You know those nights that start with “I’ll just have one glass of Chardonnay” and end with dancing barefoot on a rooftop you’re pretty sure isn’t your friend’s apartment? Yeah. That happened. To me. Last weekend.
How It All Started
So, it was one of those almost-summer but not quite evenings in Brooklyn—the kind where the air still smells a little like spring, but people are already dressing like it’s the Fourth of July. I met my friend Mindy (yes, that Mindy—her bachelorette is finally behind her, thank God) at this little wine bar in Williamsburg. We were sipping something French, something crisp, something I couldn’t pronounce, and catching up on work, love, and how our 20s basically took place before eyebrow gel was readily available.
We were not planning on going out-out. But then this guy next to us—let’s call him Oliver because he looked like an Oliver—made a comment about how we “look like we’d appreciate natural wine and sunsets.” Umm… flattery works, obviously.
So I said, “Where’s the sunset, Oliver?” And just like that, Mindy and I were half-invited to this quote-unquote “low-key hang on a roof, just a few blocks away.”
Cue the chaos.
In My Defense, the Door Was Open
Brooklyn apartment buildings aren’t like the ones on the Upper East Side. There’s no doorman, and most of the time, no one even pretends to buzz you in. We followed some guy holding a skateboard (not Oliver, btw—we literally lost him? Rude) through the front door. The staircase smelled like bong water and lavender, and if that doesn’t scream Bushwick, I don’t know what does.
At the top, we heard music. Like, real music—not a playlist, but some tattooed guy with a tiny hat playing the saxophone like it was 2 a.m. in Paris. So obviously, we walk out onto the roof because, hello, saxophone.
And there it was.
A Brooklyn Rooftop Dream
String lights.
People dancing barefoot.
Someone mixing cocktails out of a literal igloo cooler.
This girl in a crochet crop top handing out mini grilled cheeses like she was born to be catering goddess of the universe.
It was… everything.
It also was absolutely, 100% not Oliver’s party.
Oops.
The Moment I Knew We’d Crashed It
About 15 minutes in, this girl walks over and says, “Hey, do I know you? Are you friends with Natalie or Josh?” And I go:
“I’m sorry, are those DJs or is that one person? JoshNatalie?”
She laughed, thank God, and then handed me another mini grilled cheese. We were in.
Things I Learned at This (Not My) Party
- You don’t need a personal invite to have a good time.
- Apparently, everyone in Brooklyn makes their own bitters now? Is this a thing?
- There’s always room on a picnic blanket for two lost-looking women in vintage denim jackets.
- No one cares if you don’t know whose birthday it is—as long as you compliment the host’s dog (yes, there was a French bulldog named Kevin, and yes he wore a tie).
The End… Sorta?
We stayed until someone broke out a birthday cake (so it was a birthday?! Who knows!). We clapped and sang "Happy Birthday" to a girl named Hannah who I still think might have been Natalie. Mindy danced with a guy who brews kombucha for a living (we think he's employed?), and I somehow left with a chia seed pudding recipe I will never make.
When we finally climbed back down to the street, the city smelled like honeysuckle and pizza, and I just—I don’t know—I felt grateful. For being here. For knowing the exact right moment to say "screw it" and follow jazz music into a stranger’s life.
New York, man. It’ll surprise you in the most random, magical, totally illegal-feeling ways.
xoxo,
Rachel
P.S. — If you’re reading this and you were at the party:
I still have your glitter bomber. Sorry not sorry.
