fun hobby for him.

Another one of the Irish dudes in the friend group joins us, and I realize most people at the venue tonight are Irish because the DJs are Irish and they need bodies to fill the room. These dudes formed a techno collective back home, playing some of the biggest festivals there. They’re called Solace and have since settled in NYC. Their DJs include Ramsey Neville, STE-VÍ, Adrian Hex, plus some other dudes. They’ve all played at places like Basement, Refuge and Renate. I guess they’re doing quite well for themselves.

I meet the older brother of the group, Jack, who says he doesn’t play anymore but his younger brother is still performing with one of their other friends. I’m not sure if they’re actually brothers, but I don’t ask.

I tell him I want to listen to him play, but I’ve already missed most of the set on account of peeing and smoking a cigarette with these strangers.

I ask Jack why he doesn’t DJ anymore.

“Ego,” he replies. “Wait, are you recording this whole thing?”

“No. Just taking notes. Why ego? I had a thought earlier tonight that DJs and photographers are similar in that egotistical desire to orchestrate how people feel in any given moment. The music, the camera lens—both hold power.”

“Not so much that,” he says.

“Clout-chasing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think someone can be a good DJ without being a clout-chaser?”

“Absolutely.”

He tells me they chose the name Solace because it’s a word adjacent to relief. Being brought solace. And music does that for people.

I listen to the younger brother play. STE-VÍ is his name. It’s so impressive to watch him switch out vinyl records, and I remember that digital music somehow makes us more tired, it’s a scientific fact. I have a sudden surge of energy now—or maybe it’s just placebo. Glittery melodies, 130 BPM, heart-thumping bass lines.

Ado follows me on my way out to ask for my number. He opens his phone, but unfortunately reveals that he was just on Tinder. I catch a glimpse of a woman’s mirror selfie the moment he unlocks the screen. She has huge tits. He’s very embarrassed.

I try to play it cool, but then Jack overhears Ado asking me to dinner and starts slipping away, clearly feeling like he’s interrupted the moment. I tell him I saw his friend’s Tinder and that this is his chance to save him.

He tries to talk him up but does a really bad job. He just keeps slapping him on the back and saying, “This guy, this guy...” without actually saying anything about his character. But I let them have their moment.

I watch a string of men line up to enter the club and shout, “Sausage fest!” as I walk away. They laugh because it’s true.

I start getting ready early because I have nothing better to do following an afternoon of doing laundry and binging The Four Seasons. I change my outfit 4 times, meaning I try on the same 2 outfits twice. I do this in the same way one test drives a car. I debate between the black lace capris and black jeans and a white tube top; I decide on the latter because the capris are see-through and I’m not in the mood to have my ass out, but I am okay with having my boobs out.

Technically, I’m not going out alone, but it feels like I am because I’m hanging out with a new friend and his friends. Oftentimes I feel like I’m making a guest appearance in other people’s lives, in their friend groups.

I met J a few months ago at Nowadays. It felt serendipitous because I was standing by the bathrooms taking notes and he just started talking to me. I found out he was a screenwriter, so obviously we were meant to be friends, even though I live a life now where writers are always a stone’s throw away. He was sweet and generous and warm, and we spent the last two months texting back and forth. He read Comedic Timing and sent me a playlist inspired by it, and I was impressed by how sonically aligned it was with the arc of the story. I felt understood, which motivated me to finally make a solid plan with him. I was to meet him at 7:30 at Doubles (or Doublés, I’m not sure if I need to pronounce it with the accent) and then we planned to go to Basement with people I’ve never met before.

I wear blue eyeshadow and contour my face, the kind of makeup look I reserve exclusively for clubbing or Halloween. I realize it might turn cold later, so I throw on a sweatshirt, only to leave my building and realize it’s covered with stains. I debate returning home to switch it out for a jacket, but then I run into my neighbor — who is also one of my best friends — and she validates my choice by pointing out that it will inevitably get dark and that I’m going to a grubby club, so a stained sweatshirt was actually the best option.

I take two buses to Bushwick. I feel like an Essex woman, because I have a very heavily beat face but my clothes are extremely casual. When I arrive at the bar, I find a booth at the back, way too large for just 2 people, and my new friend J finds me.

He’s younger than me by 2 years but it feels like more; I don’t think he likes it when I say that, but I explain to him that in your twenties each year feels extremely long, and because our perception of time shrinks as we get older, this is the time when our maturity levels increase exponentially. 26 and 28 are separated by a slew of inexplicable realizations and choices that ultimately determine what kind of person you’ll be in the world. No pressure.

He says he has a confession to make, and it’s that he’d been day drinking at a rooftop party, so he is already tipsy. He says it was two drinks, and then a few minutes later says he has another confession, which was that it was actually like five drinks.

He orders an espresso martini, I order a mezcal soda, and we share fries. I eat most of them. We talk about writing, and how I’m creeping out of a phase of low morale after my second novel was rejected by 40 publishers. Thankfully Colman Domingo was the commencement speaker at my cousin’s graduation last week and he sort of saved my life, not to be dramatic or anything. He gave a very inspiring speech which reminded me that I’m still young and I’ll be okay. And earlier that day, while I was folding laundry, I listened to Noah Baumbach’s Vassar commencement speech, the essence of which was something along the lines of: if being rejected makes you want to give up writing, then you’re probably not meant to do it anyway. I tell J all of this, and he agrees — both that rejection is hard and that we’re young. It’s just that perhaps the stakes feel all the more high because we’re children of immigrants and our parents need us to excel, otherwise what was the point of crossing an entire ocean?

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J asks if I want to go to his friend’s place in Harlem because they have a lot of drugs and he doesn’t have any. I refuse to sit on the train for an hour and a half with drugs as a source of motivation; God, what would that say about me? Thankfully he’s not offended by my reasoning even though he easily could have been, and offers an alternative: go to Birdy’s and meet his friend Jesse, who will join us at Basement, too. I agree to this plan. He asks if I’ll sit on the back of a Citibike, in terms of our transportation to Birdy’s, and again I refuse: am I a wet blanket, aging myself on purpose, or is he just proving my point about the expansive maturity levels between the ages of 26 and 28?

Instead we ride two separate Citibikes, thank goodness, and I let him lead the way. But then he says we need to stop at his apartment because his roommate just texted him because he left his keys in the door. Now I’m wondering if the difference between us isn’t just our ages but a matter of being type A and type B. I find his recklessness inspiring.

We ride to his apartment and I meet his roommate, who is very sweet, and once he retrieves his keys we walk to Birdy’s. I have to tell him to slow down because my Doc Martens weigh like 2 pounds on each foot and I can’t keep up with him. Rare that I meet someone who walks faster than me, usually it’s the other way around.

Once we’re at Birdy’s, we go all the way to the back. We’re both holding in so much pee, and so we stand in line for the bathroom. J tells the guy standing behind us that he likes his neck tattoos. I think this guy with the neck tattoos is pretty cute. We let him go ahead of us for some reason, maybe the reason that he’s cute, and I ask J if I should get a neck tattoo. I’m only half serious; I cannot put up with the repercussions of that.

J goes to the bathroom after me, and while I wait for him, neck tattoo guy comes up to me and says he heard what I said, and that I should definitely get a neck tattoo. I take a closer look at his: the grim reaper on the right side of his neck, a snake head on the left. More scribbly, playful pieces peeking out from underneath his sleeves. I show him the few I have, mostly stick and poke; he’s very complimentary. He goes back to his table where his other very heavily tattooed friend is waiting for him. Nice guy; he gives me a small wave.

J tells me about his ex-girlfriend, who he recently broke up with. She’s a TV writer high achieving to the point where he was intimidated at first when he met her. I’ve been on the other side of that, and I tell him it’s never a good thing for a woman’s boyfriend to be intimidated by her. The relationship ended amicably, but ultimately she has a hard rule on being friends with exes, as in she doesn’t do that.

J’s friend Jesse shows up and I immediately like her. She has a very smiley face and is very chatty. I say I want a cigarette, so I go up to the tattooed guys and ask them for one. They say I profiled them as cigarette smokers just because of the way they look, which isn’t entirely untrue. I take an American Spirit and step outside to share it with Jesse.

Meanwhile, J is being quite talkative. He talks to strangers when he’s drunk, and people talk to him because he’s warm and friendly. Jesse and I watch him with amusement, and she calls after him, asking if he still wants to hang out with us. I watch the tattooed guys walk out of the bar, running across the street, and I call out to them to say goodbye, but then they say they just need to pee. That makes no sense because there’s 3 bathrooms in there, but okay.

When we go back inside, I notice the photo booth. I ask Jesse and J to go in with me, and they do. I’m in the middle, so I’m in every photo in the strip, but Jesse and J had to compromise on the other half of their faces.

Two mezcal sodas deep, which is my limit usually, I suddenly feel bold, and I ask neck tattoo guy, who I’ll call I, to come into the booth with me. He jumps up from his seat like his ass is on fire and enthusiastically hops into the booth. I sit on his lap, and by the third shot we’re making out. He says I’m a trickster and that I seduced him into the booth, which I guess is sort of true.

I sit at the table with him and his friends, who are the kind of white dudes I’m okay hanging out with. They’re all from the South: I from Houston, T the American Spirit smoker from Alabama, and another a new guy who popped up, from Dallas. I is an illustrator and the other dude is an animator. T is a chef; he says the restaurant he works at is located somewhere in Chelsea and cooks for up to 1,500 people a day. They offer me a shot of tequila and I take it. I tell them I rarely do shots, by the way.

Jesse and I somehow begin talking about astrology, and she pulls up the only astrology app I believe in, and we both squeal because we’re the only ones we know who use it. According to astrology, our friendship bond is “epic,” our romantic bond is “soul mates” — this excites her because apparently she and J are soul mates too. When she runs my chart with his, she sees he and I are soul mates as well. To her, this means the 3 of us are soulmates and we will be friends forever.

I appreciate her sense of spirituality, her woo-wooness - there’s a foosball table with no ball, but she pulls out a blue obsidian sphere which she apparently carries with her everywhere, and we use that instead while we stifle giggles.

I learn I is from Monterrey, which changes things for me a bit because I don’t date white men, and he is technically white but he’s Mexican, so I am incentivized to flirt with him. When he asks for my number I give it to him, and when he asks me out for dinner I say yes, even though I know most people have terrible follow-through and it likely won’t happen. He’s disappointed when I say my friends and I should leave to Basement so we don’t have to stand in line for an eternity. Normally I’d stay and wring out the interaction, but male validation doesn’t give me the same high as it used to. We leave gracefully at 11:30pm.

I order an Uber, and as usual, I’m worried my Uber driver hates me because everyone in the car is yelling over each other, talking nonsense. But that’s the whole rub, isn’t it, driving on a Saturday night in Brooklyn? I only feel this way because my parents raised me to respect my elders and other people’s cars.

Basement reminds me of Berghain: a quiet line, everyone’s dressed in black, and you can hear the bass from all the way outside. A very Russian, stone-faced woman asks us if we know the rules, and I nod eagerly like a little kid. She lets us in.

I’m relieved to be dancing, to be moving my body. I need to get the energy from all the mezcal and tequila out of my body. I’m most excited to be listening to DJ Stingray 313’s set; he’s an older dude who’s kind of a legendary techno DJ from Detroit, which is the OG, purist shit I care about. J meets some of his other friends, all women in their mid-twenties, and I realize Jesse, who’s 29, and I are the oldest people there. J introduces everyone whilst on the dance floor, a futile attempt considering we can hear nothing and my name isn’t American-friendly. At one point I run into an actor who read my pilot at a table reading, and that feels very kismet, along with some other meetings: a group of good-looking Italians who are impressed by my intermediate speaking skills, allowing me to perform while standing in the bathroom line for the water fountain; a sweet gay I meet outside who tells us about the time they moved back home to take care of their grandmother, and learned about all the family tea and grew closer to her in a way they could have never imagined, or known they needed.

Before Stingray’s set, I find my way toward the DJ decks and into a corner by the speaker. I can see the vinyls spinning, the crowd dancing ahead, and realize this is the perfect spot. I meet a ripped woman who looks like a gymnast or a powerlifter, and learn she is both. I tell her that her outfit looks like it would get her into Kit Kat Club in Berlin, and she’s pleased to inform me she actually bought the outfit in Berlin. A serious raver, my kind of girl. She points to a tall man in a ski mask and says that’s DJ Stingray. She tells me she asked him when he prefers to play, and he said not too late because he likes when people aren’t too drunk or too high and have enough energy to move to the music. It’s 1:45am and he’ll be on at 2. I go up to him and ask him for one word to describe his journey. “That’s impossible,” he says. But then he thinks really hard, and then says “humbling.”

His set begins with a synthy, ambient track — I call this edging — before letting the bass drop into some serious, 140 BPMs. His set is funky as much as it is classically hard techno, and the dancers are going crazy. I end up leaving the corner and finding a different area of the dance floor, and my gymnast powerlifting friend joins me. She’s got a huge bottle of water that she lets me drink from occasionally. We dance from two all the way until four in the morning.

I leave at four forty-five, with only two casualties: I lost my Rhode peptide lipstick and one of my Loop earplugs. I texts me and says he hopes I’m having a good night. I’m in an Uber, nauseous and ready to wash my makeup off my face. When I get home I do just that, and then lie in my bed and listen to Bon Iver to fall asleep because I’ve been doing that for over ten years now.

My dreams are a mix of subconscious visions and casual memories from the night — the strangers I danced with, who wanted the same thing: to lose oneself to the music, to experience the essence of humanity through pure, shared desire, and the collective conscious in the form of rhythm and beats. This is exactly why I go out alone, because it’s a reminder that aloneness is temporary. I always end up in good company.

Thursday, May 28 2026
Location: Paragon
DJs: Nataliepops b2b Martine, Simisola, Mui Mui

I spent an hour picking my outfit, even though 90% of the time I realize I was dressing myself for the wrong reasons. I’m still learning a bit about self-expression, which is why the dance floor is so helpful. I wear purple eyeshadow and concealer — no foundation, but a little blush. I blend it in well so I don’t look like a clown. It’s going to be dark in there anyway. It’s always dark.

I spend thirty minutes recording TikToks. Clairo’s sensual slow-mo videos are deeply inspiring to me, and since I’m just getting off my period, I feel sexy again. I record two videos, delete one, and post the other from my drafts.

When I leave the apartment I pass by the Chinese restaurant on the corner. A man does a double take and cranes his neck out to wish me a good night, to get my attention. I don’t look at him — in fact I turn my face the other way.

I take a Citi Bike down Myrtle then turn onto Broadway. It’s a little too stimulating for me, so I walk the blocks with the bike until I can park it, right in front of Ornithology, where I haven’t been in a long time because it’s filled with artsy students who dress poorly and pretend it’s a reflection of taste.

I’m greeted by the bouncer, just like every time, and his locs smell wonderful — like coconut and rose. At the front of the club I run into a new friend I made last week: a writer and a DJ with the sweetest smile, tall, Jamaican. She thanks me for coming and says she wished she got my number, but alas, serendipity — when I decided to come tonight I realized she was playing. She tells me her set is at 2 in the morning and I know I’ll miss it. One of the other organizers catches her attention so I slip away.

Downstairs the dance floor is empty. A group of four friends, two DJs, a couple sitting at the bar by the water fountain. I love coming early so I can watch the dance floor transform. In that way I have the same hunger as a DJ, except I orchestrate nothing — I only witness.

I remember how my friend hates fog machines, but we’d just been here a month or so ago and had a blast. The DJs play R&B mixed with hyperpop. “I’m So Into You,” sped up a bit. I’m sober, so technically this is exercise. One of the DJs takes a step back from the decks and watches me, arm outstretched, a tuft of hair peeking out from under their pit. They’re nodding to the music and I pretend they’re looking at me. More friends join, the dance floor turns chatty, but the bass is loud enough.

The music shifts: bouncy bass. My knees bend and my arms and fingers go from wavy to sharp — right angles in my joints. After taking a short break to sit in a booth and write on my phone, I go back to the dance floor. I move my body alongside my new friend and some of their friends. I think about how only a few months ago I was dating someone, which meant I had someone to grind with consistently on the dance floor and share my killer moves with. Now I’m all solo.

The limited light — lent only in shades of green, yellow, and purple — plays a trick on my eyes. I keep seeing people I know in other people. For some reason I believe the illusion. I believe one of the DJs is a friend I don’t talk to anymore, and that my friend is cheating on her partner with a woman, and I’m watching them dance with each other right now.

Suddenly the dance floor empties and it’s just me and my new friend. She tells me she’s so thankful I came to the fundraiser. I tell her I was looking for a set to go to this weekend and this came up. I ask her what she does for work and she tells me she’s a student, in school for eight years — some mix of a master’s and PhD program. She has two years left, but she’s taking a break this fall. I tell her I’m happy for her and that slowing down is so important. She looks really young, or maybe it’s just a kindness and purity of heart that makes her seem that way. I ask how old she is and she tells me she’s 31. I’m shocked, but also pleased — she doesn’t seem jaded, and a lot of people are jaded by the time they even hit my age.

I start to get tired and my back starts to hurt. Chronic pain in my left elbow from all the typing, and behind my left shoulder blade too, somehow also from all the typing. My body hurts less when I manipulate it into certain shapes. I allow dancing to help me do that.

At one point I think about leaving, but then “Lollipop” by Lil Wayne comes on and one of the other party-goers moves up near the decks and starts shaking ass. There’s something very visually specific — and also sensorially, tangibly specific — about the phrase lovely lady lumps. It’s true: lumps can be lovely. They’re mostly soft, and sometimes they’re scary, and they’re not supposed to be there. And now I’m joining the stranger, along with another person, and the three of us are just doing our thing alongside each other and I’m smiling at these strangers, realizing that this is exactly why I go out. And while tonight is one of the simpler ones — the priority being fundraising and not losing oneself — I am able to have these pockets of moments where I have a grand appreciation of life, and the freedom I experience when I take myself out and move on the dance floor.

That was the last track of the set. Now there’s a new DJ. She starts playing more bass-heavy techno and I am moving with a lot of excitement because I know I’ll be leaving soon and my only job now is to savor the minutes I have left.

I leave after three tracks. I say goodbye to my new friend and return to the Citi Bike dock where I had left a bike earlier. I ride down my street and feel blessed when I find open parking spots at the dock closest to my home. That almost never happens, and it truly is a big moment for me — because inconvenience is more certain than comfort. Comfort is actually a gift and a privilege, even if we’ve all found a way to manufacture it in almost every moment. When I come home I’m excited to wash my face, and I do. I drink water. I need a snack, and soon I’m lying in my bed in only my underwear and a t-shirt, feeling my lovely lady lumps press against the bed, thinking about how I have two more sets to go to this weekend and how I’ll write about those as well.

1. Meditate and journal.

2. You will learn that some pieces of advice are more common (wear black, don’t act too eager at the door, know which DJs are playing) and some are less common (go on Saturday for the wristband and return Sunday, it’s easier to get in Saturday; Sunday to Monday is the real version of the club). Pay attention to it all. Word of mouth is always better than Reddit.

3. But you still need Reddit to keep track of the queue. Be prepared to arrive 30 minutes before doors open.

4. You will go through your clothes to find what to wear. It’s better to be yourself, or rather, the shadow, non-Instagram-friendly part of yourself that dances to deep techno and participates in group sex.

5. You will settle on black track pants, a black mesh top, a black bra, and sneakers. You’re there to dance, anyway, and so you should dress like it. You will change your underwear even though you’ll be home in two hours, max.

6. You will recite the plan via text message to your friends who are an ocean away. Get in, get the wrist band, come back and sleep, return at eleven in the morning. However, somewhere along the way, you will allow yourself the pleasure of imagining what will happen if you stay inside.

7. You will hang out with a friend late into the evening. That way you won’t fall asleep before eleven. No matter—you’ve been scrolling TikTok late into the night these days. You can prepare your mind for some better drugs. After you return later, that is.

STANDING IN LINE

1. Please do not bring a book to wait in line. Not your headphones, either. Your phone will likely be at 50% and you can’t afford to drain your battery. Of course, you’ll be home, three hours max, but just in case.

2. You will do breathing exercises in line because you’ve taken a hit of a HHC pen which isn’t exactly weed, but it functions as such. You will stand there looking very cool and calm. You likely brought your book—a thin thing, but what the fuck! You won’t be able to read it anyway. It will be too dark.

3. You will watch people who have been turned away trot back to the line of taxis. Dressed like caricatures of fetish-friendly, wearing JCrew chic, those in expressionless outfits, large groups in leather and fishnet, a couple in blue denim. Sometimes people pull out their phones to take a photo of the line. You will roll your eyes. These people will not get in.

4. You will get closer to the front after an hour. You will ask the man standing in line behind you for a piece of gum. He’ll give it to you and you’ll chew it. You will see the bouncer is a brown femme with a beautiful, hairless head, studded with a constellation of piercings in her T-zone. She will smile and shake her head at a couple, dressed stylishly in all black, and they will walk away defeated. Don’t worry babe, we can go to another club.

5. She will be looking at your shoes while you’re looking at the white men standing around her, the muscle. When you make eye contact, she will nod with a smile and stretch her left arm toward the entrance of the door.

BEING INSIDE

1. All of the energy you put off from the breathing exercises will make your hands tremble. You managed to remain calm in line, but soon you will be shaking as you count 8 euros in coins. The man waiting for the money will look at you with a bored expression on his face. You can tell yourself he probably thinks you’re on drugs, which is better than having anxiety.

2. You will see two dancefloors. The club will feel smaller than you anticipated. Don’t worry, it’s because Saturday really is for the tourists, and they’re saving the good stuff for later.

3. You will find a smaller version of the long, curved bar downstairs, upstairs. You will order a mezcal sour, sit on a stool and drink it. Since you would have had a glass of wine with your friend only two hours ago, you will be fairly tipsy by the time you make it onto the dancefloor.

4. You will dance to tech house, which is the music you exercise to. The DJ will spin vinyls. The music will be all-consuming. All the women you look at will smile at you. A shirtless brown man will smile at you. He’s standing next to a Norwegian sort of looking guy. You will have wished you brought earplugs. You will stand closer to the DJ. There will be a guy, hiding in a corner to the left of the DJ, on a laptop. You assume he’s some sort of tech guy. He looks like a twenty-year old computer nerd.

5. A twink in leather will start dancing with you. He will say he’s from Iran. His English is terrible, like actually nonsensical, and you realize you sound like that in another language. You will walk around the club with him, dance a bit on the deep techno floor. You will learn he is a straight man visiting his gay friend in Berlin, who lent him the outfit so he would get in. You go back to the tech house DJ and tell the guy you’d prefer to dance alone.

6. The brown guy and Norwegian will come up to you, asking to be friends. The brown guy takes out a big, black fan, and it makes your hair blow back. They are both also straight. They will offer you drugs.

7. The bathroom stalls will be surprisingly spacious.

8. The Norwegian guy is actually half Danish. As you step out of the stall, you will realize which country they are from.

GOING ALL IN

9. On a certain drug, which you have done before but always in smaller doses, your senses will be confused. You will hand someone your phone so they can type in their phone number, but your keyboard will look like some alien language.

10. When another person hands you their phone, the keyboard will also look like some alien language. Then you will have to stop yourself from saying people began speaking modern Hebrew only at the end of the 19th century, and it’s wild how complex this made up thing can get, even after such a short period of time, isn’t language such a funny thing!

11. You will listen to people be self-deprecatory about their nationality. Angry at their country. They want you to feel safe; it is the least they can do. You will stay quiet because there are other things you will talk about that are quite funny and meaningful, and you’d like to return to the bathroom stalls at some point. Being a solo traveller makes you kind of selfish that way.

12. You will meet a beautiful woman with long, shaggy brown hair. She will give you a hug and after a trip to the bathroom with her, you will think you might be in love with her.

13. On the dance floor, she will tell you she is straight, although she likes women sexually-speaking, she would like to marry a man. You will tell her she is queer and she will smile and shrug.

14. The half Danish guy will say the woman organizes the biggest music festivals in the place they’re from, which really is occupied land, but you will not say that. You will also not ask about That Festival and her connection to it.

15. You will dance with some other people, and smile at some other women, and your morals and ethics will be on the line somewhere in the background of all of this.

16. The shaggy haired woman will exit the club the same time as you. She will say it’s very impressive you are an author. She will say her friend is playing a set tomorrow. She will text you to ask if you’ve made it home safely.

17. You will pack your purse for tomorrow, shower, and fall asleep with breathing exercises.

GOING ALL IN PT. 2

1. On five hours of sleep, you will be in a car with a new outfit on, plus another one in your bag, back to the nightclub. You are coordinating your arrival with the shaggy haired woman (who would have said the previous night that it was impressive you came to the club alone, and for your first time. This place gets crazy, she might have added.)

2. You will see two lines, one which is much shorter, but for some reason you are anxious and unsure of which line to stand in, even though the shorter line is a good guess since you’ve already gotten into the club and simply need to be let back in.

3. You will see two different security guards, a woman with alopecia and a buff Bosnian-looking man smoking cigarettes. When you get to the front, you will see a look on the woman’s face, something like a pitiful smile, and then you will raise your wrist to show your wristband. She will be surprised, and dip her finger under your wristband to pull it closer to your face, and tell you that next time to go into the shorter line. Thank you for telling me, you whisper.

4. For some reason, you are nervous paying the re-entry fee, and there is a new man who will look at you and ask what you’ll be paying. You tell him, then he has a sticker on this thumb and you thank him and then he will shake his head and ask for your wristband, then he will place the sticker on there and turn his face away like he’s finished with you.

5. The club will look different, as if everything has shifted, as if the building is just one big Rubik’s Cube.

6. You will order an espresso martini, then drink it, then put in the earplugs you packed in your purse the night before, and dance to deep techno.

7. The woman from last night will join you. You will notice that there is double the number of people than there were when you were here six hours ago. You will go to the bathroom alone, but the woman will be generous in lending you some much-needed fuel.

8. You will dance to tech house outside. You will not realize there would be an outside part, but there is one and it will be open because the weather is mysteriously summer-like. A blessing, you tell the shaggy haired woman. This will also be the same day as the city marathon.

9. You will take a break at the long, curved bar, where someone nearby is getting head. You will be jealous. You are there for the openness, the freedom, after all. You will wish you came here with party friends. You will wish to be less sober, because than you can do the things you really want to do. You will not have the resources. You could ask, but you are not the kind of person to ask strangers for things. You will down an entire bottle of water and order a Mate Mate.

10. You will return to the garden and dance in the DJ booth. You will see how the woman you had (have?) a crush on knows most of the people in and surrounding the DJ booth. They’re all from the same place.

11. The next DJ will make eye contact with you while waiting for his set to begin. He will watch you dance and bop his head to the same time as your hips.

CALLING IT

1. This DJ Man watching you dance with a cheeky, flirty look on his face. He will turn out to be a friend of the shaggy haired woman, which means he’s also from the same place. Then it will make sense why it seems half the people at the set know the shaggy haired woman and why they’re all speaking in Hebrew. The DJ Man will make eye contact with you every now and then, it is clear he is into you. His drops will be orgasmic, and the garden will be filled with people moving to his music. You will experience Performance Goggles. That look he keeps giving you, as if he’s asking Do you like that?

2. A woman nearby who you would have met earlier will offer you water. Eventually you will have to leave because you need to pee, but also because there are six more hours of the set and you don’t think you can keep being in this environment while sober. Perhaps not everyone there willl share the same sentiments as your initial bathroom stall group, and you won’t be able to get this out of your head. Plus, your outfit will be entirely underwhelming, which isn’t necessarily a confidence booster.

3. You will hold your pee for failure to stand in line and not be awkward. The HHC vape, along with a failure to secure any means of re-upping yourself with substances (more alcohol would be worse), will make you anxious.

4. You will change out of your current outfit into the mesh top and bra from the previous day. You will change on the couches sitting next to two men on your right, a couple on your left. You will knock a beer bottle down and it will break, and you will apologize to the man who seems only slightly annoyed.

5. You will dance to deep techno for another hour before leaving, and then you will realize you would have been there for seven hours. You will miss the real version of the club, which blossoms only as the evening gets darker, as it transforms into the next morning.

6. You will be too exhausted to wash your makeup off, and fall asleep with your ears ringing less than they did at the beginning of that whole ordeal. You will thank yourself for bringing earplugs.

I decided to spend 2 months in Europe this year (Italy and Germany) for reasons not particularly unique, but definitely rooted in a mix of luck, privilege, and fiscal responsibility. A little bit of foolishness, too, because it takes a fool to rent their apartment out to strangers—use it for a home exchange, as well.

(Btw, I heard Tracee Ellis Ross hosts a new show her solo travels. Frankly I can’t think of anyone in the zeitgeist better suited to do that.)

Well, let’s start with the fact that I speak B2 level French and Italian (I used to be B1 French, cry). I want to start properly learning Spanish and Portuguese. My dream is to learn Mandarin or Arabic. Basically, I am hungry to understand other cultures, and I believe it starts with the language. It’s a matter of priorities, though.

France is where I’ve solo traveled the most. I traveled to the Netherlands, Portugal, the UK, and Belgium alone. India doesn’t count, although I’ve traveled alone there. I have a large, reliable community in India that holds a safety net below my hard-to-dissolve American fragility.

Now that I’m in Italy—here are my pillars of philosophy for solo traveling, most applicable to Western Europe. All of these things will help you blend in (it’s already a bonus that you’re not in a large group of people), which will ultimately make you safer.

1. Do what the Romans fucking do.

There’s two types of tourists. The ones that are so obviously, unabashedly entitled visitors; and those that are humble and meek guests. I’m the latter. Or I try to be.

Plus, I’m a solo traveler who despises tourist traps and will do anything to avoid them, lest feel guilty and stupid for mistakenly participating in them. Fine, don’t be meek and humble. But don’t be an unknowing victim, at the very least. The most popular form of tourist trap in Western Europe are restaurants, the kind where waiters try to reel you in with their charm and then charge you 13 euros for a drink that should be about two to eight. (I paid two euros for a Peroni in Trastevere the other day.)

I do find myself having a bit of a superiority complex when I, for example, watch tourists in Rome take their morning coffees outside on the pretty street seating. They get charged an extra 3.50 euros for sitting there, versus standing at the bar and sipping their coffee like the Italians. It’s expensive to be a tourist. If you don’t care and still want to live in your tourist bubble, by all means go for it.

But it’s definitely expensive to be ignorant. It’s okay to make a silly tourist mistake here and there. Hey, everyone needs to get scammed a little to learn their lesson. But to not know you’re getting scammed at all…you will never see the places you’re visiting from the lens of those who live there, and I think that’s a shame. Another country does not deserve to be treated like Disneyland.

2. Learn some fucking words.

Speaking another language is playing pretend. It’s putting on a fake accent and learning some words. I know someone in college that was horrible at French but it’s because they felt “cringe” changing the way she spoke. Learning another language doesn’t have to be cringe, but if you find yourself feeling stupid anyway—know that you’re meant to be bad at it. This is why I think actors are already preconditioned to learn a language. They are exquisite imitators and even better at memorizing.

You don’t need to study the language, but you do need to speak a few words. Why? Because if you don’t, you’re dismissing access to an entirely different world. It’s not even about gaining the respect of the natives. Sometimes they genuinely don’t care if you speak their language. Sometimes they will respond in English because that’s practice for them.

But, speaking another language opens you to a new world, one which humbles you and surprises you. Only speaking one language is the first ingredient to solipsism. The whole point of solo traveling is expanding your worldview. Like—prego means more than '“you’re welcome.” People don’t always say it in response to grazie. Sometimes they say it when they hold the door open for you, or move to the side to let you pass through. It’s a sort of kindness we don’t have a word for in English.

Plus, it’s smart. Learn how to say right, left, straight. Where. When. How much? I’d like the check. Help me. Leave me alone. Can I have a cigarette?

My date and I had a nice chat with these Italian guys so I took a cheeky video. They were pleased with my childlike way of speaking Italian and I was pleased with their hatred of Tr*mp and Meloni.

3. Know the fucking rules.

I know someone who traveled to Europe with an expired passport. They grabbed the wrong one on their way out of their apartment. The security at the U.S. airport let them in anyway, because those people are ignorant. This person (white) ended up getting held at a detention center when they landed in the foreign country.

It’s hard to feel bad for them because as a brown person, I would have never made that mistake. I would have gone home and changed my flight ticket. But I guess I can understand why someone would make that mistake, especially if they don’t think the rules apply to them or if they don’t even know how serious the rules are.

Remember, there are a lot of rules and it’s only sheer luck if you can get away with anything. Bonus points if you’re pretty, you might get away with more. Learn the rules of entering and exiting a country, but also the basic laws of the country. Learn the etiquette. In Singapore you can’t chew gum. In the Virgin Islands (a U.S. territory, but still) all of the beaches are public—so boo-hoo to anyone renting an AirBnB with “private” beach access. In Japan it’s rude to blow your nose in public.

Forgive yourself, too, and learn your lessons.

When I did my student exchange program in Lille, I met an American girl who wanted to tag along with me on my trip to Portugal and Spain. She didn’t bother looking at the map of the countries, nor the cities we were traveling to. The basic geography of the countries was lost on her. She wasn’t even interested in knowing these things, which is a separate problem entirely. Ignorance is a prerequisite to inviting danger into your life, and she was lucky she had me. Her presence (white) on a following trip to Tangier invited multiple scam attempts, because it was assumed she knew nothing and was an easy target (she was). They didn’t bother with me because of my French, and because I said shukran.

Learn the number for the police. Dispose of your trash accordingly—paper, metal, plastic, mixed. Don’t drink the tap water, or do. Avoid ice, or don’t.

4. Have a fucking life.

If you’re traveling for a long time (2 weeks or more) don’t build a bulky itinerary. Make some free, unstructured time for yourself. Go to the grocery store to pick up some breakfast items and snacks. Do your laundry. Match with someone on an app and go on a date (send your friends and family a screenshot of their profile, your location, and the areas you’re expected to be in and return to). Walk around and get lost. You can pull your phone out for directions when you’re ready to go back home.

5. Be fucking nice.

Those working in the hospitality industry of any European country are those responsible for making your experience the picture-perfect, glossy thing it is. Show them some respect. Their job is difficult and they’re damn good at it. Your experience of the country wouldn’t be the same without them.

6. Avoid fucking Instagram.

I mean, post on your story or grid or whatever at the end of your day or trip, even. We all know that experiencing life through the screen distorts our reality. How can you properly experience a country if you’re looking at it through the perspective of someone else’ phone screen? High chances people spent about .5 seconds looking at your Story. Higher chances your brain won’t properly absorb the memory. Folks are way more intent on taking a photo at the Trevi Fountain than making a damn wish. I get it—photos preserve time. So actually, make your choices and don’t worry about a word I’m saying.