the rule of three

I boarded my flight home yesterday stuffed to the gills. Literally. Not with excess luggage (okay, maybe just a little), but with New York’s particular brand of overstimulation. The sort that leaves me wondering if I actually slept all week or simply subsisted on iced coffee and the ambient energy radiating off eight million people trying to get somewhere.

In the span of a few days, I managed to consume enough memorable meals to sustain me for the foreseeable future. Cove. Odeon. Santos Tacos (below). Rubirosa. Bond Street. Multiple visits to Happier Grocery, which somehow feels less like a grocery store and more like a lifestyle aspiration. The merch alone is worth the visit. (Also checked out Meadow Lane, where all the hype arrived a few months ago; The humans, apparently, have since departed. Crickets.) Perhaps the biggest luxury, though, was spending time with my 17-year-old niece.

Being around her is a bit like living inside a real-life version of Sixteen Candles. Not the movie plot necessarily, but the roller coaster mix of teenage angst, innocence, confidence, insecurity, possibility, drama, beauty, and excitement that defines that girlhood age. One minute we’re discussing where to go for matcha and who makes the best hair serums. The next we’re dissecting music, boys, her can’t-put-down book, vintage Marc Jacobs, and whether a pair of shoes is “actually cool” or merely pretending to be (or simply a dupe).

Unlike my sons, who generally regard my wardrobe as something between invisible and mildly concerning, she approaches clothes with the seriousness of a seasoned fashion editor. We spent days getting dressed together, trading lip glosses, borrowing t-shirts, and generally treating the city as our personal runway. (She took most of the snaps here!)

First Picture: Comme Si blouse, H&M skirt, The Horse leather pouch. Above: TWP sheer pink blouse, PH5 skirt, TKEES sandals. Below: Modern Citizen dress.

In between Gotan cappuccinos, work commitments and several thousand extra daily steps, I attempted to master the die-hard wardrobe that New York demands this time of year: a cotton dress that doesn’t wilt in 80+ degrees (above), above, ecru jeans that seamlessly go from breakfast to dinner (below), a polished pair of short shorts (below), sneakers that feel like an extra battery pack, a clutch sweater for overzealous air conditioning, a one-piece swimsuit that does double duty, and a bag large enough to hold everything unlike most others.

Above: Simon Miller striped top, Venroy shorts, Dolce Vita flats. Below: Zara tank, Adina Reyter lariat necklace, Dorsey lab-grown moissanite eternity necklace, Lulu Frost initial charm, J.Crew sweater, TWP woven leather skirt.

Shopping with Coco and Phoebe yielded the deep-V, whisper-thin Aflalo sweater. The lace trimmed silk pants were sadly too big! I bought a few t-shirts from Noah for my boys and stashed them in my Herve Chapelier bag, last pic.

My sister, my niece, and I all returned to Los Angeles yesterday. Together, but not together. My niece departed from Boston. My sister flew out of JFK. I left from Newark. Three family members. Three airports. Three flights. One destination. Somehow that feels like the perfect metaphor for my family.