Sunbleacht

  • Mules and Leopard Print and Ostrich Bags, Oh My!: A Crash Course in Cultural Anthropology

    Before I left for Europe, I’d started to lose interest in New York. Everyone was wearing pleather and black Doc Martens, wearing sweatpants to class. It was lazy in its style, the people at the club were stuck-up, and all the reservations for the outdoor seating on Lafayette Street in SoHo were taken up by what I disparagingly term the “unemployeds.” But absence makes the heart grow fonder, and coming back from studying abroad in London has made me see it in a new light. The people say “please” and “thank you” when you least expect it, I’m able to walk into my favorite restaurant with only a five minute wait, and the street style is more fashion-forward (and preppier, more well-coiffed) than the ridiculous and outrageous outfits on the New York Street style Instagram would have you believe.

    I walk through Nolita, SoHo, and Greenwich Village to get to class most days, taking detours through the West Village, East Village, and the LES when I’ve got time on my hands. I like Tribeca for its polish and glamour– stylish mothers pushing strollers with fresh blowouts, contemporary art galleries, little brunch places with families, and college friend meetups. I love the West Village for its collision of worlds – you see high-powered couples from Connecticut in long Burberry coats sharing the sidewalk with five teenagers from Long Island in their blue jeans and black top uniform, each holding the exact same matcha.

    I consider myself a cultural anthropologist in the truest street-style sense. I only recently realized that not everyone is watching the passerby as intently as I am – maybe not their personality, envisioning their lives outside of that moment, but certainly their outfits and the way they carry themselves – head held high, or, unfortunately, in most cases, shoulders slouched with a case of tech-neck. Something I’ve noted is that status here rarely announces itself the way you’d expect, a kind of elaborate camouflage. Everyone in Manhattan is wearing their status symbols: for men, a tee from Aimé Leon Dore, a Stüssy hoodie, or a Chrome Hearts hoodie; for women, a designer bag (take your pick of Prada nylon or Louis Vuitton Neverful), a fur coat, a pair of Manolo Blahnik heels. But those status symbols sometimes tend towards raggedy and unkempt, and the effect of that trend boggles my mind: why are bare nails considered a status symbol now? Why is the all-black sweat suit costing the man at Sant Ambroeus twenty thousand dollars, and why does he think it shows his self-importance more (I mean, he’s sitting in Sant Ambroeus, after all) than if he wore a polo and jeans? It’s interesting that you can’t always tell what someone does for a living, or whether they take the subway or have a driver, or what their apartment looks like. 

    Here’s what I’ve been noticing as of recent: the Alaïa mesh ballet flats (and every Alaïa-inspired knockoff from here to Zara); the bootcut jean revival; white-on-cream tonal dressing — think wide-leg linen trousers with a slouchy cream crewneck, Nantucket-prep gone downtown; the Adidas Gazelle, still going strong since 2016; tiny oval sunglasses on everyone (I’m partial to huge frames – so much more mysterious!); tailored office suiting worn by women lounging outside Sartiano’s, glancing at the chic passerbys at the crosswalk headed to iconic Fanelli’s, relaxing at the end of the workday; chic Europeans taking up every outdoor table at Sant Ambroeus in SoHo at 11 in the morning on a Tuesday; the line at Mimi’s stretching half a block for (mediocre) froyo. At night, the crowd waiting outside the Bowery Ballroom, Ray’s on Chrystie street, and the Box is doing something more interesting: slingback heels with sheer pantyhose (everyone’s committed, but I can’t get behind it – pick a season you’re dressing for!), studded rhinestone denim (on the legs, on the back pockets) and silver everything: Mary Janes, ballet flats, mules. Silver is basically a neutral now, whether you’re going to work or a dive bar on Orchard street.

    Speaking of places, some that I’ve noticed that have been weirdly drawing a chic crowd: Little Italy, not even the tourists, now it’s the yuppies, too. Tascha, the Portuguese place that’s only open on Thursdays, is always packed. Rintintin, my favorite restaurant in Manhattan (the chef recognizes me when I walk down the block, and I’m distracted from my favorite unwinding activity – intensely staring at what everyone’s wearing and what the solo diners are typing on their laptops). La Pecora Bianca with the aforementioned teens here for the day with their moms from Long Island; Leon’s bagels, especially on Mulberry street; Odd Sister in SoHo, a couple blocks away from my favorite store, Retrofete; I could keep going on and on, because once the temperature rises above 70, every restaurant south of Houston street, from Varick to Orchard, fills with the “unemployeds,” waiting on lines of all sorts, from the New York or Nowhere shop to the Mexican place, Michtlan, in Dimes Square. 

    Summer is the season that’s best to show off feminine style – billowy maxi-skirts, flowy blouses, the kind of easy, unselfconscious dressing that’s like Carrie Bradshaw’s style crossed with the dreamiest fashion show, which is obviously the Gianni Versace spring 1995 fashion show. My one unwavering conviction: if it’s fake, don’t wear it. Pleather and faux fur almost always look gaudy. They look cheaper than ordinary polyester, because they’re obvious imitations, the fashion equivalent of a knockoff Missoni print on an Amazon bikini, or a polyester blouse someone at a vintage shop is hoping you’ll mistake for Pucci.

    Other things I’ve seen on repeat this season: black athletic skin-tight romper bodysuits (not a fan, too simple), capris making a return, a lot of turquoise, pointed-toe flats with little buckles, silk shorts paired with an oversized Knicks tee (laundry day?), chunky pearl necklaces, long gingham dresses and seersucker doing the prairie-meets-prep thing, and the New Balance 530 sneakers (I love their silver and shine!). One sincere loss, though: nautical fashion is basically gone this season. A navy striped marinière, Ralph Lauren crewneck sweaters, wide-leg sailor trousers…

    The pop-up economy on Broome and Spring Streets has been a real bright spot. In recent weeks alone: Alice + Olivia, Retrofête, Rag & Bone, Lanvin, Veronica Beard, JW Pei with those colorful rhinestone bags. These are brands that are not fast fashion, not disposable, not boring, for the most part. Which brings me to my broader conviction about getting dressed: every single piece you own should have a little twist to it. Even a black top – especially a black top! It’s what separates a person who simply wears clothes from a person who puts effort and self-confidence in what they purchase and how they present themselves. Stores like Everlane and & Other Stories are technically fine, I guess, the quality is there, but they’ve built entire aesthetics around the absence of a twist, an aesthetic of “blah” and shapeless and self-consciousness – not exactly something to get excited about. 

    There’s no definitive guide to any of this, which is both a frustration and a pleasure (keeping the spots local). Eater and Time Out just can’t capture it: the Mulberry Street happy hour crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, the forever-packed room at Cipriani Downtown glowing under its yellow awning from noon to midnight, the joy of Stone Street in FiDi on St. Patrick’s Day. The city’s best social information still travels by word of mouth and pure dumb luck (usually on a day where you hit twenty thousand steps). And you can’t spell word of mouth without thinking of Sunbleacht. Puzzle that one out, I dare you!

  • Pumps, Polos, and Pencil Skirts: An Intern’s Guide to Officewear

    There’s a difference between an appropriate work outfit and a fantastic work outfit. Of course, you want to be noticed for your hard work, given the return offer, promoted for your ability to exceed expectations. But adding onto my earlier notes on European fashion, you dress up to make yourself look more polished, because you have self-respect to get up in the morning and not wear sweatpants and lounge around all day. And it’s a superficial reflection of self, sure, but it shows where you choose to shop in your free time, if you’re bold or basic (totally fine and acceptable at work – I branch out in style after I clock out), and if you notice the finer details, like how a notch blazer is less showy versus a peak blazer that’s more defined. 

    I’ll limit my scope here to women’s fashion, since that’s what I know best. Although – digression – if a guy dresses nicely, it stands out, like a nice turquoise polo on a summer day, and I love a salmon pink Oxford shirt and navy slacks combination. I guess no one wears cufflinks anymore, or ties, even, but I think the accessories, for men at least, is a nice touch of individuality and taste in an otherwise ubiquitous sea of office suits in Midtown.

    Midtown, NYC.
    Midtown, NYC.

    Let’s start with the obvious. All black makes you look like you’re attending a funeral. Ridiculously oversized makes you look insecure or very unattuned to social cues, unless maybe it’s casual Friday and you’re digging out boyfriend jeans. Although I could never wear balloon pants, as a rule – if Vogue says they’re in style, they need to fire the industry fashion plants that voiced that absurd opinion in the first place. 

    I think that polyester vests that button down the middle look tacky. Polyester clothes are tacky, period, but the vests in particular with the little divot at the bottom that shows off the navel is really kind of revolting. J. Crew used to have such nice cotton basics, and now whenever I walk into the store, I’m touching plastic, and, shamefully for the brand, I don’t know if it’s the mannequin or the clothes she’s wearing. 

    White and cream don’t look good together (say, a pencil skirt and a shirt) in almost all cases – it just looks like you didn’t have the exact matching color, and rather lazily tried to pull a matching set off. I do think that Mary Janes make you look like you’re five years old. 

    Work dresses are a bit of a grey area for me. I’ve realized, through my own observation, that they can be pulled off well, or they can look frumpy or cheap, and it’s tough to strike a balance. Long work dresses, especially those with a tighter waist and made with synthetic fabrics – sometimes even linen – remind me a bit of Laura Ingalls Wilder. With a short work dress, you run the risk of it being too short, but they do generally are easier to wear without tailoring. Work dresses, because they tend towards the slouchy, is an item of clothing I’d break my never-all-black rule, because making a black outfit look frumpy is more difficult (even though it does make you look a little morose, I think.)

    Now onto what makes you look nice. 

    At a recent work gala, with an evening dress code, I noticed a few nice Zimmermann dress, a yellow Maje silk dress with a rhinestone collar, two light blue long button down linen dresses, in steel blue and cobalt blue, that looked sharp and yet mature and appropriate (probably worn straight from work). A couple of pink and light blue dresses from Nana Jacqueline as well. My favorite look, besides the Maje rhinestone dress, was an baby-blue asymmetric empire dress, maybe from Anthropologie, and generally I’m not a huge fan of that brand (too “clean girl,” no whimsy), but it was such an eye-catcher and conversation -starter!

    For the office, all navy is a classic. I have a navy Tahari blazer that I adore, maybe a little more business-casual based on the cotton material, but defined by tiny gold buttons down the middle and white edges that line invisible pockets on the waist. Aritizia’s not my favorite – it’s overpriced, and the materials are pretty low quality for that price – but I have a pair of navy chinos from there that fit me like I’ve gotten them tailored. Pleated pants are adorable and classy – I have a grey pair with the faintest stripes going vertically (stripes should almost always go vertically!) 

    Speaking of pleats, the long skirts with many little pleats look adorable – polka dots were in style last year, and I wish they’d make a comeback. Cherry red was the “in” color last year, and I dearly miss it, because it’s just dashing and so fun. I am just itching to go out and buy a fit-and-flare top for work in either a cherry or a burgundy color, but I’ve got to hold myself back after my Ralph Lauren eBay spree (my favorite life hack for discounts, because I’ve never found anything that looks nice and fits me in an American vintage store).

    On matching colors: a woman that sits near me wears a light pink blazer with matching heels, and I think it’s fantastic and so simple to do that. The French and British women go even further and match their belts to their shoes and blazer, which is just top-notch coordination to me. I love an Oxford long-sleeve polo (bonus if it’s striped) under a knit crewneck. Frilly high-neck collars with bows and ruffles may seem like they’re in the same first-day-of-kindergarten type of outfit, but with artful design and parameters of “good taste,” I really do think they make a top stand out in a positive way – especially if it’s a neutral color. 

    I could go on at length discussing color combinations, fabric layering, and accessory pairings that I’ve seen, walking down the street, that are more creative than any work-related ideas that Pinterest or Instagram could serve up for me. In a way I’m glad I haven’t curated my feed enough – it leaves me to notice the details in-person, because, at my core, I’m distrustful of everything I see online. Who knows if the influencer that pops up was paid to promote a product, and then you’re subconsciously influenced to buy that brand that’s got this particular brown suede skirt in stock? The model – or the clothes on the model – could be AI-generated, for crying out loud! Being online is a poor substitute for seeing an outfit in-person – I’ve been duped too many times, and I refuse to give another dollar to a store that’ll ship me plastic imitating something that could be worn on your body. SO seeing the people in real-time in FiDi and Midtown – going about their day with steely looks and an air of confidence – drives me, a little bit, part in a competitive spirit (I think to myself– I can work just as hard as her!) but also part from my own interest in cultural anthropology. Hell, my style improved just in the first four weeks of my internship for that reason alone!

  • Beachy, Baroque, and the In-Between: Thoughts on Interior Design

    I believe it’s of unique importance, and a core part of self-identity, to find a personal style: not from a trend, not from a magazine, but something curated and deeply personal. The office and the classroom are places which your own hand has no will to design – coming home to a home that’s personal and designed of your own free will, I believe, is core to establishing your identity. My design philosophy, or what I view to be aesthetically pleasing, pulls in different directions, and through my research for my upcoming Gallatin “colloquium” – more of a text-based review than the vigorous thesis defense I envisioned – I’ve been skimming through books about aesthetics, histories of design, and obviously, for intellectual dessert, the pretty homes I see on Pinterest and Zillow. Design, it turns out, is not such a soft subject as Architectural Digest catalogues will have you believe. It has economics, ethics, and ideology baked into every decision: what materials you source, what you preserve, what you tear down, and what you choose to live with.

    I’ve also come to believe it’s important to have a principled and logical top-down taste in design, something to be cultivated from an initial innate moment of aesthetic appreciation, a logic tree that delineates from a core statement, to a school of design, to individual items, which is why I’m trying to resolve my contradictions in my taste rather than picking and choosing, willy nilly, what looks good. In a house, it’s rather strange to have one room influenced by Lilly Pulitzer, and the next by 18th century Romanticism, just like in a head, it’s contradictory to be a “minimalist hoarder” or take on other oxymoronic self-descriptions.

    What I’ve come to understand is that taste is not static. Some of what I loved at 17 now looks grossly garish to me. And Architectural Digest, once the canonical authority, now feels like proof of how quickly a taste-making institution can lose whimsy: minimalist interiors that are antithetical to how personal a home should be, curated by interior designers that went to one or two design schools that now dictate modern “taste,” losing history in favor of new and trendy and ultimately into the discard pile. Unfortunately, nothing less than an ultra-curated Pinterest feed really gets it right, not in a snobby way that signals superior taste, but in a disappointing manner that shows culture’s sway towards the singular importance of celebrities, who, in my opinion, are less worthwhile to listen for their opinions than the vagrant aspiring evangelist on the street corner that’s gone off his rocker.

    I gravitate towards beachy and light aesthetics in my own interior design philosophy. Growing up near the water has made wide open horizons feel like a baseline requirement for happiness — translating into my predilection for large bay windows, white stucco exteriors, and the particular quality of light that bounces off pale walls in the afternoon. The modern obsession with dark grey “accents” to an existing modern home is dull: they make rooms feel smaller and heavier, which is precisely the opposite of what a home should do. Lilly Pulitzer’s tropical prints, which shock the viewer with their bright colors, are aggressively cheerful, force a change in mood – they insist on optimism. On a gray January morning in New York, a Lilly Pulitzer duvet cover set cheers me up, sets me on my way to class. 

    In terms of exterior, my favorite house in the world is Seashell House in Isla Mujeres, Mexico — white stucco curved into two seashells, a playful sculpture to live in. Let me use this as a case study for what I believe a home should be: a form of biophilic design, combining nature with man-made dwellings to be mentally uplifting and whimsical and unexpected. And furthermore, in the stucco exterior and open-door living, that’s the Mediterranean sensibility I keep returning to: the villas on the French Riviera, Amalfi coast, Florida homes based on that Mediterranean architecture. White stucco and aged brick are my two favorite exteriors. 

    Bathroom wallpaper is one place I’d break the white-wall rule – contained spaces can hold a stronger pattern (don’t conflate that with single-toned dark walls), and I love murals and hand-painted tile mosaics in a bathroom, something in the blue-and-white chinoiserie tradition I developed a fixation on through a British design course. The same logic applies to the kitchen: glazed mosaic tile backsplashes, copper fixtures with some patina to them, the small details that signal that a person lives here and has opinions. Bronze faucets shaped like sea creatures, copper mermaid door handles, a chandelier in the dining room with crystals and small candlesticks at even intervals are the specifics I find myself returning to.

    Back to biophilic design. My mom’s garden was the earliest introduction: hydrangeas, roses, lily of the valley, daffodils, lilac bushes, a row of evergreens along the property line. Inside, golden pothos climbing vines, squat little succulents, and hibiscus trees grace our living room. Books, too, are one of my favorite items of decor, and useful, because I’ll consume a book like a piece of tiramisu, and also the wall of unread books reminds me to put away the credit card at McNally Jackson. More than half the rooms in my house have a bookshelf, each with a different theme – the paperbacks in my room are bright and colorful and host the more expensive editions of Kurt Vonnegut (I just love how his book covers use such bright colors–so ironic!) The sunroom on the second floor has got my yearbooks, as well as titles like War and Peace and the Secret History from a used bookstore – all crammed too close to the bookend-less shelf for my comfort.

    The part of my design philosophy that I haven’t fully resolved is between light, airy beachy aesthetic and my love of Romantic-era painting, the kind of rich, dark-framed canvases you find in the European wing of The MET, where I could spend an entire afternoon. A deeply saturated Eugene Delacroix painting doesn’t sit easily next to white-washed walls and rattan furniture. I haven’t reconciled this yet, and I need to figure out how to make this clash work. Maybe the answer lies in the notion that the best interiors look like they took years to curate. In one of my classes about adaptive reuse in architecture, we learned about pastische and patina – “bad” pastische in architecture is when a creator clumsily mimics another era, and while it’s hard to avoid without knowing the ins and outs of a historical design school, I disagree with the British scoffing attitude of “bad” patische, it’s miles better than living in a modern white box without personality. To combine optimism, bright colors, Mediterranean style, biophilic design, my beachy aesthetic, and my Romanticist taste in art is a tall order – but I know that my room, my taste in fashion, my future house, will be uniquely me and not dictated by a trend or haphazard juxtaposition, but the result of design study, an axiom that delineates into schools of design and down to particular objects. Maybe it will, in the end, be an appreciation of aesthetic beauty when all those items fall together in place – I do believe that the more my taste is curated, the more research I do, the likelier it’ll be that I’ll stumble upon a culmination of taste that supersedes terrestrial and temporal “design schools” and bridges my contradictory tastes.

  • Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans?

    Most people have a terrible misconception of what Mardi Gras is (thank you, Tulane Tik Tok). They assume it’s a rave: six inch, thigh-high, metallic boots with a bikini and a baggie of psychedelics to match. You run on Monster and New Amsterdam vodka for a month. You live on Bourbon street. Now, I’m sure that’s what plenty of Tulane kids do, and that’s why many locals dislike them. 

    For someone that’s been hanging out with Tulane kids since high school, I should probably cut them some slack, right? Wrong! It’s crucial for every small-ish city to criticize the local university’s out-of-state students. 🙂 If you have an issue with this, take it up with complainiac@sunbleacht.com.

    However, I, of course, am slightly hypocritical on occasion, Mardi Gras being one. When I go to the French Quarter, I do it in a local way to enjoy music — when Tulane kids go to the French Quarter, it’s annoying, disruptive, and uncool. When I crowded Amelia street at 15 it was because it was “the spot” — when Tulane kids do it now, it’s because they don’t respect the city. However, I don’t wear a g-string one-piece around families with kids (this happened last year at a party I threw, that my brother, a toddler, was at), so maybe I’m not that much of a hypocrite. Mardi Gras is a family event and it must be treated as such! Walking down St. Charles during day parades is everything but a rave, but more of a neighborhood block party — we watched Tucks next to two cribs with newborns in them, gnawing on plastic beads and drinking Grenades from their bottles. 

    THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 12

    My friends and I flew into New Orleans on February 11th for the Hermes ball (like the Greek god, not the brand) on the 12th. The morning consisted of prepping, but the night started with a champagne party. While my friends were wandering in a sea of well-dressed New Orleanians, I was in the back rooms of the Hyatt regency with my parents, listening to the court’s speeches. A Mardi Gras court consists of the people who will be  presented that year: the king, queen, the pages, the ladies in waiting, the maids (debutantes), and the previous year’s returning queen and maid court. When the ball starts, the guests find their seats facing the stage — with the women sitting and men standing — and then the court members get presented one-by-one, in a specific order, with trumpet intermissions. As a returning maid, I just did a brief walk across the stage with my dad and then sat off to the side. Last year, I had to walk in three circles and stand in front of 500 people for 45 minutes with one broken foot in a boot, the other in a white Prada kitten heel. And a smile! When I started walking up the stairs of the stage, I, Cinderella style, lost my heel. By some miracle I was able to get my foot back into my shoe, pretending I was doing an extra long curtsy. 

    Alisia before the ball last year, 2025.

    The best part of any Mardi Gras ball is the fashion. For Hermes, women are required to wear floor-length gowns that cover their heels and white elbow-length gloves — other than that, it’s up to the gal herself. Gowns range from straight, black gowns, to neon pink gowns with open backs, to frilly, flowery, lacey gowns, to gowns with fake shards of gold and reflective glass (as my gorgeous mom famously wore a few years ago). Men wear black suits with “tails,” which make them look like penguins. Men that are part of the court wear white, orange, and gold costumes with feathers and masks, hiding them in anonymity. The pages — boys around six-years old — wear all-white outfits with a feathered hat, a blonde wig, blue eyeshadow, and red lipstick. A universal moment for a New Orleans middle schooler is finding a photo of your then-crush during his page-era. The king also wears a blonde wig. The queen wears a beautiful, bejeweled crown and dress, with a long, bedazzled train which two pages have to maneuver behind her. But different krewes have different dress codes — when I was in high school, I went to a ball where all the high school boys that were on the court had to dress up as jesters. 

    After the ceremony, the krewe invites the guests onto the stage for photos, and then we all toddle off to dinner. We found our names on a seating chart, a glass of celebratory champagne, and our way to the table. We sat with my best family friend and his SMU friends, who are always fun to get to know because both parties are culture-shocked by the others’ university life. The dinner consisted of an immediately-devoured charcuterie board appetizer; a salad; a great steak, crab cake, and mashed potato dinner; and a king cake for dessert. Along with a drink or two – it is Mardi Gras, after all.  

    I have always preferred to keep a small group of friends over a big one. Watching my childhood best friends meet my New York best friends — and all get along so well — was awesome: I’m lucky to have had a successful friend group merge. Friendships are funny. Nothing much has changed about me from the time I was 11, and if anything, I’m almost exactly like the person that 11 year old me envisioned, minus neon purple hair. I am still friends with the girls I was friends with at 11, and when I see photos of my college friends at that age, I know we would’ve all been friends. Nights of endless Minecraft and Shane Dawson videos must not have been as unique as I thought at the time. 

    FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13

    We spent the night at the Hyatt, and in the morning all got ready for the Hermes brunch at Antoine’s. Antoine’s is one of the old, classic French Quarter restaurants, and the traditional host of the Hermes brunch; many old classic restaurants host other krewes’ brunches. To avoid Mardi Gras traffic, we went on a nice stroll through the New Orleans Central Business District into the Quarter, and were blessed with the most phenomenal weather. All of our family friends had a table near each other at brunch, and it was great to see everyone, especially since many of my family friends had yet to meet my New York friends, or hadn’t seen my childhood friends since… Well, childhood. My godfather jokingly brought over all of our same-age, male friends to try to set them up with my New Yorkers. Mimosas flowed, baguettes were buttered, steaks were cut, dessert plates were cleared. We took some champagne to go (thank you, open can laws), and headed over to my godfather’s store a few blocks away. We spent a few hours there hanging out with even more family friends, and my heart was full to the brim — nothing beats Southern charm and the chattiest people ever in one spot. 

    A long nap followed the morning festivities, but then I had a party to co-host. We all got ready and headed over to our garage in River Ridge, where we were throwing a party with the SMU kids. The night consisted of finding out more university culture shocks from chatting with them, fake bartending, and explaining that I was in-fact a co-host, not a frat guy’s plus-one. After the party, Becky and I headed to The Boot to party with Tulane kids (I go to The Boot in a local way, not to be mistaken for a ruckus-causing Tulane kid!), and then eating leftover, cold pizza in my kitchen. 

    They say Mardi Gras is a marathon, not a sprint — unfortunately, we sprinted. Saturday and Sunday were relaxed and consisted of taking my brother to parades, life-changing sushi, crappy reality TV, and 24,000 steps around Uptown New Orleans. 

    I spent years admiring every aspect of New Orleans, finding what I liked and didn’t. This has probably made me an okay tour guide, as my friends have been telling me they “know what it means to miss New Orleans” – a reference to the 1947 lyric by Eddie DeLange and, more famously, the magnet on my fridge. I truly believe that everyone should visit New Orleans at some point in their lives, and I’m glad I was able to bring my friends — who haven’t spent much time in the South — to the best city in it. It’s a place full of artists, musicians, writers, students, and families. It’s a place that lacks judgment and does not lack a loving community; it’s culturally dense and requires much more than one visit — more coming soon. 😉

  • How to Spend Your 21st Birthday in Paris

    My 21st birthday trip to Paris was in development since my 20th birthday. I knew I would be abroad and had to pick the perfect European city to go to for my celebration, as turning 21 is a big day – my very first time drinking alcohol! (never mind the fact that it has already been legal for me to do this here in Europe…) I had asked my cousin, who was visiting me at the time, and her idea was Paris, where she said, “It would be super chic, and you could see the Eiffel Tower sparkle right on my birthday.” The idea sounded perfect to me, and it wasn’t long after we went shopping at the Bryant Park Christmas market, where I found a cute print of a woman in a long, black dress in front of the Paris Opera. I bought it without thinking, and later realized it was a sign – I knew I would be there for my birthday next year. This plan has indeed never deviated over the past year, as I am now drafting this in my notes app while in a hotel, a seven minute walk away from Palais Garnier on the last night of my birthday weekend. My birthday was for sure a perfect one, so I am going to share the 21 steps you can take to ensure you have a 21st birthday in Paris as amazing as mine:

    1. Start your day bright and early in London to make the 7:30 am Eurostar train to Paris. Before you board, make sure to get snacks, including a lemon cheesecake cup, because it’s your birthday and you deserve cake for breakfast.

    2. Listen to music and read your birthday Costar year prediction while on the train: “This year your task will be to cause some good trouble.”

    3. Arrive in Paris at 11 am and take the train to your beautiful Airbnb in the 2nd ARR where you will be staying with four of your best friends. You will get to go right in, even though you technically were not supposed to check in until three. (Except maybe not RIGHT away because you can’t use an elevator and you must get through three Parisian doors, the last one being almost unopenable).

    4. Get ready and change into a fun birthday outfit – a light pink sparkly midi skirt, black tank top, and black ballet flats.

    5. Go get 21 macarons from Pierre Hermé, as it is a birthday tradition. The closest one is in a department store, where you must go up every floor, only to find out it is actually located on the basement level. 

    6. Walk back to the Airbnb and arrive right at 1:24 pm (7:24 am EST) when you will be officially 21 years old! 

    7. Open the door to your best friend Alisia snapping a photo to greet you, and just chill in the room together, eating your macarons until your other best friend Becky arrives.

    8. Head out to a cute cafe together for a cappuccino because you cannot go on any further in your day without caffeine.

    9. Go vintage shopping in the area, picking up a baguette to eat while you walk. Make sure to treat yourself to a birthday purchase – vintage Maje dress with polka dots, flowers, and cherries. 

    10. Head back to the room to help your other friend open the impossible door, stopping for a much-needed chocolate croissant on the way. 

    11. After relaxing in the room, start to get ready for dinner. Make sure to drink the champagne that your friend completely surprised you with, which did not open itself and spill on the floor…

    12. After getting dressed in the perfect outfit (Starlite gown from Mirror Palais and vintage heels from London), make sure to take lots of photos – so many that you lose track of time and have to run after your Uber in heels shouting his name.

    13. Take more photos in the car.

    14. Arrive fashionably late and get seated at a table with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

    15. Order ravioli and an espresso martini – then three more pornstar martinis – and then tiramisu for dessert, which will of course arrive in a gigantic bowl.

    16. Leave dinner and go to a viewpoint spot of the Eiffel Tower and take a million more photos. Make sure to be there right as it sparkles.

    17. Leave to go get more drinks and then head to the club: Carmen, of course, as you will get a free birthday drink (or double shot). 

    18. Go venture to another club, but do not go in as they will make you pay 30 euros each to enter.

    19. Instead, have a drunk walk and take more photos.

    20. Then spend the 30 euros you just saved on the most delicious 4:30 am margherita pizza and chicken pasta at the 24-hour restaurant the Uber driver suggested. Devour the entire thing between just you and your friend. 

    21. Head back to the Airbnb, miraculously get the door opened on the first try, and end your birthday night at 5 am (but of course, it is still your birthday week, and the fun will continue on the rest of the weekend in Paris!!)

  • Confessions of a Lifeguard

    By Becky, (who is) still waiting for the Baywatch end credit

    The best job a girl could have is a beach lifeguard. I’d liken my experience to that of a cloistered nun – though instead of a habit and floor-length black garb, I’d don a red swimsuit and tan like Pam Anderson in Baywatch. 

    I’d ride five blocks on my baby blue beach cruiser bike to work, skid in at ten-fifteen on the dot, toy with my frayed Pura Vida bracelet as the lieutenant assigned lifeguards to our posts for the day. I’d immediately pipe up when they asked who wanted the bays – first and last word I’d say in the morning. Five past ten is too early of a wakeup time to spare any energy for chitchat, despite what Big Employment tells us. The bays were the easiest to guard: no waves and no one on the beach until lunchtime, except for a lone retiree and maybe a stray Brooklynite that thought they could sneak into Breezy Point. Those fools! I can spot them by their scowl and hideous man-buns! That’s not a friendly Breezy Pointer! 

    Couple minutes later, I’d scoop up a walkie-talkie from the basket and cruise three blocks to the lifeguard chair, throwing down my bike on the sand, rusted kickstand be damned. I’d clumsily set up the patriotic Cooperative-provided umbrella (an Irish girl’s got to have a barrier between her pale skin and enemy number one, sunlight) and tuck my legs to my chest, watching the little sailboats with white masts drift past the buoys, Brooklyn a mile-and-a-half in front of me, the Manhattan skyline just beyond, just a haze in midmorning. From my vantage point six feet from the ground, if I wished, I could survey the shores of New Jersey to my far left, Staten Island (didn’t particularly care to look much at those two entities, to be perfectly honest), Coney Island, Manhattan Beach (the kind with the nouveau-riche Russians, not the Californians) to my twelve-o-clock, the control tower at JFK, and the postcard-ready white-and-blue Breezy Point lighthouse to my right. What a joy to have all of New York City under my supervision! No crime, no death, no taxes under my watchful gaze! 

    I’d then turn my attention to the most important matter, the life-or-death duty of every tried-and-true lifeguard: considering the topic of philosophical thought for the day, my music choice for the hour. Now, don’t pretend like I wasn’t completely alert and ready to save lives at a moment’s notice – the horseshoe crab had moved six inches towards the shoreline since I’d set up my umbrella, actually, I’ll have you know. As for the music choice, sometimes Bob Marley would win out, and I’d pretend to be somewhere in the Caribbean sipping from a coconut. Maybe I’d put on the Doors and “Riders from the Storm” would become background noise for lofty sorts of ideas that ranged from religion to politics to whether I really agreed with Ayn Rand about the merits of form-follows-function architecture and professional success as (wo)man’s defining source of happiness. A girl’s got nothing else to do when staring at the sea. Also, I was unreasonably obsessed with Ayn Rand this summer, later vindicated by those 24-year-old AI startup Silicon Valley geniuses who probably cracked ten million in seed funding before I got up for my lunch break.

    At first thought, I sound irritatingly pretentious, but I’ve got a long history of hours spent staring at a pool, lifeguarding in Brooklyn that forced a level of boredom upon me that punished any want for instant gratification. If you were caught with your phone on the chair, you were sacked, and I didn’t dare risk a reprimand from my supervisor, a no-nonsense mother of three who ran the place like a warship. 

    Back on the sand. Can you imagine a New York City beach with absolutely nobody, yes, devoid of people, not a single soul as far as the eye can see? Can you imagine Billionaire’s Row and One World Trade within sight distance, sun beating down on your skin, and yet a silence so still you considered for a moment that you might be deaf? Can’t you see why I’d spend every single waking second for the rest of my life if I could, sitting here, day in, day out, 80 degrees, three little white sailboats within swimming distance, good music, and any little worries swallowed whole by the current in Jamaica Bay?

    Unfortunately and rather cynically, the lightning strike at the beginning of last August kind of took me out of my reverie. Apparently you’ve got a one in ten thousand chance of getting struck by a bolt. I don’t count myself as one of the (un)lucky, though, because I think only my umbrella was hit (who woulda thought, the tallest metal point around really does attract lightning, I just wanted to put good old Ben Franklin to the test!). I bought a lotto ticket the next day and didn’t win the Powerball. So there was really no point, I guess, except it’s a really killer icebreaker fact in an otherwise routine round-the-class introduction, and I got recognized once at the local pub. Maybe it was a much-needed jolt back to reality, a sign telling me that Ayn Rand was right: I need to take pride in my work and not just listen to reggae all day on the lifeguard chair. Or maybe it was just a great excuse to get a paid day off, which, complete no-brainer, I spent at the beach. Even got to wear a real bikini this time!

  • The Best New York has to Offer

    To answer New York City’s most recently asked question, “where has Sunbleacht gone,” we’ve gone to London and Florence. Forever. 

    Just kidding. It was bittersweet to leave NYC and hop over the pond, and we’ve been talking about the things that we will miss the most. Those conversations spiraled into the stories you’re about to read, discussing our favorite memories from the past 365 days.

    Becky

    A night out always starts off well when Alisia or Graciela’s got a new item of clothing to show off to me. That alone takes up at least 10 minutes of conversation. In this case, it was Alisia’s vintage Ralph Lauren Rudyard-Kipling Jungle-book inspired sweater. 

    We kicked off the festivities (every weekend was a special feast day, much like medieval peasants had, except we were teen girls with havoc to wreak and an itch in our hearts to dance) at Cafe Select, where Nice Jewish Boys and Italian Stallions alike chowed down on the smelliest cheese fondue that had ever had the displeasure of gracing my nostrils. Seriously, it was like foot-and-mouth disease had been made into a culinary specialty. We discussed Alisia’s camp stories, delved a bit into psychology (the topic du jour was schizophrenia, if I remembered correctly — coincidentally, a disorder that shared its name with a current popular baby name amongst the carnivore-only dieting types), and shots were purchased for each of us by a self-reported owner of a local well-heeled hotel (I chose to suspend my disbelief about whether he was telling the truth or not).

    I achieved my favorite photo of Alisia and Graciela to date: the two of them sipping on overfilled cosmos like cats lapping up milk from saucers. We returned to our Broome Street den of sins and hedonism, where we celebrated the name-day, Central European style, of Rebucci, Grucci, and Alucci — our evil alter egos — and commemorated this world-changing anniversary by scrawling our names on little puzzle-piece Post-It notes. Just like how the Vikings baptized their young, I’ve read.

    After a merry skip, hop, and jump to Paul’s, we secured our spot on the dance floor, twirling around to anachronistically combined Morrissey and Kesha like little gremlins possessed by the ghosts of Studio 54. A friendly offer for a cigarette led the three of us to a Gramercy afterparty, where I was thrilled to discover a curved spiral staircase, ostensibly leading to a damsel in distress locked away in a tower. I pushed my phone toward Alisia for a quick photoshoot before I drunkenly attempted to save this supposed damsel in distress, posing in a fascinatingly weather-inappropriate outfit of a coat and open-toed espadrilles, and then, forgetting about my quest, passionately flipped through a coffee table book—much to the displeasure of the other partygoers, upon whom I had imposed a politically inappropriate Overton-window-smashing conversation. 

    As a favorite-night runner-up — a little sweet treat after the starring dish — here was a favorite moment of mine: the time that Alisia picked up a fair-sized tire rim off the ground on Greene Street and brought it to Paul’s Baby Grand with her as a present for the bouncers.

    Graciela

    It was a Saturday near the end of April in NYC when the sun was finally coming out and everyone was coming out of hibernation. I knew I wanted to avoid the SoHo crowds and with nothing else to do, I decided it was the perfect day to take a solo adventure up to Central Park. I put on my favorite red floral midi skirt and packed my bag with my journal, book, headphones, and my disposable camera that I never finished from a year ago and took the 6 train uptown. 

    As I entered the park, the trees were blooming and the weather was perfect. I took photos and called my mom while I walked around until I found the perfect little spot by a tree to sit down at. We chatted and my mom sent me photos of all these cute puppies she was looking to maybe get (but never did – so if you’re reading this you should still get another puppy, mom).  

    After hanging up I was able to put on some music and journal a bit which I so rarely end up ever actually doing. I laid down and people watched for a while and eventually decided to try out this cute cafe I found somewhat nearby. I journeyed over and prayed for seating. I was blessed with a seat inside with air conditioning to escape the heat after the walk over and was able to order a latte and a macaroon. 

    Right as I finished off my coffee and was heading back out, I received a text from Alisia asking what I was up to and if I wanted to enjoy this beautiful day with a nice glass of champagne. And of course, what other answer is there other than yes? We had just launched the zine for Sunbleacht and we needed a proper celebration. We ended up realizing we were at completely different sides of the park, but as I walked south and she walked east we were able to perfectly meet up near one of the entrances. When Alisia walked through the park she saw there was a big crowd hanging out in Sheep Meadow. We decided to go to the nearest liquor store and each buy a bottle of champagne and go sit and drink over there. We realized we didn’t have any cups as we sat down so we just popped open our bottles, cheered to Sunbleacht and drank straight from them. We sat in the park drinking our champagne in the middle of about three different games going on (may have almost got hit by a few balls). One group even seemed to be drunkenly inventing their own game and invited us to join, but we had more fun just watching. We laughed and took silly photos till the sun started to set. Both of us had one of those moments where we were looking out at the city and almost didn’t even believe the two of us were really here, just two best friends living in New York City drinking a bottle of champagne watching a beautiful sunset in the park. 

    We started to head back as it was getting dark. We hid our champagne in our bags and decided to walk home. The 65 or so blocks flew by quicker than usual. By the time we were home I had my bottle, and the rest of Alisia’s, and a 7th Street burger. But although the sun had set, the night was just beginning… 

    Afterwards, I got mostly ready… and then maybe fell asleep for a little bit. However, revived by Alisia I was up and ready to hit the town. We spent the night at the one and only Paul’s Casablanca. We said hello to all our favorite people and danced the night away. 

    We ended up back home before we realized we needed to finish the night the correct way with Champion Pizza. Alisia grabbed her film camera and we went just down the block to get the best pizza in the city. Champion has a button with a timer that if you hit at the exact 10 second mark you get a free cheese slice. I always try with no luck. I ordered my usual cheese slice and I started hitting the button just for fun. It was a delighted surprise when I got it right on the 10 second mark after only a couple tries. The 3 am crowd cheered loud for me and Alisia captured the epic moment on film. I savored my delicious winning slice to end my perfect NYC day.

    Alisia

    Like all perfect days, mine started at 1 am in Paul’s Casablanca. 

    While the dance floor was empty until around 2 am, Graciela and I saw no shame in being the only ones twirling for the time being. We met some other southern girls, which was a fun conversation about the NY-LA (Louisiana, not Los Angeles) pipeline. The rest of the night consisted of bouncing back and forth between chatting with our friends who work there and making up dances on the dance floor. When in doubt, I tend to hit my “toddler dance,” which I will not further elaborate on. 

    As tradition goes, afterwards we took a cab to Prince Street Pizza. Another friend hopped in and joined us, and while chatting in line we realized we only lived a block apart. We walked our slices towards Alphabet City and helped him carry some hefty Amazon boxes up to his apartment, where we played chess until the sun came up. 

    The next morning, Graciela and I decided to indulge in our favorite activity: a multihour, aimless walk. We stopped somewhere to get a smoothie and watched the high school girls remake it four separate times, which amused us for the rest of the day. The next time I went into that cafe, the girl apologized for recognizing me but not knowing my name, and then excitedly told me that it was her last day. 

    We started the trek up the West Side Highway. When I walk around, I usually tend to look straight ahead or down, as I’m often just autopiloting my body around the city. But I made it a goal to notice things I’d never noticed before as it was one of my last weekends in the city for nine months. My first victim was a building I’d passed by almost everyday, wondering whether or not it was a hotel. In a way that almost felt illegal, we stared into the windows from 2 blocks and a highway away, trying to make out people and furniture. From the identical positioning of furniture, we decided it was a hotel. One man opened his curtains, jumped up and down waving, and as soon as we waved back a woman came and shut the curtains. In my imagination they’d just had a conversation that went something like: 

    “No one can see us. Just watch,” and he started jumping and waving, but then we proved him wrong. We went on with our walk. 

    I told Graciela about how when I was younger and spent a lot of time in Florida, I’d try and “talk to the water.” I’d try to get the waves to be really big when it was my turn to boogie board. As a kid, this made total sense to me because I believed inanimate objects and nature could hear me and had feelings, and because I was a nice kid they would maybe help me out in my boogie boarding. I noticed many things I hadn’t before on our walk, which I really appreciated. I started to make fun of myself and annoy Graciela by telling her “I’ve been looking – but have I been SEEING?” every 15 or so minutes. 

    Becky was making her way into the city, and we all met up in Madison Square Park to chat about the previous night. We then walked our way back down to our apartment to change and go to St. Mark’s Place for dinner. On the way there, MyLifeAsEva walked by us. I usually try to not acknowledge famous people because that’s the way I’d like to be treated, but considering she fueled my childhood obsession with little crafts I quickly told her “I loved your videos growing up” in passing. While eating dinner, I watched Machine Gun Kelly walk by us with his guitar, but our interaction consisted of “don’t talk to me” eye contact, and I obliged. The most memorable part of the random restaurant we sat down at was its wallpaper which depicted little monochrome drawings in sexual acts.

    My perfect day consisted of my regularly programmed schedule, which I spend a lot of time thinking about while I’m away.

  • No Embarrassment for New York Women

    When I was younger, I was quite the theater kid. I remember my third grade auditions for “Charlie Brown the Musical,” where I was Snoopy. The script was a prized possession of mine, I remember what most people had been cast as, and I even remember what color shirt I wore and with what hair style. 

    I have a distinct memory of going to the fifth grade play afterparty (no need to DM for a list), and thinking that it was the peak of coolness. Nothing after this backyard function would ever top it. We had lemonade, cookies, brownies, a backyard zipline and a dream. The older theater kid that I had a crush on was there — I was brave enough to say hello — and after that, I truly thought I ruled the world. That same year I auditioned to sing a solo for the 5th grade graduation: we sang “Some Nights” by fun. and “Try Everything” from Zootopia. 

    My dreams of theater kid fame came crashing down in sixth grade, which was the last time I ever (willingly) did theater. At the closing night of “Suessical,” my friends foolishly invited the guy I liked — AND his entire friend group — to the production. They sat in the front row and laughed – in true middle school boy fashion – every time I came on stage. I will never forget looking at them through the borderline-blinding stage light. It felt like the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen, and I never wanted to feel that way again. Just like every middle schooler, I was easily embarrassed. Everything I, my parents, teachers, or friends did was “cringey;” every little action meant the death of my social life. My performance as the chief jester to my sixth grade crush’s friend group was enough. 

    I continued voice lessons and performed in one more theater production for the New Orleans Russian Community Center when I was 14, but I didn’t invite anyone other than my family, and I had a strict no filming policy. 

    There were plenty of things I was passionate about but quit in middle school. I found them too embarrassing, usually because someone would make fun of me for it: gymnastics, video games, my hip hop and ballet classes. Middle school was spent observing what others were doing, and mimicking it in a way that seemed natural. If my friends liked a guy from Jesuit, I liked a guy from Jesuit. If everyone shopped at C-Collection, I shopped at C-Collection. Even though neither one of those was my style, what mattered to me was that it was the norm. 

    By my junior year of high school I was out of this follower phase. I much preferred doing things I liked alone instead of following along with the rest of the herd. I realized I wanted to come to New York, and embarrassment didn’t seem to exist there. Luckily for me, this idea ultimately seemed to hold true. 

    Funny enough, the thing that cured years of fearing embarrassment was nightlife in New York. At first, I never talked to anyone new, I never talked to the staff at venues, and my worry of embarrassing myself in front of new friends persisted. I buried that embarrassment in October. Now, the highlight of my night is meeting new people and finding out about what crosses our paths. 

    My best friend from New Orleans came to visit me two weekends before Halloween, and of course I had to take her to our favorite spot. We patiently waited by the door, got let in after thirty minutes, and stood inside waiting for drinks, people watching. We bounced around the club, but towards the end of the night we stood talking by the bar, which was less packed than the dance floor. One of my favorite songs came on, and I yelled out lyrics along with an impromptu dance which mainly consisted of twirling and pointing at my friends and some bartenders. At my core, I am a theater kid. When I go out now, I need to be with people who can sing and dance for hours – I can’t stand in a corner and just observe anymore. High off the endorphins from my performance, I tell the bartenders that I plan to begin frequenting the place. “It’s a great spot to dance!” I yelled over a deafening speaker. They give me a “sure” chuckle, make a quick introduction, and we part. I talk to the tough doorman for a few minutes about race cars, he gives me his business card, and we go get a pizza. 

    Even though I danced and sang under the anonymity of a dark room with lowlights, the next day I was beyond embarrassed. I’m human — innately egocentric — so I assumed that everyone cared and noticed that I danced and sang at the top of my lungs as if I was on stage for Chicago’s “Cell Block Tango.” Hoping no one remembers my inconsequential little karaoke number, we come back a few days later. We get all the way in the back of the line and talk about how it has about 70 people in it, and start thinking of where else to go. The doorman pointed to us and motioned for us to come in. I pointed back at us and gave him a questioning look – I was shocked and wanted to make sure he didn’t mean someone else – and he impatiently nodded while holding the rope up. We came in, the bartenders remembered us and gave us a glass of champagne. Since then, we often don’t wait in line and are kindly greeted at the bar there.

    Maybe doing something out of the norm and channeling a side of me I thought I buried eight years ago was actually admired by some. After that weekend, all of my potential embarrassments are defeated by the motto “embarrassment is a mindset.” It seems like the things I used to find humiliating are the things people enjoy about me. I pivoted from dwelling on every moment of my behavior to telling others that “no one cares — it’s a mindset.” Not only did one night out cure my fear of embarrassment, but it also rekindled my inner theater kid along with curing chronic self-scrutiny, because – truly – no one cares. 

  • On Eccentricity

    A little old lady with purple tortoiseshell glasses, green acrylic nails and mild halitosis; an apartment covered floor-to-ceiling with jungle print and crocheted stuffed animals and hideously clashing shades of orange, purple and green; the lone woman in black paint and white straightjacket with long, stringy black hair that performs a nauseating sort of interpretive dance in front of Washington Square Arch. That right there is the spectrum of people and places I’ve always thought of when I hear the word “eccentric.”

    So when Alisia christened our magazine’s tagline as, “eccentric, for the eccentric, by the eccentric,” I had reservations. I obsessed over finding an alternative with an amount of neurotic determination that’s wildly inappropriate for three syllables. “Unconventional?” Too overused to be catchy. A word that’s been chewed up, spat out, and stepped on by lifestyle brands. “Bizarre?” Now that evokes impressions of a Moroccan bazaar, a two-headed goat, a bright green Ripley’s Believe It or Not! encyclopedia. It would be blasphemous to refer to ourselves as bizarre. We’re hard-working taxpayers (on paper), not circus animals. “Freaky?” Not quite the kind of thing I’d want my future employers to see in the search results. “FREAKY by FREAKS for FREAKS.” Yeah, this girl would be a great fit for our, uh, asset management division.

    But the die was cast. Eccentric’s hold on our brand had gone past the point of last return, sailed far past the strait of Gibraltar, had shot light-years beyond the Van Allen belt. I surrendered to Alisia’s vision – creative director knows best, creative director knows best. Eccentric, I decided, would be gifted a rebrand, free of charge. Merriam-Webster would be sent a rather demanding letter to see to the change. It was no longer the kind of word you’d get called by a fair-weather friend that attempts to explain the off-kilter sort of way about you to another friend while you’re getting yourself another drink at a house party. The eccentric subject would no longer cower under the weight of the connotation of “strange” or “uncool” in purple tortoiseshell glasses and a feather boa. 

    We had a radical new eccentric to define – had to be sharp, irreverent, witty, flirtatious, probably. A heavy burden for three girls who can count daytime naps under their top five favorite hobbies.

    How to start? I sought advice from Descartes’ basics – I think, therefore I am. Writers are eccentric, naturally. The good ones, certainly. Occasionally, even the bad ones (lucky me!). The sort of oddity that describes eccentricity really boils down to juxtaposition. Eccentricity is passion, obviously manifested; eccentricity is nonconformity, visually and cognitively. Eccentricity is a vision seen through a tunnel wide enough for only one head. 

    I’d like to think our magazine will define our own brand of eccentricity. I love to criticize a mission statement that misses the mark, so to allow myself to be a little lazy, and to retain a little wily feminine mystery, I’ll keep my examples close. I’ll let Sunbleacht speak for itself.