Hey you guys, đź‘‹
So, this past Saturday started totally normal. I had a plan. A very cute, well-crafted plan. Brunch in Tribeca with Monica (she ordered the avocado toast and then insisted it wasn’t “as creamy as the one she makes at home”…obviously), a little stop at ABC Carpet to “just browse” (three candles and a table runner later…), and then back to my apartment in the West Village to rearrange my closet again because—don’t judge me—it’s a seasonal meditation. But that’s not what happened.
Instead, I accidentally crashed a rooftop jazz party in SoHo. And I think I saw the meaning of summer…with a saxophone solo. 🎷
It All Started With a Wrong Elevator
Okay, so here’s the thing: I was wearing lemon linen wide-legs and this vintage Céline blouse I’ve been dying to wear since temperatures hit high 70s. I was meeting my friend Zoe at her studio. She said, “Third floor, buzzer 3G.” I get there, get distracted by a very curated hallway mirror situation (yes, I took a selfie), hit the elevator button… and someone else hops in and says, “Rooftop?” And I, being polite (and curious, sue me), say, “Sure.”
I assumed they lived there. They assumed I was part of the band’s PR team.
Two minutes later I’m standing on a rooftop, surrounded by string lights, a very chic metal bar cart, and the smoothest jazz I’ve ever heard live. The sun was bouncing off the rooftops like gold foil. There were cocktails in vintage glassware and people in linen jumpsuits talking about mid-century pottery.
So…Did I Crash? Or Was I Meant To Be There?
You tell me. But let’s go with “Meant to Be.”
I ended up staying. Like, the whole night. I met this beautiful couple who split their time between Brooklyn and Portugal (how?!), sampled a gin basil spritz I now desperately need to recreate, and mingled with an illustrator who sketched me sipping a Negroni like I was stylish and mysterious (rather than an accidental party crasher who still had a Nordstrom tag in her purse).
Also? The band. Oh my god, the band. It was live jazz with a completely modern vibe—like if Ella Fitzgerald and Solange had a rooftop baby.
What This City Keeps Teaching Me
Living in New York means sometimes saying yes when you don’t know what you’re saying yes to. Sometimes it’s a disappointing art show. Sometimes it’s a guy who definitely lied about reading Murakami. But sometimes—if you're wearing the right pants—it’s a summer rooftop lit up with jazz and strangers who feel like a movie montage.
Takeaways from This Entirely Accidental Evening:
- Always say yes to rooftops. Even if you think you’re just dropping off iced coffee.
- Keep a sheer lipstick in your bag. You never know when your actual plans will elevate.
- New York is literally a treasure chest. You just have to be willing to open the wrong drawers.
“You do know this isn’t your party, right?”
— A very amused bartender
(Who gave me a free drink anyway.)
So What Happened to My Weekend Plans?
They melted. And honestly? I let them. I spent Sunday brunching with two people I met at the party, sharing almond croissants and rooftop nostalgia. I didn’t rearrange my closet. I didn’t organize my shoe wall. But I did feel really present. Really light.
Like…maybe I belong on rooftops more often.
xo, Rachel
(SHOULD I START CARRYING A SAXOPHONE??)
đź“ŤCurrently craving: Peach bellinis and impromptu jazz solos.
