I had a Sunday in Astoria with nowhere to be, and I'd forgotten those still existed.
My calendar's been a hostage situation lately. Fashion week fallout, freelance deadlines, three group chats planning three brunches I keep flaking on. So when Sunday arrived empty, I panicked a little. What do you mean nothing is scheduled. What do you mean I can just walk.
I took the N out to Astoria mostly because a friend bailed and I'd already put on real pants. There's no point putting on real pants and then staying home. That's a waste of a whole outfit.
A Sunday in Astoria with nowhere to be looks like this. You walk down Ditmars Boulevard slow enough that you notice things. The old Greek men outside the cafenios with their tiny coffees and their loud opinions. The Egyptian bakery with the trays of baklava glowing gold in the window. Somebody's grandmother watering plants on a fire escape.
It's the least Manhattan neighborhood, Astoria, in the best way. Nobody's rushing. Nobody's performing. It reminded me a little of the pace back home in Ahmedabad, where afternoons stretch and no one's in a hurry to prove they're busy.
I ended up at a bakery I won't name because I want it to stay mine, and I got a cheese pie the size of my face, and I sat in Astoria Park looking at the Hell Gate Bridge and did nothing. Genuinely nothing. No podcast, no scrolling. Just sitting.
We've all forgotten how to do this. A Sunday in Astoria with nowhere to be is a small act of rebellion against a city that wants you optimizing every minute.
I came home lighter. Didn't accomplish a single thing. Best day I've had all month.
Protect your empty Sundays. They're the whole point.
Love,