i checked in with an old friend today who had been m.i.a since the summer, and it turns out she is now “living in her own house on the coast of wintry maine”, writing and editing for this magazine and loving pretty much everything about her life despite the fact that her town has only 4,000 people in it. this is a girl that seemed to own her corner of new york city, as far as i could tell, hosting dinner parties in her east village studio, publishing cookbooks, writing freelance articles about dark chocolate and vermont cheeses. but as it turns out, she was lost here. i’m not thinking about leaving the city by any means (i can’t fathom it, actually) but part of me dreams about her wooden lakehouse and homemade cinnamon teacakes and heavy flurries—people do survive outside of nyc. it’s a good thing to be reminded of that. all signs point to needing some fresh air.
