So there I was, walking through SoHo in the cutest pair of vintage kitten heels I found at a thrift shop in the East Village (yes, I thrift now—look at me, saving money!). I had just left this art opening that Chandler dragged me to—because, quote, “there were going to be mini quiches”—and I was wandering back toward the subway, feeling all cultured and grown-up, when something magical happened:
I accidentally crashed a rooftop party.
No. For real.
The Accidental Entrance
Okay, in my defense, the building had this dreamy neon sign that said “Open Studio” and the elevator door was already open. Like… if that isn’t a verbal invitation in Manhattan, I don’t know what is. So I go in, thinking it’s another gallery or maybe a pop-up vintage thing (which, let’s be honest, is 40% of SoHo at this point). Four floors up, the doors open, and boom. Music. Fairy lights. And very, very fabulous people.
I hesitated for, like, two seconds—and then remembered my gold hoops and confidence. So I walked straight out of that elevator and up a set of stairs like I belonged there. Confidence, people. It works.
Rooftop Revelations
The rooftop was something between a fashion shoot and a summer solstice ritual. Very boho, very curated, very… Instagram. Everyone had amazing skin and wore, like, purposefully undone linen. There was a DJ spinning vinyls (because of course) and an actual bathtub full of canned rosé.
At some point, I kind of made friends with a French girl named Sylvie (I think? She spoke mostly in smirks), and a guy in culottes offered me a drink and told me I had "model hands." (Monica would never let me live that down.)
But then.
I saw them.
Vintage. Hats.
Not just any vintage hats. I’m talking wide-brimmed fedoras, sequined pillboxes, velvet cloches—like if Jackie Kennedy raided Stevie Nicks’ closet.
From Party Crasher to Hat Model
Apparently, this whole thing was actually a private launch for a vintage accessories collective called Moondust Revival (very extra, very chic). Someone—I think her name was Dree?—asked if she could photograph me in one of the hats because I “gave energy.” I don’t entirely know what that means, but I chose to take it as a compliment.
Next thing I know, I’m being lit with someone’s ring light while wearing a chartreuse feathered beret and sipping canned rosé like I’ve done this a thousand times.
You know when you try on something you’d never normally wear, and somehow it just works? Yeah. That. I looked like a Vogue intern got lost in an Old Hollywood movie and decided to own it.
Should I consider a side hustle in hat modeling? Maybe. Who do I call about that?
New York Is Basically A Sitcom You’re Starring In
The thing is, living in New York sort of forces you to develop this delusional optimism that something magical can happen at any second. And sometimes? It totally does. Sometimes it’s not a casting call or a job interview or a big, maybe-boyfriend moment—it’s just… accidentally becoming the face of an indie hat brand while crashing a rooftop party in someone else’s building.
Living here still shocks me. People wear leather in August. The pigeons are way too brave. Sometimes I cry when I get in the wrong train and end up in Queens. But then… there are nights like this. Nights where a mistake turns into a memory (and, let’s be honest, a fantastic photo dump).
What I Learned:
Let’s break this down.
- Never say no to elevators in SoHo (unless it looks like a murder-y elevator, then absolutely say no).
- Always wear nice earrings. You never know.
- Confidence > invitations.
- Vintage hats are intimidating until you try one on and realize you are the moment.
- Canned rosé is better cold. Always cold.
“Sometimes New York doesn’t give you what you want. But it gives you something better… and weirder. Often in the form of very enthusiastic strangers with access to lighting equipment.”
So yeah—still can’t figure out how I ended up modeling a hat that looked like it belonged to a flapper who also did tarot readings, but I regret nothing.
Except maybe the heels. That roof had very uneven stones.
Until next time—if you see a girl in oversized sunglasses and a feathered fascinator wandering through downtown… it’s probably me.
Kisses from the Upper West Side (where I belong),
Rachel 💋✨
