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!
Arriving at Fashion Week in the back of a moving truck; thanks,Vogue!
I had planned a trip to Paris one weekend in late September, as it was the last weekend of my parents’ apartment lease. I had some boxes to relocate and to make sure we didn’t leave anything before moving out. The night before, Graciela had texted me “what if I came with you…” and the trip became not so solo, which was perfect.
Friday, Sept. 26th
Eight hours before leaving for my flight, I decided to take myself out to dinner for a salad and two cocktails. Halfway through dinner I started to not feel so great, which I chose to ignore, as all great doctors advise. By 1 a.m., I was sweating with chills and cramps. When I woke up at 4 a.m. for my flight, I was packing while dizzy and with a swollen face, googling “signs of anaphylaxis,” “signs of food poisoning,” and whether or not it was mandated that Air France carry epi pens on their aircrafts (it’s not). While googling my symptoms convinced me I had about 36 hours left to live – again, all great doctors advise googling your symptoms – I accepted my fate of passing in Paris (poor me) and got on my flight anyway.
Saturday, Sept. 27th
I landed at 9 a.m. and made my way over to the apartment, where I met Graciela. First order of business was a croissant, tea, coffee, and catch up. We talked about New York and Milan fashion weeks, friends we’ve met abroad, and also spent the majority of the time moaning at our croissants and spacing out from sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took a picture with the wolf mannequin outside of the restaurant and went on a very long walk which consisted of window shopping and discussing the difference between the United Kingdom, Britain, and England – which I must admit, I already forgot. We visited the Jellycat cafe at Printemps, and then decided we needed fuel that was not just a croissant.
We left Printemps and tried to find a walk-in restaurant. We walked for 45 minutes through the Asian Quarter, Quartier Asiatique, but ultimately found a restaurant with a mixture of Italian, American, and French food. Another meal well spent spacing out from hunger and sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took our time walking back over to the 1st arrondissement, buying two two Euro bottles of wine – which the storeclerk almost threw them at us for – and sat on the Seine drinking them. We watched ducks fight over nothing, waved at passing boats, and sang along to the violinist on the bridge above us. We then walked back to the apartment, where Graciela took a nap and I watched a Shane Gillis Netflix special, before getting ready for dinner.
We were having dinner with one of my good friends from high school, Maggie, who is studying abroad in Paris, at a restaurant across the street which has great cocktails and salads. A photoshoot took place in our apartment afterwards, followed by a night out.
Our first victim was La Fête, which had (at least) a 200 person line down the block. As frequenters at clubs with no lines, just clumps, we decided not to wait in line and just watch behind the clump of people at the barricade. We had no expectations of getting in, but wanted to see those who were while we waited for the rest of our group to meet us. The door man was a very fabulously dressed man in a cropped jacket, tight black jeans, heeled boots, and very neon make up. He was picking people out of the crowd and letting in those with tables – there wasn’t much of a “vibe consistency” that I could notice from who was getting in. I was still focused on the 200 person line, confused as to why it existed considering it was not moving while the barricade cluster was. At some point, the rest of our group came and we started the 15 minute walk over to Carmen.
To get into Carmen, we decided to come in two groups: one of four, one of five. The first group of five got denied due to there being a “private event,” but then our group of four got in; later, some girls from the original group of five came in. The bouncer was a very tall man in all black: sweater, pants, and trench coat. The inside of Carmen is absolutely gorgeous – it is a classic, old French interior. There are reliefs of little angels on the walls, ionic-esque columns, classically painted ceilings, and gilded mirrors, also with reliefs. There are oil paintings everywhere, a few chairs inside a birdcage for visitors to sit in, and a smoke box that could fit around 15 people looking for their nicotine fix. There is red lighting, a disco ball, and blue LED dots, along with a large bar and dance floor. My one quarrel with this night was that no one was dancing to the techno music, it was a sea of people standing – either on their phones or just trying to talk over the music. The only bodily movements came from being pushed by someone trying to get through. However, it was a great people-watching opportunity.
The notable crowd members were a group of English-speaking men (Australian? British? Surprisingly not American), one sporting a cowboy hat and the other sporting a lack of spatial awareness, as the joke of our night became how far away he could push you with his bum while dancing. Another man approached us and asked how long we were in Paris for, to which we responded 36 hours, and then he said we weren’t at the right place to see Paris nightlife. He never followed up with where we should’ve been, and we will never know because after staring at us for ten seconds he decided to trot away. Our last interaction was with a man who pointed at Maggie’s outfit, and when she said “oui?” he also trotted away. Overall, we didn’t interact too much with the crowd, but definitely remembered the times we did.
Sunday, Sept. 28th
We had a laborious task ahead of us: moving my family’s things to a storage unit. After getting to the apartment on Saturday and seeing our boxes, I realized I would have to call for some back up power. But before Maggie’s friends came to help us, I went and got scrambled eggs, a pot of tea, and an entire baguette which I devoured within 20 minutes. Once the friends arrived, they helped us move the boxes outside the apartment and we waited for the Uber(s), which both canceled after seeing the boxes.
Through divine intervention a moving truck had pulled up across the street, and after noticing every car that approached us ended up leaving, asked if they could help. We waited for an hour for them to finish their actual job before helping us on this side quest. Once we loaded up the truck, we realized there was only one available seat in the car, but we needed all four of us at the storage unit… After some French negotiations, the man opened the back of the truck to show us a little bench by our boxes. Three of us sat on this bench, holding on to our boxes. The trunk was lit up only by the sun through the plastic roof, really allowing us to embody the feeling of being a piece of moving furniture. It was quite a role, dare I say our best. For being in the back of a moving truck, it was quite a smooth ride. Once we arrived we paid our saviours, moved our boxes, and said our goodbyes to the kind friends who assisted us in moving.
Graciela and I wandered over to Pierre Hermé for a macaron treat. I had my first ever macaron, and was very jealous I did not get a box of six like Graciela, who is a macaron connoisseur. We made our way back to the apartment, did a last round of cleanups, and discovered a bottle of champagne which became a gift to Graciela, as I was heading out for the airport.
She made her way over to the Eiffel Tower, watched the sunset and drank some champagne. It was a good conclusion to our weekend, and a good start to Paris Fashion Week, to which we told everyone we arrived in the back of a moving truck.
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.
I’ve always idealized Miami. It seemed to me to be the land of the endless party– every hour of every day is a midsummer Friday, 5PM, all play, no work, flashy clothes, flashy cars, bikinis, palm trees. Time stays still – the leaves don’t fall off the trees.
Walking around South Beach pulled back the curtain on my fantasy. Miami is like where the excess fat trimmings of the finest cuts of meat come to sizzle. Give those fat trimmings a CoolSculpt six-pack and a car with an amplifier, and you’ve created your very own South Beacher. It wasn’t filled with drunk and rowdy spring breakers – thank you very much, men in blue of the Miami-Dade county police department, for your service – but the materialism and vanities of the New Yorkers I’ve so closely critiqued seemed to be magnified under the sun, stripping the sheep’s clothing (and, well, most of their clothing, anyway) from the flocks tanning on the beach. This seems like a harsh critique of a city that I’ve just stepped foot in for the weekend, but it’s clear, to me, that it’s steeped in American big-city culture. Maybe it’s just made more apparent by the rent-a-day exotic car dealerships that dot Collins Avenue and the ubiquitous plastic surgery disasters.
The clubs in Brickell were mobbed by twentysomethings in jeans and shirts and awkward crew cuts. The lines, we were shocked to find, were not separated by gender or by beauty. I complain about Miami’s vain streak, but I myself suffer from the same vice when situationally appropriate (or drunk). Every God-fearing American loves meritocracy until an advantage reveals itself. Case in point: in New York, they pick you out and fish you up if you’ve got pretty scales. They’ve got some deep-sea indiscriminate trawling operations at Elleven, it appears. An hour and a half later, we had barely rounded the corner of the line, and I hadn’t eavesdropped on any illicit foreign operations or drug-fueled bacchanals, and I started to grow bored.
Our first night, the girls and I shared margaritas and giggled about our hot waiter. One drink in, and we witness eight officers, emblazoned with “COUNTER-TERRORISM” logos on their bulletproof vests, making an unresisted arrest at the bar not five feet away from us.
“Damn, they patted me down at Newark because of my Juicy Couture sweatpants, but they didn’t catch the kilo of coke that guy must’ve brought in?”
My friends and I know that cats have nine lives, and if curiosity kills that cat, we’ve still got a few more left in the bank. It’s revealed to us, through the hushed whispering of the bachelorette party behind us, that the mild-mannered man at the bar pulled a knife out at a fellow patron. The six-inch pocket knife impromptu show-and-tell was the piece-de-resistance to the (clearly gripping) story he was re-enacting, and the bartender took the whole switchblade-at-the-bar thing a bit too seriously.
“Who hasn’t flashed a weapon as a joke?”
“Yeah, that’s why I love my low-cut shirts.”
We found the ever-elusive bottom of bottomless brunch after the waitress cut us off after what may or may not have been six pitchers of mimosas. Forty forgotten film photos later, I found myself suntanning, thinking about how I’d fare if I moved to the Sunshine state. No matter how eclectic a place seems to look from outside the fishbowl, there’s always a level of conformity you have to follow. In New York, the dress code is black. In Miami, you’re expected to be colorful– but the same kind of colorful as everyone else. If you move, you don’t change yourself, you just change location. I guess I’d be equally distracted by the prospect of suntanning on the beach as I am by the prospect of a gander around the West Village when I’ve got work to finish.
Becky
10 hour drive from Miami to Seaside.
Seaside, FL.
Seaside Square
I’ve been going to Seaside, Florida since I was eight years old.As my parents did construction on our house there or other miscellaneous things, I found myself being the only kid there during low-tourist season. I would spend hours riding my bike, reading in the book store, painting pottery, and swimming in the community pools. Seaside is very safe, so I was able to do my own thing all the time without my parents worrying. It became a sanctuary for little me to just explore a town, my own interests, and whatever fantasies I came up with throughout my day to keep myself entertained.
As I’ve gotten older, Seaside has become more and more popular. I spent middle school spring breaks riding my bike with my friends, buying and eating cookie dough without my mom finding out (sorry mom), and having late-night chats on the beach pavilions. Throughout high school and now college, a similar pattern has followed me.
The nice thing about Seaside is that it’s a tradition-based town: most things stay the same. So even though I can’t control getting older, I can still walk through the town and feel like time hasn’t moved. I see where my friend and I did our “morning rounds” of eating donuts after climbing up a tree; or where I would try to practice my gymnastics skills for the future Olympics (don’t ask how that’s going); or the pool where I spent hours pretending to be a mermaid and doing underwater flips that I could never do on land. Even after bringing multiple friend groups and multiple versions of myself to the small town, it still houses my little eight year old self, riding a bike somewhere and memorizing house names.
Alisia
18 hour drive to New York City.
FLORIDA, ALABAMA, GEORGIA, SOUTH CAROLINA, NORTH CAROLINA, VIRGINIA, MARYLAND, DC, DELAWARE, NEW JERSEY, NEW YORK
Sunbleacht 