Sometimes, a weekend will read like smooth poetry, a slow sip of iced tea under the beaconing shade of a tree limb. Or sometimes its the whir of a bedtime story, where the help of a new dress and heels can transform you into the belle of the ball.
Or maybe, just maybe, one weekend (as it did for me) will come in the form of a gilded invitation, the kind where embossed letters leap off the page just to take your hand and book the next flight.
And who can say no to that?
New York Edition
The bustle of tourists and Friday commuters within the vault of the Oculus’ white ribs
Knowing French onion soup was right around the corner at La Bonne Soup while searching an hour for candied banana french toast at 121 Fulton St.
2 straws & one salted caramel milkshake to fill our stomachs after a night of belly laughs from Broadway
The wind on your cheeks at the height of the Brooklyn Bridge, a warm coffee pressed to your palm
Elton John spotting through a café window
“Please, God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy”
Spotting the city skyline from the back of our car as the weekend’s story began