Okay, so picture this: It’s a perfect Saturday in New York — not too humid, finally not raining, and I had just gotten a much-needed (and totally deserved) blowout at Drybar after surviving an entire week of interns misspelling “Jacquemus” in our fall orders sheet.
I headed to SoHo because, well, that’s what one does when you’ve got fresh curls and nowhere to be except maybe, like, a sweetgreen and Sephora. But let me tell you — things took a very unexpected turn.
It All Started With a Strappy Heel and Curiosity
So there I am, minding my own business, window shopping at Reformation and sipping the most aggressively over-iced matcha of my life, when I spot this absolutely stunning rooftop. Fairy lights. Clinking glasses. The sound of alt-J playing softly (which honestly, triggered a Whole Foods memory). It was giving… curated chic.
Next thing I know, I see someone who vaguely looks like someone I used to intern with in ‘09 wave in my direction. Do I know her? No. Did I wave back? Absolutely.
Because here’s the thing: when you make eye contact in New York and someone waves at you from an Instagrammable rooftop, you take the invitation. Or at least… I did.
Up the Stairwell of Destiny
The building had one of those classic cast-iron staircases (you know the kind Phoebe would definitely say is haunted by someone named Carl). I followed a guy with cargo pants and an ironic 'Martha Stewart Is My Co-Pilot' tote — which felt like a sign?
One glass of rosé later, I found myself deep in a conversation about “liminal spaces” with someone named Eliot who claimed to invest in ethically-sourced NFTs. I said I worked in fashion (which, I mean, is technically true), and he said, and I quote:
“Fashion’s the last true form of temporal protest.”
Um… okay! I just said, “Totally,” and took a massive bite of what I later realized was vegan shrimp on a bamboo skewer.
I Started to Suspect Something
After about forty minutes of pretending I knew the host’s podcast (even though I 100% did not), someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Sorry, who did you come with?”
Plot twist: The person who waved at me wasn’t waving at me.
I panicked. I sipped. I blamed the wind.
I said, “Derek?” in a way that suggested I both did and did not know a Derek. I said it the same way you say “Central Park West?” when you’re not sure the taxi’s taking you to the right wedding brunch.
How I Got Away with It
Here’s the thing — if you wear a linen dress, say “sorry I’m late” when you arrive, and fake-text someone named “Ash” the entire time, no one really questions you in SoHo.
Also: rooftop parties in New York are the ultimate neutral space. No one owns them. They just… exist above Duane Reades.
Eventually I thanked the host (turns out her name was Lila, not Lily), complimented her earrings (they were Jennifer Fisher, duh), and made a classy exit down the fire escape while voice-noting Monica like I’d just survived a heist. Which, in many ways, I had.
What I Learned
- Never underestimate the power of confidence and a good blowout.
- Most SoHo parties have at least one person who’s more out of place than you are.
- Eliot was not kidding — ethically-sourced NFTs are apparently a thing.
- Vegan shrimp is shockingly okay?
- If someone questions your presence, just say you “work in production.” No one ever follows up.
Final Thoughts from a Rooftop Trespasser
New York is the only city where you can walk out for a matcha and end up discussing conscious capitalism with a girl named Reign who once dated a guy in a Vampire Weekend cover band.
I didn’t plan this evening. I didn’t get invited. I didn’t even get the name of that rosé. But I walked away with three new Insta followers, a party favor made of recycled denim, and a core memory.
Honestly? Ten out of ten. Would crash again.
Now if someone can please explain what a “vibe architect” does, that’d be great.
xoxo,
Rachel 💋
