Few phrases make me more uncomfortable.

A coworker at my first office job once joked that Party of One should be the title of my autobiography. She saw me as independent, adventurous, and perfectly content doing things on my own. What she didn’t know was that hearing those words still made my soul shrink.

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The year before, after graduating from college, I spent six months traveling solo in New Zealand. That trip taught me a lot about adulthood. It was the first time I opened a bank account, bought my own cellphone, and navigated life entirely on my own. It was also the first time I ever walked into a restaurant and asked for a table for one.

I had always thought of restaurants as social occasions. What justified a restaurant wasn’t just the food but the experience, and experiences felt meant to be shared. Besides, sharing meant trying two entrées instead of one. The cinema carried similar associations. It was one of the first places I went independently as a young teenager. My parents would drop my friends and me off at the mall, and we’d spend entire afternoons watching mid-2000s rom-coms and wandering around afterward. Going to either of these places alone felt foreign. More than that, it served as a reminder that I had deliberately chosen to be somewhere by myself.

About a week into my trip, I was growing tired of living on pita bread and hummus. I was staying in a quaint little town called Napier, a place I’d first noticed in an in-flight magazine. I can’t remember exactly how I chose the restaurant, only that it was Indonesian.

My cheeks burned as I slipped through the entrance and asked for a table for one. I can still picture myself tucked into a corner table, studying the menu with exaggerated concentration, convinced everyone in the restaurant was staring at me and wondering why I was eating alone.

Then the food arrived.

Small plates crowded the table. Airy fried discs appeared alongside dipping sauces. Between bites, I read snippets from the menu about the Dutch colonization of Indonesia. Gradually, my attention shifted away from myself. No one was staring. No one was concerned. They were simply sharing a meal, just as I was.

This memory resurfaced last week during my first visit to Amsterdam. It was also the first solo trip I’d taken somewhere new since moving to Sweden.

One of my closest friends in Sweden is Indonesian, and through her I’ve come to know so much more about Indonesian food and culture. She once hosted a sambal tasting party with a dozen different sauces, and the experience immediately brought me back to that corner table in Napier. When she heard I was going to Amsterdam, she made me promise to visit Hejo Coffee and try their chicken porridge.

So after landing, that became my first stop.

Sitting with a steaming bowl of rice porridge and chicken, I was grateful for that younger version of myself who had forced herself into an Indonesian restaurant all those years ago. Had I not taken that small step in New Zealand, I’m not sure I would have recognized how meaningful it felt to be sitting alone in Amsterdam, tasting a dish that connected me to a friend’s home on the other side of the world.

One of the things I love most about traveling alone is the freedom to spend my time exactly as I’d like: vintage shopping, wandering without purpose, and lingering wherever something catches my attention. Give me a park bench and a grocery store and I’m a happy traveler.

As I watched the city bike and walk by, Amsterdam felt a bit like Copenhagen. There was the same effortless cool: people in vintage jackets paired with striped scarves or polka-dot accessories. But while Copenhagen seems to favor long coats and little scarves, Amsterdam belongs to short coats and oversized scarves. The architecture was equally captivating, with steep facades leaning over the canals.

The neighborhood where I stayed was delightful. There was a perfect coworking café, an excellent vintage store, and a park across the street where winding paths followed the canals and rows of houseboats.

Over the three days I spent in Amsterdam, I ate every meal alone.

I practiced being present. Instead of reaching for my phone, I sat with the discomfort and paid attention to the world around me. My final dinner was at a small bar. I sat outside on the sidewalk with a copy of Tom Lake and a tea light flickering inside an orange glass. In many ways, it was exactly what I would have done at home. Yet there was something gratifying about being surrounded by strangers, participating in the rhythm of a city that wasn’t mine.

Will I choose to eat alone when I have the option of sharing a meal with someone else? Probably not.

But will I wait for someone to join me before going out to eat?

I’ll consider eating alone. 🐟

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I’m already seeing my c…

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In the episode, a woman tells the story of a man she went on a few dates with but ultimately didn’t feel a romantic spark with. Despite that, she was fascinated by the way he spoke about mushroom foraging. His enthusiasm and expertise were so compelling that she kept giving him chances. When it came time to end things, he was completely unfazed and mentioned that he ran a mushroom foraging group she was welcome to join. So she signed up, paid the $25 fee, and set out to learn a new hobby.

The story takes some incredible twists and turns through the world of mushroom foraging and fungal subculture that make it a must-listen. But the reason I bring it up is that I’ve always wanted to go on a foraging trip myself, to experience a little of that magic firsthand.

Mushrooms have fascinated me for as long as I can remember. One of my favorite childhood camping memories took place at a lakeside campground where mushrooms grew throughout the woods. Some of them released clouds of spores when poked, and my siblings and I spent an entire afternoon wandering the campsite, poking them and running away.

A few years ago, I read Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake, a book about the hidden fungal networks that surround us and how much there is still to learn about them. Ever since, my curiosity has only grown.

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So when an opportunity to join a mushroom foraging tour appeared in my inbox, I recruited a few friends and signed up for a morning walk in the city park.

We wandered over to the designated meeting point, and it was immediately obvious we were in the right place. Our guide, Kristian, was wearing a top hat adorned with a mushroom. An iconic lewk.

Kristian is a fungi enthusiast and self-taught forager, and we were the very first group on one of his guided tours. He had recently left a corporate computer science job to open a shop dedicated entirely to mushrooms. As we meandered along the park paths, he pointed out species we would have otherwise walked straight past. Some stood out brightly against the brown leaves and green grass. Others blended seamlessly into the forest floor, while still more emerged from fallen logs.

The more we learned to look, the more mushrooms we saw.

As Kristian explained mushroom anatomy and shared tips for identifying different varieties, we were encouraged to use all our senses: smelling, touching, and examining each specimen up close. The damp, earthy scent reminded me of driving past the largest mushroom farms in the eastern United States. One mushroom bruised blue where my thumb pressed against it. Looking closely, I began to notice the intricate details of each specimen: the structure of the gills, the delicate ring around the stem, the shape and texture of the cap.

At one point, we rounded a corner and came upon a fairy ring: a nearly perfect circle of tiny mushrooms. The grass within the circle was greener and more vibrant than the grass surrounding it.

As a child, I loved visiting a garden designed for children who believed in magic. It featured a child-sized fairy ring made of wooden mushrooms, and whenever you stepped inside, a cloud of mist would drift outward. Standing before this real fairy ring felt surprisingly similar.

Seeing the phenomenon of nejlikbrosking with my own eyes filled me with that same sense of wonder.

Since the tour, I’ve started noticing mushrooms everywhere: in other parks, on fallen logs, and peeking out from beneath leaves beside the sidewalk. Whenever my friends and I spot one, we send a photo to our group chat to keep the magic alive. 🐟

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One of the few events I attended outside of work was a conversation at The New York Times headquarters, moderated by the then‑climate editor whose newsletter I read religiously. I remember sitting in the auditorium surrounded by people who were ostensibly working toward the same goals I was — finding climate solutions — yet I was too intimidated to talk to any of them. I left with more questions than answers, and the pace of Climate Week (and my life) swept me forward before I could process any of it.

Some of those questions eventually led me to graduate school in Sweden, where over the past year I’ve been exploring the intersections of climate, innovation, and finance — and the places where they converge. So when I heard about The Drop conference, I knew immediately I wanted to be part of it.

I cold‑emailed the organizers offering my support and checked in with the volunteer coordinator every few weeks until the application opened. Eventually, I was in. As a volunteer — no longer the person responsible for executing an entire event — all I had to do was wait for September. When the day arrived, I walked to the venue alongside other volunteers in bright yellow shirts.

The space was tucked away in a historic train refurbishment factory, one of the many former industrial buildings in the city now repurposed into cultural gathering places. High ceilings, skylights, and massive doors created a backdrop that felt both grounded and full of possibility. Huge banners framed the event as a starting point for the future. A coffee station, water stations, and long communal tables curved around the floor. What stood out most were the conversation pits — clusters of headphones and microphones that allowed multiple group discussions to unfold simultaneously.

I spent the morning at the registration desk welcoming investors. As I printed badges, we chatted about their previous experiences at the conference and where they call home. Many came from Berlin and Amsterdam, which sparked my curiosity about the private‑capital ecosystems in those cities and the cultures surrounding them. The few investors from the United States leaned on the familiar narrative of being “energy investors.” And one woman had grown up just one town over from me. I loved the chance to connect with so many different people so quickly.

Throughout the afternoon, I built even more connections. With my headphones on, I tuned into a conversation about the role of freshwater in industry and another about the frontier of ocean‑based investing. Once all 800 attendees were inside and eight sessions were running at once, the space felt even more impressive. People flowed around each other, finding points of connection, synergy, and curiosity.

I left the day exhausted but energized. The conversations were uplifting, the connections inspiring, and the experience reminded me why I follow my curiosity in the first place. It feels good to be back in Sweden, carrying that sense of possibility with me. 🐟

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On the day I finished my internship, I ran through Moynihan train hall, down the escalator, and onto the Northeast Regional as the doors slid closed. I dropped a duffle in an overhead compartment here, stuffed my suitcase on a rack there, and rocked up to the seat my friend had saved me with three more tote bags. A mad dash into more quality time - a week in a remote cabin next to a lake with my closest girl friends.

Clearly, my love language is quality time. I want to cook meals together with produce we got at the farm stand down the road. I want to sit next to each other on the porch reading separate books and turn to you to fill you in on a shocking plot point. I want to paddle and gossip for miles. I want to be in your presence and know you better. I got all of that during this week in Vermont with my friends.

I was high on quality time heading into the weekend. I needed to find my way to northeastern Pennsylvania to attend a wedding solo. Luckily, there was a family friend of the bride’s mother driving down from the area. She also loves quality time - we chatted for six of the eight hours of our drive.

We arrived at the summer camp hosting the wedding festivities to a yearbook of all of the guests, how they know the couple, and their favorite part of camp. There was a welcome barbecue, camp games, a ropes course, and boating, all designed to bring every part of their community together. And it worked. I ate dinner, had a water balloon fight, sat around a campfire, and danced my heart out with people who all knew the brides from different parts of their lives.

As I sat in the amphitheater sobbing through the ceremony, all I could think was ‘I can’t believe there’s a world in which I didn’t get to be part of this.’ Their ceremony was everything you want a wedding to be - a celebration of two people building a life together, the love that centers that, and a coming together of their community to support them as they embark on this next chapter. I adore my former roommate and know her best in relation to myself - as a good listener, someone who approaches life with a lot of compassion, and who is deeply layered. But to understand her through the eyes of her partner, her family, and her friends from other parts of her life was such a privilege. It made me excited for more years of friendship in more phases of life together.

The following weekend, I was back in party mode. This time with my entire family. My cousin got married at the summer camp we attended together and where she met her spouse. My dad’s whole side of the family was in attendance - aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. And through this marriage, our family and our traditions grew too. The ceremony was centered around the couple’s expansive capacity for love and you could feel it in the way people showed up. My grandfather read a poem during the ceremony, more than 30 pies were baked and consumed in lieu of a traditional cake, and we had hours of mitzvahs (performances) in honor of the couple.

I wish everyone could get married every weekend. But the exceptional moment in time that is the wedding of these two specific people with their individual and collected community around them is what makes it so special. So I’ll just have to savor every ceremony I cry through, every dance floor I close down, and all of the friendships I make along the way. 🐟

Time is a finite resource and I never feel like I have enough of it. There were so many people I didn’t get to see or to spend nearly enough time with. I guess you have to come visit!

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I returned to NYC a little over a month ago, and the city immediately reminded me of the intensity of the climate crisis in the U.S. I walked to work through smoke from Canadian wildfires, sweating under a face mask. We’re sitting under a dome of humid, heavy air. Sudden, violent thunderstorms derail even the simplest evening plans. It’s also a reminder of why I chose Sweden — a place where extreme weather isn’t a daily threat (aside from predictable darkness) and where the political environment is more grounded in awareness than capital.

Since my last newsletter, I moved out of my apartment and stored my belongings in the place I’ll return to. I traveled with new friends to Lithuania and Latvia, visited family in Philadelphia, and have been housesitting and staying with friends across New York.

This visit was intentionally longer than my quick trip in December. In less than a year, I’ll (hopefully) have accomplished what I set out to do — graduate with a master’s degree. And I need to understand whether returning to New York full-time is part of that future. I wanted to know if I’ve grown enough to re-enter the joyful chaos of life here. My resilience to the city’s disparities — between those who have nothing and those who have a lot, between my work and my core self, between craving cultural energy and needing nature — has lowered since living somewhere those contrasts are less visible. On the subway, I’m confronted by someone’s enormous diamond engagement ring and, moments later, by someone asking for help to buy food.

And yet, amidst the summer chaos (the smells, the sweat, the subway platforms, the tourists), I feel like myself here. There’s a freedom in being surrounded by so many kinds of people — people who express themselves loudly through clothing, work, hobbies, and creativity. The city makes personal potential visible. That potential helped me explore myself during the four years I lived here, and it’s reminding me now of what I’m good at and how I like to show up — open, curious, excited, and dressed in clothes that have something to say.

This diversity of opinion, appearance, thought, and background energizes me. You never know what a day will bring. There are pockets of perfection everywhere, and endless opportunities to be surprised. The energy you put out is the energy that returns. I’ve had so many delightful conversations with strangers simply because I complimented them or asked a question. Last night, walking through the park, I found myself surrounded by rollerbladers — apparently there’s a Wednesday night meetup that explores the city on skates.

I’m also here for an internship. It’s hilarious to be an intern at 30, but also incredibly fun to learn a new industry and see how different businesses operate. My office sits next to the High Line, the elevated park on a former railroad track on Manhattan’s west side. I spend most lunch breaks outside on the benches along the path. My favorite spot overlooks a shallow river where, in the oppressive heat, people take off their shoes and walk through the water, kids race each other, and parents breathe in the relief. The other day, a monarch butterfly drifted over the milkweed near the river. It was a perfect reminder that when cities are designed for people, pockets of perfection appear everywhere — especially if we look up and notice. 🐟

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Those of you who’ve been here since the beginning know I arrived in Sweden with two checked bags and a carry‑on—an intentional experiment in minimalism.

I am not a minimalist.

I certainly own less than I did when I left Brooklyn, but that has more to do with the temporary nature of life in Sweden than with any newfound philosophy about possessions. Over the past year, I’ve filled my studio with thrift‑store treasures and mementos from my travels. My belongings have expanded to fill a whole life again.

My guiding philosophy has always been to live deliciously—to have fun, say yes, try new things, and express joy outwardly. For me, that looks like cherry paintings and lime‑green sweaters. So while I once imagined stripping my life down to the essentials, what actually changed was my approach to acquiring things. If it doesn’t support a delicious life, it’s not worth bringing home. As I pack now, I’m only selling one item—a couch too big for my new apartment—and giving away a few early‑days necessities.

Everything else I’m bringing with me because it makes my space feel comfortable, safe, and familiar. And in another year, when I inevitably move again, I’ll pack it all up once more.

Between bouts of packing and lying on the floor questioning why I ever thought annual moves were a good idea, I’ve been making full use of my summer train ticket. The regional transit authority in southern Sweden offers a discounted pass valid from June 15 to August 15, and I’ve been determined to soak up Swedish summer. With that ticket, I’ve headed in every direction: north to pick strawberries, east for Midsummer celebrations, south to beaches with crystal‑blue water, and west to kayak. These past few weeks have shifted my perspective on Sweden—I get it now. When the sun shines for seventeen hours, a sweet breeze moves through fields of wildflowers, the heat is gentle, and the ocean is always a short bike ride away, it feels like the life so many of us dream about. A life of simplicity, time outdoors, and connection.

One of my favorite days of the summer happened close to home—volunteering at a community farm run by my favorite vegan bakery. Every Sunday, they host volunteer hours on their half‑acre plot. I biked over and met the others: an outdoor‑gear designer from Japan and her daughter, a student from Mexico, a researcher from Germany, and a game designer from Sweden. We weeded rows of radishes and prepped beds for cucumbers. Kneeling in the dirt, chatting with strangers, I felt a deep sense of connection—to the earth, to my city, and to the people around me.

As I write this, I’m sitting on a dock beside a marina full of sailboats. A catamaran is anchored across from me, and the sun is pouring down. I wandered through the small town earlier and stumbled into a maritime supply store where I had to physically restrain myself from buying every brass trinket in sight. Tonight, I’ll head back to the city for dinner with friends at the outdoor food market by the water.

And tomorrow, I’ll move out of my first apartment in Sweden. 🐟

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As soon as I submitted that final deadline, I got on a plane to London and took a train to the southeast coast, where my cousin and aunt live. I spent a few days with them, breathing in salty air and soaking up cuddles from their two gorgeous sheepdogs. In Margate—a small gem on the English coast—I stopped. I didn’t write. I didn’t work on projects. I didn’t check LinkedIn. I didn’t worry about what came next.

My days were spent wandering and exploring. I cooked meals for three instead of one. I weeded the garden, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, and sent the dogs racing after a ball on the beach. I was still productive, but the goal was different: to ease the load for people I love and to be fully present with them. I knew, abstractly, that I was exhausted—but it wasn’t until I allowed myself to stop that I realized how much I’ve poured into this past year.

These nine months in Sweden have been incredible—full of new experiences, new relationships, and new spaces. My days have been packed with learning and navigating unfamiliar terrain. My brain has been on overdrive, trying to figure out who I want to be, how I want to show up, and where I want to go.

In Margate, I let all of that go. I was with people who’ve known me forever and expect nothing from me except that I show up. I spent time outside listening to The Other Bennet Sister on audiobook. We explored a local garden, walked along the beach, wandered through twisted lanes full of artsy shops, and marveled at ducklings in the canal. I moved to Sweden to taste this kind of life—closer to nature, more relaxed, less frenetic.

But I brought my Type A American self with me. And my time in Sweden is limited. My student visa lasts only for my studies, and after that I’ll need to figure out where to live, how to make money, and what makes life feel meaningful. That pressure has been a constant hum in the back of my mind.

Recently, I spoke with someone considering grad school. She asked what I wish I’d known before coming, so here’s the more thoughtful version of what I shared:

• A degree is time‑bound — The temporary nature of my studies is exciting, but harder than I remember from when I was 20. I worry more now about money and what comes after. My connections are more place‑based, and balancing my life in Sweden with my life in the U.S. is complicated.

• Being a full‑time student is hard — The boundaries between work and life blur more than they did when I worked full‑time.

• There’s a real language barrier — My brain works harder and longer to understand what’s happening around me. Everyone speaks English, which also means English isn’t a special skill. Without deep dedication, my Swedish won’t be strong enough in two years to compete with native speakers.

• Grades return to center stage — I avoided programs with entrance exams, thinking that part of my life was over. But my program is test‑heavy, and exams often make up 50% of my grade.

• Career logistics are tricky — Many internships I’m interested in are in the Netherlands, but my visa only allows me to work in Sweden. Even though I live close to Copenhagen, I can’t work in Denmark either.

• Social and cultural dynamics are real — I’ve struggled to connect with Swedish people outside of school. I miss the small interactions with strangers that make daily life feel warm. I’m lucky to have close friends through my program, but I haven’t made connections beyond that—despite showing up in the kinds of spaces where I’ve always met people before.

Even with all of this, I still believe moving to Sweden and pursuing my degree here was the right choice. I’m grateful for the chance to pause, reflect, and re‑center before my second year begins. I’ll step into next semester with clearer eyes and a deeper understanding of what this past year has taught me. I’m glad I get to try again. 🐟

Many of my classmates were among the 8,500 volunteers who made the festival possible. I, however, opted to spend time with my sister—visiting from the U.S. with her partner—and enjoy the festivities from the sidelines. We booked brunch and snagged an upstairs window seat overlooking the parade route. The parade kicked off with cheerleaders and baton twirlers in bright red. Then came the huge Mack trucks carrying plywood floats, students in elaborate costumes hanging off the edges. Dancers filled the streets, bands bounced along the route, and water guns misted the crowds.

I’m someone who enjoys things out loud, and a parade is an excellent venue for that. My fellow spectators, however, were far more subdued. In my experience, people in Sweden tend to be self‑contained—careful not to express their feelings too loudly in case it disturbs someone else. It made the parade incredibly pleasant: no fights, no one climbing lamp posts, no one screaming in my face. But it didn’t feel like home. My hometown of Philadelphia is known for its raucous celebrations—pushing and shoving is standard, lamp posts are greased to prevent climbing, and personal space is more of a suggestion than a rule.

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My sister has never been a fan of crowds, but I think her aversion is specifically to American crowds. Celestial Karnavelen was packed, but tame compared to the festivals and parades we’ve attended in the States.

And just because these students are respectful and chilled doesn’t mean they don’t know how to party. The three of us stayed to watch Icona Pop—the final performance of the night—and left around 11:30 p.m. The next morning, my friend arrived for his volunteer shift at 5:00 and students were still going. And on Monday morning, after three full days of carnival, I returned to campus at 9:30 a.m. to find the music still thumping.

Scandinavia is low‑key vibing at all times, and now that summer has arrived, I’m starting to understand it. After a long, dark winter, it’s taken me a while to thaw out. But with sunrise at 4:45 and sunset at 9:30, the energy has shifted.

Visitors are an excellent excuse to spend entire days outside ignoring my responsibilities. With my sister here, we spent as much time by the water as possible. Copenhagen has built piers and platforms all along its canals, and they’re constantly filled with people—sunbathing, chatting, reading, napping, picnicking. One platform has a huge wooden stadium‑style staircase, and there was a steady line of people jumping off it into the water.

We also explored the many pop‑up street‑food markets that appear with the sunshine. Strung with lights, they keep the party going well past 10:00 p.m. and are outfitted with sand, beach chairs, picnic tables, and games. Reffen in Copenhagen even has a skate park, and we watched kids zoom around the curves as the sun glittered on the canal.

This coming week is the final week of the semester, and after my last deadline on Friday, I’m ready to celebrate. My class is kicking things off early with a midsummer gathering, and then I think I’ll try partying the Scandinavian way—spending the next several weeks soaking up the sun, staying out late, getting up early, and saying yes to whatever comes my way. 🐟

In the oppressive heat that can make New York City feel unbearable, Green‑Wood was an oasis. While it’s been a cool, rainy 60°F here in Sweden, temperatures in NYC have already climbed into the 80s. That kind of unpredictability is becoming the norm with climate change.

New York faces multiple climate‑driven threats: severe coastal storms, more intense rainfall, and steadily rising temperatures. The city’s combined sewer system funnels both stormwater and household wastewater into the same treatment facilities. During heavy rain—events that are becoming more frequent—these systems overflow, sending untreated water directly into local waterways. The subway, the city’s circulatory system, is similarly vulnerable. Built long before climate resilience was a consideration, it struggles with both flooding and extreme heat. In a city as dense and infrastructure‑dependent as New York, adapting to these new conditions is no longer optional.

Nature, however, has always been the ultimate climate adaptor. Mangroves, seagrasses, and marshes have long served as buffers between land and sea, absorbing excess water and softening the blow of storm surge and high winds. Yet despite Central Park’s fame, New York’s green space is limited and unevenly distributed.

Cemeteries like Green‑Wood are among the largest private landowners in the city, and they face significant risks from sea‑level rise, flooding, storm events, and erosion. But Green‑Wood is also becoming a testing ground for resilience. Mini weather stations now monitor retention ponds on the property, allowing them to drain into the sewer system before a storm and then seal off to hold stormwater during heavy rainfall—reducing pressure on treatment plants and lowering the risk of overflow.

Here in southern Sweden, cemeteries feel different. They’re full of life—open, accessible green spaces where dogs, runners, walkers, and families move easily among the gravestones. Spring arrives about a month later than on the U.S. East Coast, which means May here is a riot of bright green leaves, lush blossoms, and perfumed shrubs bursting into color.

Southern Sweden isn’t facing the same scale or type of climate threats as New York City, but cemeteries here offer something equally important: community connection. And that makes them a powerful place to talk about climate change—quiet, reflective landscapes where the past and future meet, and where adaptation feels both urgent and possible. 🐟

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Since I’ve been living alone, I’ve realized how much I miss sharing meals with people. The conversations that happen while something simmers on the stove, the chatter that distracts you from timing the oven, the easy silence of enjoying a bite together—those small moments feel different when you’re the only one at the table.

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I’ve written before about the “no books at the table” rule in my childhood home. It existed so we’d actually make memories with each other. As elementary school kids, my siblings and I would hide under the table when we heard the garage door open, ready to surprise our dad before dinner. In middle school, that same table became a battleground for math homework meltdowns. By high school, we were rarely home at the same time, but there were still a few nights each week when we’d sit down together. On weekends, dinner often stretched into hours of overly competitive board games. Eventually, holiday gatherings became the rare moments when all of us were around one table again.

Last week, I flew to Italy to join my parents on their Tuscan vacation. They’d invited the whole family to spend a few days in Florence with them and their friends. In the end, only my brother and his fiancée could make it—but we still found ourselves around plenty of big dinner tables.

It’s extremely cliché to talk about the food in Italy… but the food in Italy. We had pappardelle al cinghiale, focaccia sandwiches, steaks, pizza, gnocchi, fennel salads, and of course, gelato. On my first night there, I joked about a Real Housewife who once claimed she doesn’t like Italian food because “it’s too fresh.” And honestly, it is so fresh.

But as good as the food was, what I loved most was simply having time with the people I love around a table.

My relationship with food has changed a lot over the last nine years. I was diagnosed with IBS in 2016, halfway through my second year of college. At the time, eating anything made me feel awful, which made eating with anyone feel terrifying. After a lot of trial and error, I cut out dairy completely—and aside from the occasional accidental nibble, I haven’t had it since.

The shift was brutal at first. My 21-year-old diet was basically grilled cheese, mac and cheese, and pizza. I had to relearn how to eat, and I had to ask the people around me to relearn with me. But as I did, my relationships actually got stronger. My family started eating less dairy when I was home and asked for my favorite alternatives. My friends suggested Asian restaurants because they knew dairy would be less of an issue. And my formerly nut-free friend navigated my vegan whims with grace.

That same care showed up over and over again in Italy. My brother’s fiancée would check menus before we made reservations. My brother double-checked with waiters that nothing contained latte. My dad held up packages in grocery stores, triple-checking ingredients. My mom stocked the fridge with soy milk.

Knowing I was looked after made every meal feel even more special. Even if there was only one thing on the menu I could eat, I still got to enjoy a spritz or a glass of wine with the sun on my face and my family beside me.

This trip was a celebration of our family growing and expanding. My sister wasn’t there—and she was deeply missed—but my soon-to-be sister-in-law joined with her parents. It felt like proof that there’s always room to pull up one more chair. 🐟

To my surprise, a letter was waiting. Poppy from the iconic animated film Trolls beamed up at me from a bright red envelope. Inside was a note from a friend I’d been missing. Funk vanquished.

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I met this friend during one of my many summers at sleepaway camp—the same camp my grandmother attended, where decades-old traditions still shaped daily life. One of those traditions was limited technology. During the 3.5 or 7 weeks I spent away each summer, all communication was either face-to-face or through letters. I loved sending my mom updates about the weather and my daily adventures. I loved writing to friends at home about the shenanigans I was getting into. That love of letter writing felt so central to me that I ended up writing my college application essay about it. Consider this version 2.0.

When I was preparing to move to Sweden a year ago, I worried about how I’d celebrate all the beautiful moments I’d miss—birthdays, engagements, graduations. I decided that long letters and festive cards would have to stand in for my presence. My mom understood this instinct immediately; when a friend visited me for my birthday, she arrived with a stack of cards from my family.

This habit is slightly more expensive in Sweden than in the U.S. (I love you, USPS). A domestic stamp is 22 SEK, and an international one is 44 SEK—about $5. The primary mail carrier in Sweden and Denmark is PostNord (60% Swedish-owned, 40% Danish). In December 2025, PostNord delivered its last letter after more than 400 years. Letter delivery in Denmark has since shifted to a separate service, and PostNord now focuses on parcels and e‑commerce.

PostNord cited a 90% decline in physical letters as the reason for ending its long history of letter delivery. Still, Sweden makes good use of the mail system. I’ve received a city-issued coupon book encouraging residents to explore cultural activities. I once got a medical swab test delivered without requesting it (alarming at first, but apparently normal). They even sent blank postcards featuring iconic scenes of the city.

PostNord primarily operates out of small kiosks inside grocery stores, which makes buying stamps incredibly convenient—no need to find a Tuesday at 2 p.m. to visit a post office. Grocery stores also host locker systems for package pickup: you receive a code, enter it at the nearest locker, and the door pops open with your package inside.

I asked my Danish friend how she felt about PostNord stepping away from letter delivery. She said, “I don’t think I care too much about PostNord—they still ship parcels, so it’s not like they’re entirely gone. But when they switched from Postdanmark to PostNord, red to blue, it was culturally significant. The red postboxes are ICONIC and I love them, but the phase-out has been gradual, so the Danish significance of it has been erased slowly. I’ll 100% miss the red boxes even though I never really use them 🫶”

Nostalgia for a bygone era seems to be something we all share. A letter is inherently romantic—the delayed gratification, the intentionality, the deeper connection it fosters. As letters and postcards have become rarer, they’ve grown more meaningful. My love for my friends has been marked, again and again, by the exchange of letters. 🐟

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Last Friday was one of those perfect days you dream about: blue skies, a few drifting clouds, a breezy 65 degrees Fahrenheit. I spent the morning in front of the enormous windows at the city library, getting work done while watching joy spill out of the playground across the street. In the afternoon, I met up with friends for a pick-up basketball game. I haven’t played basketball in any real way since I ended my youth career in fifth grade.

My lack of skill didn’t stop my competitive side from emerging. I like to think I’m a supportive competitor, but I’m definitely an enthusiastic one—there’s usually a lot of yelling and running around when I’m on the court. As the afternoon wound down, I sat on a hill and realized I had just played outside for two and a half hours.

The whole point of that game was joy. Joy in being with friends, in meeting new people, in moving my body freely, in feeling the sun on my arms and across my face.

Play is an integral part of the Swedish way of life. As I’ve written before, bike culture and active mobility shape daily life in southern Sweden. Kids roll down sidewalks on push bikes, families zip through the city in long lines or in bucket bikes. Playgrounds here are full of hills, slides, swings, climbing structures, and spinning contraptions. Streets become “sommargator,” closed to cars and opened to slack lines and games. In Copenhagen, there’s even a stretch of harbor-side sidewalk embedded with trampolines.

One of Sweden’s most famous sayings—det finns inget dåligt väder, bara dåliga kläder—means “there is no bad weather, only bad clothing.” And people live by it. Kids wear one-piece rain or snow suits because they go outside every day. People bike through snow, wind, and rain. Swedes don’t wait for the perfect day to go outside. But when the perfect day arrives, they savor it.

Lately, I’ve felt overwhelmed by not knowing what I want from the summer. After turning down an internship—and feeling strange about saying no to the chance to make money—I sat in the park with a friend and watched a kid play with big sticks for twenty uninterrupted minutes. That simple joy, that curiosity about the world, is exactly what I want from my summer. I want time outside. I want movement. I want exploration. In my ideal world, the season will be full of hiking, biking, camping, paddling, sailing—anything that puts me in nature.

Finding joy and making space for play gets harder as an adult. But it’s one of the most rejuvenating practices I know. Play roots you in your community and invites others in. When we feel joy and connection, we become more resilient to everything beyond our control.

That’s what I’m choosing to cultivate this Earth Day. 🐟

At my core, I’m a boat person, but I rarely find myself on the water anymore. Trains, though… trains have become my great love. They’re an incredible way to move through the world, and I ride a lot of them these days. Lately I’ve been marveling at the international cooperation required for the Öresundståg—the line between Copenhagen and Sweden—to exist at all. And to add to the wonder, it’s reliable: running every 15–20 minutes during normal hours, operating 24/7, and usually on time. It’s reliable in other ways too, with dedicated space for luggage, bikes, and strollers, plus toilets in every car. Apparently I really do love trains.

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Over Easter break, I had more visitors (how lucky am I that my friends make the time to visit me in another country!). We spent the first part of their trip exploring southern Sweden and Copenhagen, punctuated by frequent pastry stops. One of the highlights, though, was our five‑hour train ride to Stockholm. The line is called Snälltåget—officially meaning “express train,” but snäll translates to “nice” and tåg to “train,” which feels like a far more accurate description of the whimsical experience. The interior looks like something out of a Wes Anderson film: wooden paneling, oversized purple seats, and a dining car lit by those green banker’s lamps you see in fancy libraries.

The journey wound up the west coast and across lakes before pulling into Stockholm, where yellow and orange buildings with dark roofs greeted us. My best friend and I sat across from each other and yapped for hours, read our books, and watched the scenery flow by. It was exactly the kind of journey I pictured a year ago when I was deciding whether to accept my place in grad school—Sweden full of lush woods, sparkling lakes, and distant mountains.

Stockholm itself was lovely. We stayed in a cozy hostel away from the crowds and ate breakfast by candlelight—a concept that had never crossed our American minds but is now a treasured ritual. From there, we stepped out into rain and even snow to explore Södermalm’s excellent vintage shops. We ate incredible meals at neighborhood restaurants. At Rosetta’s, we tried “ostrovegan” food—a fully vegan menu that also served mussels—surrounded by more wood paneling. The whole place felt like a nod to Midwestern supper clubs, with orange lighting, padded booths, and faux Tiffany lamps. Eating my favorite foods—Caesar salad, mac and cheese, and moules frites—with my oldest friend from the U.S. felt like a warm hug.

And what would a first trip to Stockholm be without the ABBA Museum? Before heading home, we wiggled our way through the exhibits to the greatest pop group ever to emerge from Eurovision. ABBA’s music is its own kind of warm hug, transporting me to moments and people I still hold close. The first movie I ever saw with just my friends was Mamma Mia, and Christine Baranski’s performance of “Does Your Mother Know” changed me. I embraced awkward dancing at summer camp to “Dancing Queen.” I tore up the dance floor on Tuesday hospo nights at the Madeira in Akaroa to “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” And now I can add exploring ABBA’s story to “Waterloo” to that trove of memories.

The return train ride was just as stunning, with the added pleasure of a sunset over the lakes. Trains give you space and ease. They let you be present. I’ve been working to cultivate that mindset—to stop stewing over what’s next—and trains offer the perfect venue to practice.

This past weekend, I flew to England to support my cousin in a full‑day basketball tournament. It wouldn’t be a visit from Sweden without a giant bag of candy, so I bribed my way into his 15‑year‑old heart. The trip—relatively short from Sweden—was worth it to witness his three‑pointer live. And as I stepped onto the train back to London, there was a kitten sitting with its owner. I had to say something, which turned into a brief and lovely interaction. That kind of unexpected magic only happens on mass transit, and I adore it.

As a sustainably minded, independent spirit from the East Coast, I’ve spent a lot of time on Amtrak, the U.S.’s primary train service. Amtrak’s regular routes between the Mid‑Atlantic cities I frequented—Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, and New York—turned me into a train lover. Now that I’ve experienced more of Europe’s rail network, I wish trains were faster, easier, and more accessible across the U.S. I can’t help wondering what transformations might be possible with real investment in train travel.

For now, I’ll embrace where I am and hop on more trains—to Germany, across Europe, wherever the tracks lead. 🐟

If you have any connections to women between the ages of 20 and 40 in the U.S., you have a 50% chance that they watch some form of reality tv. And there’s an extremely high likelihood that they are currently deep into the latest scandal to rock the Bravo universe. I am absolutely one of those women and I have been swept along the tides of this scandal the same way I was with Scandoval 3 years ago…

Bravo has a show called Summer House. The premise is that young people from NYC (in their 20s and 30s) rent a summer house together in the Hamptons and spend every weekend escaping the city and partying in the upscale summer paradise that is the south shore of Long Island. This is a dream for those of us who lived in NYC, but also deeply unrealistic given the level of coordination required. But it is deeply entertaining to live vicariously through them. When the show first aired the cast all had real jobs in the city that forced them home at the end of a long weekend of partying and beach-going. Now, the show is full of influencers and F-list personalities.

Yesterday two of the cast members released a joint statement that they are ‘seeing each other’ and it was a bomb because one of them is recently separated from her husband (another cast member) and the other is her best friend’s ex. MESSY. There are a LOT of people writing about what’s going on and there are some excellent essays about the intricacies of this scandal vs other scandals going on in reality tv right now. This article Part Two: The Black Friend Was Never the Destination by Rhythm & Rights breaks it down really well. So I’ll leave that for her to explain for those who are interested.

Even before this scandal rocked my group chats I’ve been pondering reality tv and the reality of climate change. I find it absurd that these shows about ‘real’ life in front of a camera regularly disregard reality. It was just two weeks ago that the cast of Summer House had the first real conversation I’ve witnessed on the show about race. The three Black housemates brought up the difficulties of navigating a predominantly white space. One of them opened up about the way she is perceived as a Black woman dating her white male castmate. This relationship and his poor treatment of her has been glossed over time and time again by production, by her ‘friends’, and by the viewers. This was one of the first impactful conversations I remember on Bravo about anything meaningful. Lately, every season has devolved brand deals and barely concealed contempt for each other.

Reality tv seems to exist in its own bubble of distraction. Hey! Look over here! We came up with a new theme party! Ignore all of the shit happening in the world and dissect our drama. And that’s why I love it. I love reality tv for the escapism. But lately it’s felt too out of touch to be escapist. It’s become a place for you to stick your head in the sand.

There are so many potential storylines in the show for climate change to come up that would feel authentic and impactful like the recent conversation on race. Climate change is connected to so much. It affects food production and availability (ingredients for the ever necessary alcohol that fuels these shows), it affects the weather (the heat in the summer - which can lead to increased irritability and anger), and it affects coastal areas with increased risks of flooding. All of these storylines are directly connected to what the cast displays affection for - partying and alcohol.

I know that reality tv has developed into another machine for consumption and capitalism. I just wish that occasionally they had a moment about how they rented their outfits for the weekend instead of buying them, or that they visited a winery and talked about local food production, or that for one of their theme parties they promoted a local business rather than Amazon.

I’m always down to dish reality tv. It bonds me with friends and fuels conversations about what it means to be a person in 2026. And I’m glad that it’s not my reality. 🐟

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My mom and grandmother, both librarians, instilled in us an early love of books, libraries, and the magic that lives inside them. Some of my clearest childhood memories are set in those spaces. Our town library had a window nook where I could disappear into another world. Our elementary school library had a ceiling painted with scenes from beloved books. The library across from my ballet studio hosted rotating art exhibitions. In these places, I nurtured my curiosity, fed my imagination, and learned to see wonder everywhere.

Our elementary school library was also home to the Scholastic Book Fair—a rite of passage in suburban American childhood. A week before, they’d send home a glossy magazine filled with new releases, pencils, erasers, bookmarks, and every trinket imaginable. On the day of the fair, each class got a full period to shop. Everyone except me, that is. I was given a budget of one dollar, which bought a single eraser that barely erased anything at all.

At the time, I resented my mom’s anti-consumerist stance. I wanted all the plastic treasures and one particular book I was convinced I would never forget. But of course, she was wiser than eight-year-old me. She knew that everything I truly wanted—stories, entertainment, discovery—was waiting for me at the library.

And she was right. I borrowed the Grease CD and loaded the songs onto my very first personal purchase: an iPod Nano. I discovered That’s Entertainment, a dazzling film collage of MGM classics, and fell in love with Esther Williams. I even learned how to safely approach dogs during a children’s workshop at the library.

In high school and college, the library became a place for homework, group projects, and the occasional all-nighter. But during one especially snowy winter in Washington, DC, I rediscovered its childhood magic. My roommates and I rented the entire Wes Anderson catalogue and spent a whole day watching our way through it.

Whenever I travel now, I make a point of visiting the local library. You don’t need a reason to be there—you’re simply welcome. It’s one of the last places where you can exist, work, or rest without spending money. Here in Sweden, the libraries are majestic, with ivy-covered facades, soaring windows overlooking green spaces, and calendars full of events, workshops, and lectures.

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For the past five months, I’ve also been volunteering at a “library of things.” It began as a student project and has since grown into a nonprofit. I help keep it running—checking items in and out, adding new inventory, and building partnerships to expand its reach. It’s been rewarding to translate what I’m learning in the classroom into tangible community impact. Instead of just reading about the environmental and social benefits of sharing, I’m helping make borrowing accessible and intuitive.

Libraries are the ultimate public resource, and their role is evolving. They’re no longer just repositories of knowledge; they’re becoming community hubs. On a recent episode of the What If We Get It Right podcast, the guests even highlighted public library funding as a climate solution. In many cities, libraries serve as cooling shelters during extreme heat. Defunding them doesn’t just limit access to free information—it jeopardizes the safety and well-being of the communities they support.

Libraries don’t ask anything of you. They simply offer. And if you’re lucky, you might rediscover a bit of the joy and wonder you felt as a child. 🐟

When Meghan sets a yearly vibe, she also imagines the kinds of activities that embody it. For whimsy, that meant more picnics in the park and more theme parties. For me, profitez meant savoring—lingering in the sunlight, eating outdoors whenever possible, or going out for a glass of wine when a full dinner out wasn’t in the budget.

Italy became the embodiment of profitez. I traveled to Bologna last week for my first-ever visit to the storied country of prosciutto, olive oil, and pasta. One of my friends at school did a house swap with another American living abroad (once again, I am begging you to watch the perfection that is The Holiday). Much like the movie, our home in southern Sweden is provincial and quaint, and my friend lives in a tiny student studio—one room for everything—while the woman we swapped with lives in a one-bedroom apartment in a bustling city.

Everyone talks about how amazing Italy is, but can we take a moment to talk about how amazing Italy is? Six days in Bologna fed my soul. People often warn that Nordic countries can feel cold. My experience hasn’t been that—people have been kind and pleasant whenever I’ve struck up a conversation. But once I arrived in Italy, I suddenly understood what people meant. Women in pastry shops eagerly shared their favorites. We communicated through pure gesticulation with strangers on the bus. Italians are deeply hospitable—quick with a recommendation, an explanation, or a phone call to help a group of stranded women find a taxi.

I’m lucky to have friends around the world who love to travel, so we arrived in Bologna armed with a map of places to see, foods to try, and cafés for studying (it wasn’t spring break, after all). In the spirit of sharing the wealth, here are a few highlights:

We sat among former greenhouse structures and planting pits at Vetro Bistro, sipping the most delicious pinot gris in the sunshine. After a morning spent diligently working on a class project, three hours of chatting over wine and big plates of vegetables felt like my profitez intention made real.

We wanted to explore the hills outside Bologna as well. Coming from Sweden, we assumed a well-timed bus would get us there cheaply and easily. Italy is… not Sweden. But taxis are often an option. The sweeping view of the estates and vineyards dotting the hillsides from the restaurant patio was another pinch-me moment. We lingered over tagliatelle al ragù (the original Bolognese!) and glasses of lambrusco, soaking in a perfect afternoon.

On our final day, we took a train to Modena for a tour of one of the oldest balsamic vinegar producers in the world. At Acetaia Giusti, we learned more about balsamic vinegar than I ever imagined possible. Only vinegar from the Modena region can be labeled authentic under the DOP designation (Denominazione di Origine Protetta), meaning it has been aged for 12 or 25 years in a series of wooden barrels monitored by a “vinegar sommelier.” We tasted nine different balsamic vinegars, each with its own surprising flavor and texture, all made from cooked grapes. This aceita has been making balsamic vinegar since 1605 and had some barrels on-site that had been part of the process for several hundred years.

Profitez isn’t just sitting in the sun with a glass of wine. It’s feeding my curiosity, diving into what excites and energizes me, and exploring what the world has to offer. It’s seizing opportunities and saying thank you. This week pushed me firmly into the present. It reminded me to find ways to live out my profitez intention in small, everyday ways. 🐟

This past week was a celebration of light. A week spent outside, turning my face towards the light, laughing in the way you do when reunited with a best friend. It was a reminder that life endures.

The energy of southern Sweden has transformed. People are walking around, little yellow flowers are sprinkled across the ground, and the trees are starting to bud. Since I moved here, I feel more in tune with the seasonal variations and the ways that the changes in the light mark the passage of time.

Friday afternoons at a local bar have become a tradition for my class (as is the case I think for many in graduate school). And last Friday we attempted to find space outside to soak up the final rays of sunlight. Apparently everyone had the same idea because every patio, sidewalk, and courtyard was packed.

So I got to bring my American friend to a Swedish institution - Systembolaget (the state-licensed liquor store). We each grabbed a few seltzers or warm cans of beer and marched over to the botanical garden, where we found a picnic table bathed in light. I don’t remember what we talked about but I remember the deep sense of contentment from seeing my friends from Sweden and my friend from the U.S. just shooting the breeze.

As the sun set and the wind picked up, we wandered over to a huge pine tree. Below the pine tree was a crowd of people with binoculars and huge telephoto lenses. We were all there to see a family of 7 owls who’d made their home in the botanical garden. All we could really make out was the fluff of the babies and the stark lumps of the parents, but it was magic anyway.

With the return of the light I feel alive and much more aware of all that’s around me. This week has been the most spring week of my life - full of renewal, rebirth, rejuvenation. I’m stopping on the street to smell the first fragrant blossoms on the trees. I’m smiling at the crocuses and snowdrops.

This visit was also the start of a packed few months of visitors and travel. I’m on my way to Italy now, have more friends from the U.S coming in a few weeks, and have travels to spend time with family in a month. I have so much good to look forward to. 🐟

Those of you who’ve been following my journey from the beginning might remember that about 5 days into my time in Sweden, my class took a trip to the woods. And if you really have followed me from day one, you’ll remember a different group trip from the summer with friends from the U.S.

1. Thank you for still reading. 2. You’ll know from those other editions of Fisk that I have a love of shared living. And a passion for unplugged weekends/weeks/months.

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When this particular cabin trip was proposed months ago, however, I was a bit apprehensive… A coastal cabin weekend at the end of February? In Sweden? With the same people I spend all week long with? After this weekend though, my question is: when are we going back?

The journey to Skanör was nothing remarkable except for the sheer fact that we could get to this remote town via public transportation. Which will not cease to be amazing to my American sensibilities. As my friends and I dragged our duffles and suitcases down country lanes à la Cameron Diaz in The Holiday, I couldn’t contain my wonder at the utter charm of this town.

Backyards with greenhouses!

Hedges with beautiful pink berries!

Steep sloping roofs over pastel colored homes!

Windows full of glowing lamps!

The charm of the town extended right to the end of the lane where the Studentgården sat waiting for us. And even as the scent of stale beer wafted out of the enormous and historic student house, the charms of the house smacked me in the face too.

A cylindrical fireplace in a bedroom!

Posters from Student Karnivals past!

Photos of the home from 1932!

A flagstone patio overlooking the marsh!

And this charm cast a gorgeous glow over the whole weekend. I thought that the weekend would be like going on a Real Housewives trip (and I did film confessionals and content throughout the weekend in this vein), but the vibe of the whole weekend was just good.

We had an incredible student-led and student-run planning committee who organized the meal plan, grocery shopping, division of responsibilities and labor, and made sure we were all prepared to eat, drink, and be merry.

On Saturday morning, my roommates and I woke up early and meandered down to the beach for a long walk. Through the mist and drizzle that were reminiscent of Pride and Prejudice (the movie with Keira Knightley, duh) we reminisced on childhoods spent across the world from each other. We strolled by colorful beach huts, telling stories of our favorite colors and pulled out some beach chairs to take in the ocean views.

The good vibes extended through the whole day. I taught friends a family favorite card game. I cooked soup for 26 alongside two of my friends and rocked out to a collaborative playlist. After lunch, we went out for another long walk and the mist had shifted so that everything blended together. One of my friends said that seeing the ocean and sky melting into each other made her feel something she never had before.

Are you serious?! A new emotion unlocked?! And I got to be there!

As the afternoon faded into the evening, we played more games and got ready for a 2016-themed dinner. Following a stunning mushroom risotto, we pushed the tables and chairs out to the side of the dining room to create a dance floor. Over several hours we learned the Midnight Sun dance, a Lithuanian folk dance, a Danish club classic, and Bollywood staples.

Crawling into bed in the wee hours, I felt deeply content.

Maybe this is what writing Fisk really is all about. It’s about finding what lights me up, what revives me, what drives me. It’s about community. It’s about nature. It’s about experiencing and loving life.

So when are we doing this again? 🐟