The last time: Vogue editors and writers share the mundane rituals before the pandemic that they miss the most
How was I supposed to prepare for the worst and also pack for my trip? I considered canceling . But in an act of bravery—or delusion—I boarded my flight with a roll of Clorox wipes and reserves of plastic gloves.
When we landed in Mexico City, I knew that I had to make the most of the trip. I couldn't have predicted just how dark things would get in the following months, but, in sense, I'd been preparing for the end of the world for quite some time. Over the course of the week, I quelled my anxiety with ceviche, tamales, and street tacos. I drank deeply. I remember this photo for a number of reasons: My traveling companion Kiki was seated alongside—we later realized—model and beauty mogul Linda Rodin. We were about to eat Contramar's Instagram-famous red and green grilled snapper. And I had just received a notification that New York had declared a state of emergency. I ordered another drink.The last time I went to a cocktail bar:on what would be considered a typical Saturday night. I remember clearly, it was the first weekend in March, there were many Rosita Sour’s in hand, several laughs had, rhythmic jazz juxtaposed my terrible dance moves. Then, what would seem as “no worries.”To me, living in New York prior to lockdown meant having an endless list of cocktail bars to try and one in which you found yourself a regular. A place to enjoy being by yourself, catching up with friends, or meeting someone new. I looked forward to these times of kicking back, relaxing, and having some fun. Though, I've realized the last time I shared this moment of fun was almost three months ago. I recently returned to New York from time spent in the suburbs. Earlier this week on an evening run, I stumbled upon that same SoHo neighborhood. The once lively environment is now quiet and unpopulated. Music no longer bustles from the inside of restaurants. The sidewalks once filled with outdoor seating have been cleared, and store fronts now serve as “to go” windows. As summer in the city gets closer, I ponder the idea of if I’ll ever go to a crowded cocktail bar again. For now, I’ll be sitting curbside six feet away with my mask and a margarita to go.Arriving back in New York City the first week of March, I was still reveling from the week prior where I attended an unforgettable wedding. When I took this photo, I never would have thought it would be the last time I would attend a party. The fog of excitement consumed me the moment I landed, despite the jet lag lingering from my 20-hour flight. Yes, there would be four days of celebration in Delhi with friends I hadn’t seen in months . But also: we were in Delhi. I was in such high spirits.On day 2 of the wedding celebration, there were murmurs of a strange new Coronavirus, I had no inkling it would soon grow into a full-blown global pandemic. Back in New York, one morning on my way to work, I noticed a conveniently placed hand sanitizer dispenser. Days later, Condé Nast announced that we would now be working from home. My apartment building implemented social distancing rules. Now, I reflect back on the enchantment of Delhi and that unforgettable wedding. There is still time for my return to India and hopefully then, my friends and I will be able to hug confidently.I have what some might call an extraordinarily close relationship with my family. My parents divorced when I was 2-years-old, but for as long as I can remember, they have remained the best of friends. Though I mainly lived and grew up in Albany, N.Y. with my mom, I happily alternated my weekends to spend time with my dad. I always saw the two as an incredible example of co-parenting. When my mom remarried, my dad and my now-stepdad became just as good of friends. When my dad remarried, he and my now-stepmom chose to have the ceremony in my mom’s backyard. I recognize it’s unusual, but I have always been tremendously grateful to have made memories like these at home with such a strong, close-knit, and accepting family.Since moving to New York City with my boyfriend three years ago, I’ve gone home for every birthday, major holiday, graduation—and everything in between—as much as possible. The last time I went home was in late January for a friend’s housewarming party. Surely then, I had no idea that it would be a long time until I’d be able to hug my parents or appreciate the upstate tranquility again. Home, to me, is when someone abruptly breaks into song for no reason at all. It’s catching up with my friends of over 10 years like no time has passed, and it’s knowingwhere to sit in the dining room so the sun hits you just right. Not being able to go home for nearly 5 months has been tough to say the least, but I do know that when I finally get to go back, I’m counting my blessings twice.Fresh from a fitting in Paris for my "About Time" Costume Institute Gala lewk , I broke my journey home with a 24 hour visit to London. I planned to see the buzzy musicalone night, and for the following night a friend of Tom Stoppard had secured me tickets for the sold outSIX was a fun romp with six punchy performances, at the Arts Theatre in London’s Soho with a pub in the front and the auditorium in the basement in back. The evening was made all the more delightful for me by a wildly enthusiastic little boy in round glasses sitting next to us with his parents who looked and behaved, as my guest confirmed, uncannily like a mini me and reminded me of the joy of the communality of live theater, of an experience shared with like minded people, and of the wonder I had felt at the magic of performance at his age. It is a sense of wonder, I might add, that has never waned. Anxiety about the virus was closing in - many of my colleagues had already raced back to the States - and I thought that perhaps this might be the last time that I would see my parents in some time, so I had a frisky lunch with my Mum at the atmospheric Colbert in Sloane Square and a pre- theater dinner with Dad at the oyster bar at J. Sheekey, my favorite London eatery. I wasn’t sure when I would see either of them again and it was unsettling not to be able to hug and to be constantly mindful of keeping a distance between us. My father loves the theater as much as I do and I knew that he would want to make the trip up to town to see the Stoppard. It would also be his last outing in a public forum. I looked around the enchanting Wyndham’s Theatre where I have seen so many productions through the years, and wondered when I might next be looking up to admire the crystal drops of a theater’s chandelier, the florid pastel painted plasterwork of a Victorian West End playhouse.is Stoppard’s most autobiographical play, one that transposes his own family history onto a generational saga of assimilated Jews in late nineteenth century Vienna, a family and their descendants whom we discover again in the 1920s, and in the dystopian late 1930s, and finally after the war when the Stoppard character himself has to contend with the period’s trauma and loss and the meaning of memory. It was an electrifying story, electrifyingly written and played and staged, closing with a tableau that seized the viscera and reminded me — as that little boy at— Hamish Bowles, international editor-at-largeIt was at 2 a.m. on Sunday, March 8th. We were at Joe's on 14th street and the lateness hadn't caught up to us until we were finally exhausted from dancing at a bar around the corner. Afterward, my friends and I decided to steer ourselves towards the local pizza joint as a final hurrah. As usual, Joe’s had a line outside the door and every bar stool seat was shared by two or three people at once. As the line inched closer to the counter, we called out to each other our preferred slices, smiling and laughing about whatever dance moves were invented moments prior. Packed in close quarters and backdropped by the week's top 40s hits, we devoured hot slices of oozing cheese and crunchy crust. The communal enjoyment was there among us all in that tiny Joe's outpost.The last time I played Twister: It happened only a few days before coronavirus shut down the city. My friends Nadine, Nikara, Hayley, and I gathered for a night of Twister and tequila. That hazy night is the perfect example of why I love New York City so much: what was supposed to be a casual game night escalated to us carrying on the night at The Box at 3 a.m., to which we arrived in our PJs and sweatpants. I miss these spontaneous nights more than anything right now."The last time I went to a concert: On the second to last Saturday in February, I waited outside Webster Hall for over an hour. Baynk was the second show of the night and the earlier band ran late. So, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder in an entry line that curled deep around the block and even spilled up over to the next. Luckily, it was a semi-mild night, one of the few we had this winter, and I didn’t mind passing the time hyping up the show with my friends and linemates. We knew Baynk would be worth the wait and that the doors would open, eventually. Two truths I would’ve bet my life on three months ago that feel like an awfully risky wager today. His soft lyrics are moving, his rhythmic sound is electrifying, and his visuals were bound to be enchanting, and they were. His two-hour set was worth every minute I spent waiting, which is, ironically, something I’ve become all too familiar with over the past few weeks. Waiting to hug my best friends, waiting to dine at my favorite restaurants, waiting to go on a first date, waiting to feel totally safe in my own apartment, and waiting to enjoy the magic of live music again. As the graveyard of canceled festivals and shows that once filled up my weekends continues to grow, the thought of dancing to deep bass music IRL feels more like a dream than a memory. But my hope isn’t completely lost, I know my dream will return to reality someday even if it’s not exactly what I had imagined or experienced. Eventually, the doors will open, the lights will turn on, and people will lineup 6-feet apart. Until then, I’ll be waiting because something tells me it will all be worth it.The last time I stayed at a hotel: I've stayed at a lot of wonderful hotels during my years as living editor, but the last place I stayed before lockdown was in a small Pennsylvania town whose name I don't remember. I was there with my mom after we staffed a personal growth retreat together. I had taken Amtrak from New York and bought hand sanitizer in Penn Station, wondering if I should even be going. But that weekend turned out to be the perfect emotional experience to sustain me ahead of isolation: It was a gathering of women who were prepared to be vulnerable and support one another. We cried, danced, and sang. I left feeling connected to a whole new group of people. After the retreat—during which we'd slept in bunk beds and ate in a cafeteria, how otherworldly it feels now!—my mom and I made our way to the nearby town. The hotel's carpeted floors and floral-wallpapered bathroom felt like luxury. The surrounding shops and restaurants resembled one big outdoor mall, so the only photos I took were of some signs that made me laugh. Now, they look like precious memories of a time when spontaneous discovery was easy.The last time I attended a party: I almost stayed home. On the first Tuesday of March, a wet and windy night, I willed myself to dress up despite feeling depleted from a day of meetings and mess ups. My friend had organized the pre-party for the Armory Show so reluctantly, I hailed a cab downtown. As I walked into the Top of the Standard, a familiar energy spread through me. Before moving to Manhattan, I imagined the city’s artists and socialites, swarming lavish rooms like the one I stood in: yellow and cavernous as a honeycomb. At the bar, I sidled up to a colleague and promptly ordered two martinis. Between sips, we traded office gossip and laughed off rumors of a lockdown. She dabbed the side of her mouth with a cocktail napkin. “We’ll work from home when hell freezes over.” Nearly an hour later, I checked the time: almost midnight. Looking down at the olives in my empty glass, I called an Uber home. Now, I wish I had stayed. I kissed my friend goodbye without knowing that night would prove to be the last time—at least for a long time—that I experienced all the things I dreamt of as a little boy who flipped through his mother’s magazines. Three months later, I would give anything to be surrounded by the lights, the chatter, the air of anticipation, the gleam of brass and mirror.The last time I got dressed for the office: I recently found this photo on my phone and I realized that it had been taken on March 10, the last time I went into theoffice at One World Trade Center. It was rare, nearly spring day, where one can wear a blazer without having to pile another heavy coat on top. And that’s just what I did. After months of my shoulders being weighed down by many a layer and a rotation of weighty coats, a day without one was quite the freeing feeling. How nice it was to arrive at the office without having to shed gloves, a hat, and a coat, all I brought with me that morning was a lighter version of myself, my handbag and a good mood thanks to the warm sunshine. Later that night, after a work-related dinner near Astor Place, I headed home — deciding to walk rather than call an Uber. The streets were calling me, even in a pair of three inch heeled boots. It was one of those New York experiences, where you can really get into your own groove and enjoy the sounds and happenings of the city, headphone free. There I was blissfully trotting my way down through the East Village to Bowery, making my way to the Williamsburg Bridge in the Lower East Side, listening to the clicks of my heels, the traffic and the honking, and of course, the people. I am currently with family in the suburbs with quiet streets and a limited wardrobe, but there’s almost nothing I miss more than putting together a look each morning for the office. This photo, taken in my apartment on my last day in Manhattan, will have to remind me of that for the unforeseeable future.The last time I went to brunch: It was the end of February and I was celebrating a post-Valentine’s day get-together with my best girlfriends, a.k.a. a late “Galentine's” if you will. Although many of us are now in relationships, it is very rare, if at all, we would spend the entire day together without any men. We started the day at Chez Ma Tante in Greenpoint. It was the first time all of us were reunited since my friends got married in New Delhi over the holidays. It was a special treat to see everyone, including one close friend who drove down from Providence to join us. We ordered a full brunch spread, from coffee to champagne, thick crispy fries, paté, pancakes, caesar salad and much more. It reminded me of a time when we all first moved to New York and our brunches would be our weekly ritual. Now, many years later, this brunch felt special, I just didn't know it would be our last for some time. We spent the afternoon walking around Brooklyn, stopped into a few vintage shops along the way and made a special arrangement at Catbird to get forever bracelets . It was our modern twist on a friendship bracelet. After, we stopped into Fresh Kills Bar in Williamsburg for a few drinks, grabbed pizza at Joe’s and then cruised back to my apartment where we ordered Thai and stayed up until 4 a.m. talking as if no time has passed between any of us. It was a day I'll never forget.On the Monday, before lockdown, I left the office around 5 p.m. to get to Lincoln Center for a black-tie fundraiser in support of the School of American Ballet by 6:30 pm. I stuck around for the first course of that lovely dinner before I rushed home to do a quick change and hie to the Bowery Ballroom to see a performance by Tamino, an incredible Egyptian/Belgian singer who I’ve dubbed the male Lana Del Rey. The concert let out sometime around 10:00 p.m. and afterward, I took my sister out for a late-night birthday dinner. It was an impromptu celebration and the evening sort of tumbled together perfectly so that her boyfriend and best friend could also join us. It was a beautiful, chaotic night—my favorite kind. Earlier, while rushing out of Lincoln Center, I asked a young gala-goer if she could be so kind as to snap my photo. Standing there with a genuine smile on my face might have accounted for the only seconds I actually stood still that night.Each spring, Duke students camp out for months on end to get a chance to watch their basketball team have a go at the University of North Carolina on home turf. These games are always electric, but this year my family was debating whether or not to attend amidst swirling COVID-19 rumors. In a game-time decision, we booked last minute flights to North Carolina. The next week, I started working from home. With March Madness and the NBA playoffs on the horizon at the time, I could have never anticipated this would be the last live sporting event I'd attend for months to come. It turned out to be a perfect parting experience. I miss being in a room with thousands of cheering people. I miss having unfamiliar knees touching my back in the cramped bleachers. I even miss the loud ringing of the buzzer.“Why are you still taking the subway?” a friend asked me on March 9, referring to my daily commute to the office, one that could stretch anywhere from 25 minutes to an hour. “Because it is efficient and I am broke,” I thought, but replied this instead: “It’s fine. I don’t touch the pole and use Purell.' He pressed: I should take Ubers; did I need him to order me an Uber? My eyes cast downward at his shoes. They were shiny and un-scuffed. I knew he was right. At that point, we all vaguely knew the virus had been circulating in the city for weeks.I've always had a complicated relationship with the subway. It's the only affordable way to get to work and yet it could push me to my breaking point. Once I had to stand next to a bucket drummer for 18 straight minutes at 14th Street, waiting for my connecting train. It was too loud and too much, and I burst into tears in the middle of a crowded platform. No one cared, especially not the bucket drummer, who continued to clang into a cacophonous crescendo as I passed, looking up at me: “You got a dollar?” But still I rode it back and forth, unaware that one day soon these twisted tunnels would be closed to me—and with it, my unlimited access to the city itself. On March 11, at just after 9 a.m., my train pulled into 14th Street. The drummer was there again. My phone, getting service for the first time in 30 minutes, buzzed like crazy. My heart dropped when I looked at my screen. First, an email from our company's C.E.O. Then an endless scroll of slacks from coworkers. A text from my mother. “Suspected case of coronavirus,” Clack a clack clack. “Please work from home until March 31st.” Did you see the email?!?!” Clacka-a-clacka-clackity-clack-clack.“I’m scared,” Clack-a-clack-click-click-clack. “Are you on your way in? If so I’d turn around,” CLACK CLACK CLACK. Trains screeched by. I reached into my bag, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, and placed it in front of the bucket drummer. “Stay safe, man.” Then I climbed up the stairs to the street, checked my bank account, and called a car home.I grew up in Sydney, but have called New York home for the past 6 years. And despite everything New York has to offer, there’s a lot that has been sacrificed being away from home for so long. My husband and I have missed weddings, births, and other important milestones with family and friends that we hold so dear. Jane and I have been inseparable since we were four. You name it, we went through it together. The big, the small, the fun, the sad - always side-by-side. So it hurts to not be able to be there in person as she expands her gorgeous family. I was so fortunate to have been in Australia over the holiday period before both countries went into lockdown. I threw Jane a surprise baby shower and spent hours bribing her firstborn, Luca, to play with me and learn that 'Anna-Lisa' was not just a mythical being on the other end of a phone screen. I was there when he was a baby, but the first time he called me by my name over FaceTime literally brought tears to my eyes. It’s so important to me that he and his new baby brother, Will, know that there are two people on the other side of the world, who love them unconditionally and would be there for them in a heartbeat. We didn't know what lay ahead as we built sandcastles on Bondi beach, ate excessive amounts of Kinder Surprise, or listened to the Gummy Bear song on repeat back in December. Now, as I think about it, I'm just so grateful that we had the chance to enjoy our time together and be completely carefree.New York City can be especially humbling as a new mom. The vast cement, the miles from family, the elevators full of neighbors you’re supposed to politely never know well. And then the place you’re determined to quit offers you something from a movie plot: a new mom from Germany, 25 floors up; the sister-in-law of someone from a message board; her friend’s sister; and a stranger from yoga—all within walking distance. In the few months before confinement, we built a sisterhood on little sleep, stroller walks in Central Park, and late-night WhatsApp chats about teething and world peace and marriage. The last time we saw baby Lily, we huddled together, six inches apart, and read, a picture book and rather nice reminder of admirable American emblems . The last time we saw babies Luna and Adnan , they scrambled over one another, grabbing feet, munching toys, and seeding friendships in a sort of gorgeous, close-knit chaos that, luckily, we all savored.The last time I wore my cowgirl boots: On March 2nd, I was about to leave the office for the day when my friend asked if I wanted to meet for drinks in Manhattan. It was a relatively warm night in NYC, and despite it being a Monday--a day usually reserved for collapsing on my bed immediately after work—I had a pretty relaxed weekend in and had no real excuse to decline the invitation. As usual, my indecisiveness of picking out a new place to try led me to the search engine “best happy hours in NYC.” After quickly discussing what we were wearing , it was without question we would end up in our favorite go-to restaurant in the West Village: Cowgirl. Nestled on the corner of Hudson and W. Tenth St, Cowgirl is 60s-western-nostalgia meets your-grandfather’s-den with pinball machines. We caught up over margaritas and quesadillas, and reminisced about the college days when we would be the last ones to close the bars down. With the entire space to ourselves and, like every excursion we go on, a photoshoot was non-negotiable. We dressed the part, and with a little help from tequila, we played it well. Nevertheless, despite our best efforts, we failed to reach closing time once again. When we left, we looked at our phones, realizing it was only 10:00 pm. Soon we would be getting ready for the next workday, not knowing it would be the last in our offices or even the last time in this bar . I sure do miss having a reason to wear those cowgirl boots.It was my partner Lucas’ birthday that night and we had plans to celebrate at a favorite bar. Restaurants and bars were still largely open but we moved the celebration to our apartment, and invited just a few close friends in the hope people would feel safer. The virus was on everyone’s minds that night, but looking back, we really didn’t know just how much our lives were about to change or for how long. We would have kept the tinsel up a little longer to savor the moment had we known where we would be now.
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