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The Way W E T R AV E L

CONTENTS ISSUE TWO 2026 VOL.49 NO.2 FEATURES 46

THE NEW NIGHTLIFE

Communal saunas and icecold plunge pools are the city’s newest hot spots for the social (and sober) set. Bathing suit required. By Peter Davis

MEET THE LADIES WHO MAHJONG Lunch, who does that anymore? Mahjong tiles have taken over Upper East Side high society— and might just make you smarter in the process. Janet Marcel talks to the Doyennes behind the revival.

IAN PATTERSON

FEELING THE HEAT Communal saunas have become New York’s newest nightlife craze. ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

PLAYING THE GAME A cocktail at tàn; Mahjong has become the social set’s latest obsession.

ON THE AVENUE

ESCAPE TO TULUM

At Richard Sandoval’s tán, midtown Manhattan is a million miles away.

Photographer Emily Neville Fisher’s three young children serve as both muses and models in her striking images that feel more like oil paintings than photographs.

THIS WOMAN’S WORK

COVER: Illustration by Cecilia Carlstedt 4

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

INSPIRING A MOVEMENT

There are books about grief that offer answers. Kate Doerge’s Reimagining Grief does something far more meaningful.

CULTURE

With her first Miami solo show, Who By Fire, Zoë Buckman trades boxing gloves for damask and grief, and finds softness—even for men. BY JANET MERCEL

BY TED HILDNER

D&D DIRECTORY

A guide to New York’s eminent design hub.

THIRST TRAP

An essay. BY ISABEL MURPHY 86

JOURNEYS 66

NOTORIOUS NEW YORKERS

THE NEW CROWN OF FLORENCE Auberge’s first Italian property, Collegio alla Querce. BY JANET MERCEL

INSIDE TAKANAWA

Diehard Japanophile Burke Hildner jets to Tokyo and discovers the city’s buzziest new neighborhood.

FALLING IN LOVE IN BERMUDA BY RACHEL HECHLER

CULT BEAUTY BRAND: LOULU BY MAGGIE DAVIS

BY PETER DAVIS

EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

HOUDINI: THE GREAT ESCAPE BY JANET MERCEL

Q&AVE

Social fixture Carson Griffith started her writing career at AVENUE, and now is the Siren of Substack with “Rich People Shit,” her oft controversial, always juicy column and weekly newsletter that has the entire city buzzing. BY PETER DAVIS

avenuemagazine.com

TBC CUSTOM MAHJONG; RICHARD SANDOVAL HOSPITALITY

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OVER

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Peter Davis CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Natalie D. Kaczinski ART DIRECTOR

Mickey McCranor EXECUTIVE EDITOR

Janet Mercel DEPUTY EDITOR

Ted Hildner EDITOR-AT-LARGE

Alexander Hankin PHOTOGRAPHER-AT-LARGE

Landon Nordeman COPY EDITOR

Christina Snyder

Editor’s Letter

n this issue, AVENUE celebrates the art of escape. Naturally, our Notorious New Yorker is the great Houdini, the ultimate escape artist. His death-defying stunts and tricks made him both a cultural troublemaker and a millionaire who performed for presidents. “I defy the police departments of the world to hold me,” he declared—then proceeded to break out of a prison in Russia, at a time when it was illegal for Jews to work in Moscow. No challenge was too big for Houdini. Another great escape is the current, ever-growing Mahjong madness, which is sweeping through New York’s social parlors in a frenzy of competition and high style (Hermès Mahjong sets are almost as coveted as Birkin bags). From movie stars like Julia Roberts and Sarah Jessica Parker to social starlets like Lizzie Tisch, the game has usurped charity balls and lunches at Cipriani as the social trend du jour. “There are people where this is their whole life. Every pillow in their house is mahjong-themed needlepoint,” Jill Kargman tells us. “They have fifty Labubus pinned on for luck. They’ll clack the tiles and rub them around their boobs counterclockwise for luck.” And the good news: studies show that Mahjong will make you smarter. Our Journeys section is filled with ways to escape the city. From Takanawa, Tokyo’s hottest new neighborhood (where shopping is like a samurai sport) to Bermuda, and then to an Italian hotel that writer Janet Mercel reports is the new crown jewel of Florence. So pack your Mahjong tiles in your suitcase and prepare to be transported around the globe for what will be the perfect escape from everyday life. Cheers! PETER DAVIS

Editor-in-Chief 6

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Maggie Davis CONTRIBUTING WRITERS

Mike Albo Mickey Boardman Ty Gaskins Carson Griffith Nancy Kane Ray Rogers Zachary Weiss Constance C.R. White CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

Ben Cope Sophie Elgort Edd Horder Richard Kern Jai Lennard Nick Mele Alexander Thompson © 2026 by Cohen Media Publications LLC AVENUE MAGAZINE 750 LEXINGTON AVENUE 16TH FLOOR NEW YORK, NY 10022 EDITORIAL@AVENUEMAGAZINE.COM PUBLISHER

Julie Dannenberg COHEN MEDIA PUBLICATIONS LLC CHAIRMAN

Charles S. Cohen

COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

THE ART OF ESCAPE Collegio alla Querce.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LANDON NORDEMAN

GUTTER CREDITS LANDON NORDEMAN TKTKTKTKTKTKTKTK;

ON THE AVENUE

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

avenuemagazine.com

Ben Radcliffe photographed by Bella Howard

LANDON NORDEMAN

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

ON THE AVE.

Escape to Tulum At Richard Sandoval’s tán, midtown Manhattan is a million miles away. Peter Davis digs in.

S VIVA MEXICO The dining room at tán.

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

RICHARD SANDOVAL HOSPITALITY

tar chef Richard Sandoval has created a culinary oasis in the middle of maddening midtown. It’s a true escape from the city to Tulum, the fashionable beachy destination on the Yucatán Peninsula. Sandoval has more restaurants, spanning 13 countries—more than chef on the planet. tán is his love letter to the fresh seafood-centric tastes and laid-back vibe of Tulum. “I want guests to feel transported the moment they walk through the door,” says Sandoval. And with lush tropical plants, billowing muslin cloth draped from the wood beamed ceiling, and oversized, fringed chandeliers held up by rope, you instantly feel like Manhattan is miles away. It’s the feeling of being magically beamed to not only a different, more exotic land, but a more relaxed, worry-free environment. “Tulum represents a different pace of life,” he explains. “It’s deeply connected to nature, simplicity, and understated luxury. Think barefoot dinners by the ocean, mezcal with friends under the stars, plus a mix of Mayan culture, jungle, and sea.”

YES, CHEF Richard Sandoval and his culinary creations at tán.

RICHARD SANDOVAL HOSPITALITY

Everything at tán is designed to feel layered, transportive, and connected to the energy of Tulum.

The food at tán matches the authentic décor. The Lobster Tacos, a Sandoval staple, are a must, as is the Tikin Xic fish (a whole branzino with zarandeado adobo and plantain purée), rooted in a traditional Mayan preparation but modernized. Sandoval’s son Giancarlo, who serves as tán’s chef, helped develop the dish, which often sells out and is so pretty on the plate, you’ll be snapping shots for your Instagram feed. (A true family business, his daughter Isabella helped open tán shortly after graduating from Cornell’s famous hospitality program.) Equally popular are the fresh ceviches (tuna, fluke, hamachi, and more) and the incredible guacamole, served with charred corn tlayudas, which will have you

rethinking just how addictively good guac can be. Dishes are best shared: the shrimp and crab enchiladas (with creamy guajillo sauce and queso fresco) and the prime filet mignon (with a creamy crab and shrimp enchilada) will last about 5 minutes on a table for four. For dessert, the Oaxacan chocolate fudge arrives with vanilla ice cream and salted toffee butter sauce. But don’t miss “Tulum by the Beach”–its rum-infused pineapple, coconut foam and tapioca with mango sorbet which will have you booking a flight on Aeroméxico in minutes. Being an homage to Tulum, which is famed for its nightlife, there is a cozy, chic speakeasy-like lounge downstairs called lúm which serves handcrafted cocktails like a Mexican Negroni and hosts a rotaISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

RICHARD SANDOVAL HOSPITALITY

ON THE AVE.

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

TULUM OR BUST A booth at tán and the bar at lúm, a lounge downstairs.

RICHARD SANDOVAL HOSPITALITY

The chance to leave the city behind for a night and visit coastal Mexico without buying a plane ticket.

tion of live performances on Thursday nights when New York’s night owls fill the room. Both tán and lúm are something rare in New York–the chance to leave the city behind for a night and visit coastal Mexico without buying a plane ticket. “Everything at tán is designed to feel layered, transportive, and connected to the energy of Tulum,” Sandoval says. “It feels deeply personal. We want the experience to feel sensual, relaxed, and immersive rather than overly formal.” We are already booking a return trip.

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

CARL TIMPONE/BFA.COM

This Woman’s Work With her first Miami solo show, Who By Fire, ZOË BUCKMAN trades boxing gloves for damask and grief, and finds softness—even for men. By JANET MERCEL

W ZOË BUCKMAN

THE BUCK STOPS HERE Artist Zoë Buckman. Right: Clocks the exit, 2025, Ink, acrylic, hand embroidery on vintage textile.

hile standing in Mindy Solomon Gallery, Zoë Buckman talks me through her first solo Miami show, Who By Fire, her Hackney accent lilting up and down. She points out the long strands of thread trailing out of an oversized “canvas,” a reclaimed damask tablecloth. “I use mainly acrylic and ink, which obviously bleeds onto the fabric. I started embroidering them, and I was enjoying that loss of control and freedom, also trying to harness it. I started to use the threads from this side,” her hand gestures over the face. “It’s like diving in from the front as opposed to the back, which is why there's these that come loose. It's very much about this feeling of everything coming undone, anyway. That everything's in flux.” It approaches deconstruction; the layers of appliqué and visible stitching asking to be touched. Buckman's work often features the traditional trappings associated with the softer sex—vintage lingerie, discarded bridal gowns—while poking holes in lazy cultural contradictions of feminism, body autonomy, assault, and trauma. This show feels more forgiving. They are portraits of herself; her friends and loved ones caught in intimacy. There's one of actress Jemima Kirke lounging on a Brooklyn bed, and one of Buckman's hands, tenderly intertwined with those of then boyfriend, now fiancé, surgeon Justin Saliman. The portrayal was a boundary of ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

CULTURE

“I was 21 when people started chatting shit about me online. I've been developing a thick skin to people saying nasty things about me for over 20 years, and that's probably served me well.”

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST Zoë Buckman photographed in New York. Left: Crows on the tracks, 2025, Ink, acrylic, hand embroidery on vintage textile.

erent…then when my mum was terminally ill, I watched her put on the most legit Seder I'd ever seen her do. I realized that it was because she knew she was dying. There was this feeling of, she wants to get this right. I think she wanted to get it right with the divine, if there is one.” Making art about religion is not without its pitfalls. Buckman, whose work shows internationally from SFMOMA, The Broad, The National Portrait Gallery, The Jewish Museum, The Parrish Art Museum, Studio Museum in Harlem, Paul Kasmin, Jack Shainman, Fort Gansevoort Gallery, Lyles & King, The National Museum of African-American History & Culture in Washington, DC and many others, came face to face with the consequences

in 2023. In the immediate aftermath of October 7, her former London gallery, Pippy Houldsworth, chose not to hang a self-portrait featuring a Star of David necklace. “I think everyone was freaking out and not knowing how to handle it and feeling like, what if we're put on the spot? What if someone throws paint at this? And I was like, we're all fucked up right now. It's okay. They eventually did exhibit it in Miami Art Basel that year, and it sold.” Then, while in the midst of a large push of work, the gallery cancelled Buckman's solo show. “They were like, yeah, we want to wait until London is less antiSemitic. And I said, ‘So, never? I'm never going to have a show in London? I'm only from there.’”

ZOË BUCKMAN; BFA.COM

discomfort Buckman forced herself to move through. “At least with my work, I'm showing a bit of softness when it comes to men. I'm more open to allowing for some men, where it's not just me talking about all the shit things they've said and done to us.” The attention is on more humble textiles: table linens, tea towels, and the less glamorous articles of bridal trousseau for centuries. You can easily visualize the artist toiling and laboring with a needle, which is the point. “I was here, right? It's not just a picture of two people; there is all of this time and this work. My work is very much about the labor of what it is to be in these bodies and these identities.” The sheer effort involved with embroidering— the largest pieces took over six months to produce— means Buckman is not envisioning another show like this any time soon. The works are bigger than many of her previous ones, which she acknowledges is coming from a gradual willingness to take up more space. They are a study of grief, love, joy, pain, loneliness, and friendship, as well as finding and creating sanctuary, all through the commonality of being a woman. In her case, a Jewish woman. The show title comes from Leonard Cohen's song about the prayer “Unetaneh Tokef.” Buckman's loss of her mother, the acclaimed London acting teacher Jennie Buckman, in 2019, was the crux of an exploration into faith. Although while growing up, Jewishness was not a big part of her experience. “We were super secular,” she says. “We would maybe do Passover, but it was always a bit irrev-

ZOË BUCKMAN

KNOCK ON MY CONSIOUSNESS 2025, Ink, acrylic, hand embroidery on vintage textile.

The work, somewhere i swear i can hear the siren of a kettle boil, ended up in Miami, where Buckman will have another solo debut at the Pérez Art Museum in October, coinciding with the release of an art book, Thick Bleach & Euphemisms. Show Me Your Bruises, Then is a 17-minute video installation, the performance of a poem Buckman wrote after an abusive relationship. It features herself along with actors Cush Jumbo and Sienna Miller. “It was about bleeding and bruising and having your power taken away from you…it's really about this one relationship that I was in for two years after my marriage, and there was violence and sexual assault, and definitely emotional abuse, as well.” Familiarity with Buckman's work will show you a consistent subversion of the feminine and masculine, violence and peace. Hip hop lyrics emblazoned on delicate underwear. Beribboned boxing gloves and visions of wounds in lush fabrics that almost (almost) obscure the darkness of the theme. It is still somehow shocking that these experiences took place nearly in real time, after her well documented divorce from actor David Schwimmer. Rather than

20 years ago, or in the backwater of coming of age, where most of us like to believe trauma was left behind long ago. Equally shocking is her ability to share, when naming abuse usually comes with terrific consequences. Too often our media feeds sound like an old satirical Reductress headline: “Man Who Hurt You Upset You Told People He Hurt You.” There's a 16th-century proverb, “You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear,” about the impossibility of transforming something fundamentally bad into something good. Buckman has found a way to do just that. She is a beautiful woman making beautiful art about ugly things; less about any particular cultural reckoning in time and more about what it means to exist. It was Sienna Miller who encouraged Buckman to appear in the film Show Me Your Bruises, Then. “She said, Zoë, this is your poem. This is literally your story. And anyway, it's not acting, come on, just read it…and I shared it with the curators of the Pérez. They said they want me to be the one to hold this very important conversation about the gray areas of sexual assault. There are these wavy, con-

fusing, muddy issues of consent within the context of a relationship. That's not really explored much anywhere, especially not in the art world. These things had like five minutes of attention right after #MeToo. There was going to be all-female group shows and museums. What the fuck happened with that? Nothing. But the Pérez has got fucking balls, and they said, ‘we want it.’” It's many tens of degrees colder a few weeks later, when Buckman leads me into her studio on the ground level of her Brooklyn townhouse. I unthaw with hot tea with a plate of powdery sugar biscuits. One of her signature installations, a tumble of boxing gloves upholstered in lurid textiles, hangs in a corner while we unpack her relationship to controversy. “I was 21 when people started chatting shit about me online. I was cocktail waitressing, making bad art during the day, dating a famous person. I've been developing a thick skin to people saying nasty things about me for over 20 years, and that's probably served me well,” Buckman says. “Around the time I started to be labeled as a feminist artist was also around the time [2016] that I started to grow very alarmed with what was happening to our sex. This global war against us and mistreatment of us and subjugation of us, the rescinding of our rights and all of that.” “I'm making work about this injustice and inequality…and I'm also seeing this growing pressure on women to overshare...I started to say, ‘all right, Zoë, you need to make sure that every piece that you make—is this what I'm trying to say? Is this the right way? Is this the right time? Am I the right artist to tell this story?’” On the one hand, the warmth and hospitality of her home stands in direct contrast with the ugliness of our words. On the other, it's a perfect paradigm of the female experience and her work: brutality and ugliness alongside a porcelain cookie plate and a cup of tea. “Some of us feel this pull to spill our guts and go, ‘this is me. Look at me. This is what I have to say and whatnot,’” she says. “I think that it's a little bit more interesting to take that impulse and start to go there, but then also pull back a little bit. Invite people into the conversation and bring them towards you. With artwork as well, often the power is in what isn't shown. I'm trying to walk that line.” Buckman understands there can be no light without the dark; the need for light is even greater within the dark. Beauty has always been one of art's most powerful tools for telling the truth, and she doesn't pretend something pretty protects you from psychic damage. She simply creates work that refuses to collapse under the weight of its subject, holding the viewer in its unpleasantness long enough that they don’t look away. ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

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EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

Emily Neville Fisher Photographer Emily Neville Fisher’s three young children and her zoo-like coterie of birds, animals, and reptiles serve as both muses and models in her striking images that feel more like oil paintings than photographs. Peter Davis spoke to the artist near her home in Bedford, NY. Willow ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

65 Mustang

EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

East

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Graffiti

EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

Nothing is ordinary

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CULTURE

Top: Sand Sledders Bottom: Goblin Valley

Your photographs feel like Old Master paintings. My mom is a painter. I grew up around art all the time; in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, which is Wyeth country—Andrew Wyeth and N.C. Wyeth. My work emulates that. I thought I was going to be a painter. I like instant results. I'm not sure I would be a photographer if digital weren't available. You won an award for your first photograph, which was taken with an iPhone.

EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

Everyone was coming up to me like, “What gear do you have? What camera did you use?” I was so embarrassed it was my iPhone. So, I vowed that day to go back to school and learn how to use a real camera, do my own editing, and not use filters. I started a photography club up; they talk gear all the time. I don't care about that stuff. I want the picture to exist and that's what

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

Shadow II

“They've done crazy things for me. One got on a billboard. I'm like, “Alex, that is the coolest thing for two truths and a lie. Someday you can say, I was on a billboard in New York City.”” —Emily Neville Fisher

I care about. I need to see right away if I got it, which is why I like digital. I’m a purist. I don't Photoshop. I'm not cutting and pasting. What you're seeing is the image that I'm taking. I hate sunny days. I like overcast. I like fog. I like flat light and no shadows. I want stuff that looks like it could have been a hundred years ago. Like Sally Mann, you photograph your children a lot. I've made my kids do everything from being pooped on by animals to having snakes on their faces. They've done crazy things for me. One got on a billboard. I'm like, “Alex, that is the coolest thing for two truths and a lie. Someday you can say, I was on a billboard in New York City.”

EMILY NEVILLE FISHER

Are the animals you photograph good models?

Peacock

We probably have 30 birds. We have quail, chickens, ducks, and geese right now, plus a snake and a dog. We've had goats. Animals are like people because they have eyes, they look at the camera, they look away. Little personalities. ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

CULTURE

Kate Doerge’s New Memoir is Inspiring a Movement

he response to Kate Doerge’s new memoir Reimagining Grief has been immediate and far-reaching. Her book has inspired a movement. Laura Lynne Jackson, Nick Ortner, and David Magee have been quick to praise its impact, and Norah O’Donnell was in conversation with Doerge about her philosophy on June 16th at the 92nd Street Y. I’ve known Kate and her husband Chad for years. They are the kind of people you don’t just know but feel lucky to know. Warm, open, deeply connected to their community, and, in every sense, full of life. When I met with Kate to discuss Reimagining Grief, it was a conversation shaped by that history, and by the weight of everything she and her family have been through. The Doerges’ story begins when their daughter Penny was just four months old. After fracturing her tibia, a doctor discovered Penny had Neurofibromatosis, a genetic condition causing tumors to form on nerve tissue throughout the body. The disease is complex, unpredictable, and, for families navigating it, there is no roadmap. Sometimes the tumors are benign, other times they are malignant 26

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and can lead to devastating loss. There is no cure, only a long, uncertain path marked by love, and, in their case, overwhelming loss. What defines Kate’s story is how she chose to respond to it. In the final days of Penny’s life, instead of retreating inward, which would have been completely understandable, Kate and Chad did something extraordinary. They opened their home. Friends poured in. Music played. Stories were shared. What could have been a moment of isolation became something else entirely, which Kate now calls a “love cocoon.” A space built not around loss, but around connection. From that moment, Penny’s Flight was born. What began as a deeply personal way to honor Penny has grown into something much larger. Penny’s Flight is a movement that has inspired more than a hundred youth-led chapters and countless acts of generosity. For those who are grieving, it’s become a place of comfort, offering a positive way to get involved, to connect and to feel supported instead of feeling isolated. At its core is a simple but powerful idea: even in the face of unimaginable grief, there is a way forward, one that brings people together rather than pulling them apart. Adam Glassman, the Creative Director of Oprah magazine, says, “Kate and her family endured the unthinkable. And when the worst happened, she didn’t retreat from the world or allow grief to define the edges of her life. She rose with resilience, with poise, with extraordinary grace. And in doing

so, she reminds all of us that courage isn’t the absence of heartbreak. It’s choosing, every single day, to transform it into hope.” That philosophy is at the heart of Reimagining Grief, which unfolds as a memoir, a love letter, and an examination into what it means to continue living after loss. The book resists conclusions. It is not a manual, nor does it attempt to prescribe a singular path through sorrow. Instead, Kate writes with striking vulnerability about her own lived experience. The rawness of early grief, the quiet recalibrations of daily life, and the deliberate choice to remain open to people, to possibility, and, yes, even to joy. Early readers have been quick to feel its impact. Belle Burden, bestselling author of Strangers, says, “Part memoir, part roadmap, Reimagining Grief is a deeply personal yet practical guide for anyone navigating the aftermath of devastating loss. Kate doesn’t offer easy answers; she gives us something far more valuable: her own story and proof that a life can be rebuilt, not in spite of sorrow, but through it.” After reading the book and in speaking with her, what gives Kate so much credibility is how steady her voice is. It never feels performative and she isn’t trying to tell you what to do. It feels honest and experienced. The kind of voice that doesn’t push you, but somehow still moves you forward. Kate isn’t telling readers how to grieve. She’s inviting them into how she has grieved. And in doing so, she offers something far more valuable than advice. Companionship.

HAY HOUSE

There are books about grief that offer answers. Kate Doerge’s Reimagining Grief does something far more meaningful, discovers Ted Hildner.

CULTURE

These are steps. Things you can do. It’s participatory. You have agency in how you respond. Tell me about the importance of taking action. You can’t control what happens to you, but you can control how you respond. And that applies to everything: loss, divorce, losing a job, anything. The question becomes: What are you going to do with it? You emphasize connection early on, almost as a first step. We are not meant to do this alone. Connection is everything. Whether it’s friends, community, a group, or even something like a support network. You need people who can hold space for you. And equally important is knowing who not to be around. The people who drain your energy. Protecting your energy is critical. There’s also a strong emphasis on movement, both physically and emotionally. Movement shifts energy. Grief is energy, and if it stays stuck, it becomes overwhelming. So, whether it’s walking, exercising, or doing something active with others, it helps move that energy through your body. And when you combine movement with connection, it’s incredibly powerful. You also introduce the idea of allowing joy.

The book feels incredibly personal, but never dictatorial. That was my biggest goal. Authenticity. Grief is not a place where you can be guarded or overly polished. If you are, it starts to feel like you're telling people what to do. And I didn’t want that. I wanted people to come on the journey with me, to feel it, and then decide for themselves what resonates. 28

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There’s a vulnerability in your writing that’s consistent throughout. I didn’t set out to write a book. Someone told me, “You need to tell your story,” and I thought, I don’t even know where to begin. But I leaned into it the same way I approached everything after Penny. Heart first. And I think when you do that, the consistency comes naturally.

There’s a spiritual layer to your story, particularly around signs. That can be different for everyone. For me, being open to signs created a sense of connection. When you’re open, you start to notice things, and whether people interpret that as spiritual or emotional, it creates meaning. And meaning is essential in grief.

You talk about turning pain into purpose. That’s a phrase people hear often, but your version feels different.

You’ve also built an incredible community around Penny’s legacy.

There’s no right way to do it. That’s the truth. But if you lead with authentic passion, it comes through. People can feel that. This book is what I wish I had when we were going through our loss. And now, seeing how people respond—whether through workshops, conversations, or even a simple text—it reinforces how much this is needed

That’s been one of the most powerful parts. Instead of isolating, we brought people in. And what started as something very personal became something much bigger, something inclusive. The smallest acts can create a ripple effect. That’s what I call the butterfly effect. And that’s how communities grow.

One of the biggest points you make in the book is that grief isn’t something you “get over.”

Who do you hope this book reaches?

Exactly. You move through it. We’ve been taught these five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, but those were never meant to be a roadmap for living. They were observations. What I’m suggesting is something more active.

Everyone! Because grief isn’t limited to one kind of loss. And these tools of connection, movement, purpose, and perspective apply whether you’re 10 or 80. It’s not about your lifespan. It’s about your wingspan, what you do with your life, and how you impact others.

COURTESY OF KATE DOERGE

“Grief isn’t something to solve,” she says. “It’s something to carry, and, eventually, to reimagine. It’s a simple idea, but not an easy one. And that’s precisely why it resonates.” We talked about authenticity, about faith and doubt, and about the courage it takes to put something this personal into the world. Reimagining Grief is about showing people that there is another way through loss, and that you don’t have to find it alone. In doing so, she opens a door that many people don’t even realize exists. The possibility that even in loss, there can be positive and happy movements. There can be connections. There can be purpose. Reimagining Grief and Penny’s Flight help us understand that it's not our lifespan that defines us, but our individual wingspans, and that even during the darkest days, there can still be light… and the courage to take flight.

It’s one of the hardest parts. People feel guilty. But I always ask, What would your loved one want for you? They wouldn’t want you sitting in darkness forever. They would want you reaching for joy, for light. That shift, thinking from their perspective, can be incredibly freeing.

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‘V

acation.’ Florida. His parents’ country club and a fight at the “pasta night” kiddie buffet. I sulk home with our baby in the rain, though I hadn’t wanted to stay. The minefields of abandonment have their own mysterious logic. In the morning, I decide to repair things with manipulative retaliation. I book two spots at Live Ball, a tennis drill I’ve never heard of. We’ll get some QT and I’ll whip his ass because I play several times a week and he plays twice a year. Win, win. Before I go on, some background on the culture of tennis: women like me— competitive, ambitious, and terrified of aging into irrelevance—love tennis. I love the way it makes my legs and lungs strong, the way it gives me a sense of potency even if the skin under my Lycra is simultaneously saggy and expanding. Because on the court, I’m seventeen again. The hours pass in an instant. The horizons of women’s USTA yawn as wide as my delusions.

I clock his new partner. Her hair tumbles down her back long, wispy and gold. Her lacy, white skirt leaves only her upper butt to my imagination. Her outfit reminds me of baby bloomers unbuttoned. She’s the only female on a court of serious athletes: the men slide, grunt, and hit forehands so hard their arms whip over their heads. She takes advantage of those heavy balls with a perky volley that never misses. Let’s call her Lizzy. 44

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PEXELS

BY ISABEL MURPHY

We arrive. I make sure we’re paired so I can prance and preen. But Live Ball is fast and discombobulating: I play poorly; my husband, Christopher, plays extremely well. “Come over to this court,” the pro tells him between games. A cold wind blows. My unshaven leg hairs stand straight up.

Lizzy is a ten. Christopher pitches forward into a jog that communicates I’m virile! I’m game! I stare, arms akimbo, mouth agape. I wasn’t a tennis player in my youth, but if I had been, I’d have worn a whole skirt. And the men (and their wives) would have looked at me, too. We’re all drawn to what’s shiny and new. I’m partnered with Lizzy’s dad. He tells me she’s a senior in high school, debating whether or not to play in college. He’s got a giant smile and it’s clear Lizzy’s his pride and joy. The two of us keep turning back to the Olympians. Dad beams while we wait for our turn. I stalk the fence, miserly and invisible. Looking in the bathroom mirror at Live Ball’s merciful end, I realize… invisibility would’ve been a gift. My visor gouged the middle of my forehead and the deep line casts my whole face in shadow. How could a person look so hideously drab? Is it my greasy, dark roots? Or maybe it’s my freckles, which were gamine until they merged into a few melismatic splotches. Twenty years of unprotected sunshine have left me perplexingly… gray. I didn’t realize how old I looked until I saw Lizzy, a gleaming reminder of what I once was.

PEXELS

We get on our bikes and start home. Christopher tells me Lizzy has “a great backhand.” I dart my shadowy eyesockets at him, and he shuts right up. __ The next day, Christopher suggests a walk on the beach. His parents graciously babysit. He holds my hand until he can’t. I wear a straw hat larger than an umbrella, which I panicbought after tennis. The hat tries to leap off with every gust, so I walk with my hands pressed onto my head. I wear Japanese painter pants that balloon over my crotch and make my butt appear concave.

The wind means we have the beach to ourselves, though on our return, my eye zooms in on a gilded crescent. As we approach, I see Lizzy, perched on the middle rung of the empty lifeguard chair, arching her back and poking her little breasts at the sea while her mother takes pictures. She doesn’t notice us as she hops down to assess and re-direct her mother’s photography. As we pass, she climbs back up onto the chair, and her teal thong disappears into flesh no human being could ignore. Onward we trudge. “You know, I was thinking, the next time we come here, we should maybe get a babysitter,” Christopher says after a minute. I think to myself I so love this man; let me run a teeny tiny test. “Oh yeah, like who?” “I don’t know, I wonder if Lizzy would do it?” “You think I would let that thirst trap into my house?” I snap, wrestling my sombrero against a fresh gust. “What’s a thirst trap?” he asks. (Christopher is profoundly offline.) “It’s exactly what it sounds like!” I huff. “She’s making one now!” “But the neighbors love their attractive au pair. They say the kids really listen to her,” he says. Well, well, well, he sure has mapped this out. Christopher—who’s better at marriage repair than I am—suggests we go to lunch before we leave for the airport. Once again, his parents watch the kids. Lucky us, Lizzy and her mother have gotten hungry, too. She’s put her bloomers back on and as they leave the restaurant, Lizzy

walks by our table, bounce, bounce, bounce. I watch Christopher, whose raw athleticism is now directed at keeping his eyes on his plate. Lizzy’s mom follows and I see the woman, somehow, for the first time. She’s got the same color hair as Lizzy, but it’s shoulder-length, with no more shine. Her face is craggy and tan. I hadn’t looked at her before, because evolution designed my eyes to go straight to her daughter, but I see now—she’s beautiful. Not in a way that strives or competes, her skin isn’t frozen or filled. She wears comfortable, attractive clothes. She’s in a different era of womanhood, and she’s not pretending otherwise. Lizzy is beautiful; her mother is dignified. I grow up in about ten seconds, realizing the permission this woman has given me. It’s okay that my face has creases and sunspots. It’s okay that my gaze—like everyone’s— goes to what’s glossy and pert. It’s how we’re made. I want to have the confidence to celebrate a younger woman’s beauty—I can feel threatened, or I can feel generous and delighted. There’s only one type of woman I want to age into (though I’ll always find the bikini selfie lamely transparent). How lucky am I to have been like Lizzy once? As lucky as her mother, I’m sure. And Lizzy, if she’s as blessed as the two of us, will someday reach the age of very loose pants. And when that day dawns… she can babysit. Isabel Cowles Murphy is a former Brooklyn prosecutor turned literary novelist. Her work has appeared in Elle, In Style, and the Huffington Post. She writes weekly @The Noble Try.

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

the new night life

COMMUNAL SAUNAS AND ICE-COLD PLUNGE POOLS ARE THE CITY’S NEWEST HOT SPOTS FOR THE SOCIAL (AND SOBER) SET. BATHING SUIT REQUIRED. BY PETER DAVIS

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

Photograph by First Lastname

ADRIAN GAUT

THE PLUNGE Bathhouse, on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

GUILDED CLASS At YKVL. 48

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GRAYDON HERRIOTT

ew York’s PYTs are socializing in a whole different way, and it’s not happening in private members clubs or dimly lit cocktail lounges. The scene has shifted dramatically and has, quite literally, never been steamier. The city’s new hot spots, with names like Othership, Lore, AIRE and The Altar, may sound like nightclubs, but they are the opposite of late night, boozy, DJ-driven venues. The places to see and be seen? Communal saunas, cold plunges, and thermal pools. The secret pre-opening of Othership’s Flatiron location was a true outlaw-style event. With Daybreaker—the early-morning sober dance party—the very attractive crowd, clad in bathing suits, moved from a large wood planked sauna (where “Guides” regularly toss scented snowballs on the coals, wafting the up to 185F room with cedar and eucalyptus) to cold plunges, then

SASHA BIANCA

DAYBREAKER Othership.

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—OTHERSHIP’S ROBBIE BENT

Robbie Bent OTHERSHIP

54 50

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to a space where everyone danced with abandon to house music. People are craving places where they can connect and have fun without alcohol being the focus of the experience,” says Robbie Bent, who co-founded Othership during the 2020 pandemic in Toronto. He then opened locations in Flatiron and Williamsburg (UES is up next). “You can dance, laugh, meet new people, and leave feeling better than when you arrived. It’s nightlife that’s energizing rather than depleting. There’s a real appetite for that.” When “Shipheads” have clocked twenty-two sessions, they are awarded with a white wool felt sauna hat, now a coveted status symbol amongst sauna-heads. (The caps also help you sweat more thoroughly). A few blocks away at The Altar, influencers like Brendan Fallis have hosted invite-only events. Visitors lounge around on the platform seating before a cold plunge or a session in the semi-circular sauna, which has an appropriately spiritual-like vibe. “I find myself socializing between sauna sessions. The ritual feels familiar, moving between spaces, meeting new people. Only here, tea replaces martinis and the cold plunge replaces the last call,” says devotee Ty Gaskins, a cultural strategist. “The communal sauna has become one of the most compelling

spaces of our time. It has all the rhythm of a great cocktail bar, except everyone leaves with endorphins instead of a hangover.” At Lore Bathing Club in NoHo, the modern space feels like a movie set where guests play a starring role. It’s the creation of James O’Reilly (a co-founder of Lifetime Fitness) and Adam Elzer (who came from NeueHouse) —Lore is a clubhouse for downtown’s creative class. “Lore means to spread wisdom or knowledge,” says Elzer. And the wisdom of Lore Bathing Club is that going from a hot Finnish sauna to a cold plunge immensely improves both physical and mental health. Lore attendants practice the German art of aufguss, where scents are wafted through the sauna using towels in a kind of acrobatic aroma therapy dance. “I’m not personally on a sober journey, but to me, the quality of attention and presence that you get when you’re not competing with your phone, when you’re in this sort of very primal state, it allows you to open up and get into a flow,” says O’Reilly. Bathhouse, which has three locations in New York, is the mega-club of wellness destinations: big and action-packed with numerous plunge pools (ice-cold, salt baths, Jacuzzis) as well as saunas and steam rooms. The line for Bathhouse’s Williamsburg location resembles a throng outside a nightclub. Around the roof-top

OTHERSHIP

“PEOPLE ARE CRAVING PLACES WHERE THEY CAN CONNECT AND HAVE FUN WITHOUT ALCOHOL BEING THE FOCUS OF THE EXPERIENCE. IT’S NIGHTLIFE THAT’S ENERGIZING RATHER THAN DEPLETING.”

ROBERT POLIDORI

GETTING LIT YKVL Cold Space.

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TOP: ADRIAN GAUT; 2ND ROW: ADRIAN GAUT; EMILY ANDREWS; ADRIAN GAUT; 3RD ROW EMILY ANDREWS; ADRIAN GAUT; 4TH ROW: ADRIAN GAUT

BATHHOUSE

TOP LEFT: ADRIAN GAUT; TOP RIGHT: EMILY ANDREWS; BOTTOM LEFT: ADRIAN GAUT; BOTTOM RIGHT: ADRIAN GAUT

BATHHOUSE

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“THE QUALITY OF ATTENTION AND PRESENCE THAT YOU GET WHEN YOU’RE NOT COMPETING WITH YOUR PHONE, WHEN YOU’RE IN THIS SORT OF VERY PRIMAL STATE, IT ALLOWS YOU TO OPEN UP AND GET INTO A FLOW.” —JAMES O’REILLY OF LORE BATHING CLUB

pool, clutches of cute people chat, read books, or look for their next date. “I have met so many cute guys at Bathhouse,” says Georgina, a fashion student. “And they aren’t drunk or just looking to hook up, like at some nightclub. You can really talk to someone. Plus, they are in bathing suits, so you know what they look like without their clothes on.” A pioneer of the trend is AIRE Ancient Baths, which opened their 16,000-square foot Tribeca location in 2012 in a restored 1883 textile factory. “AIRE was born from a desire to revive the ancient tradition of bathing as a meaningful ritual for relaxation, connection, and wellbeing,” says Andrea Trillo, Chief Growth Officer. “Inspired by the bathing cultures of the Roman, Greek, and Ottoman civilizations, AIRE envisioned creating a modern sanctuary where guests could reconnect with themselves through the healing power of water.” This includes a candle-lit Tepidarium (a relaxation room with heated walls, floors and loungers) under a skylight. In the book Social Sauna, the writers reason, “Whether it’s for 2 people or 100, the bath is about balancing social behavior, the individual and the communal. The revival of the public sauna has emerged as a powerful social tool, 54

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AIRE

LEVELED-UP at AIRE.

AIRE

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

Adam Elzer and James O’Reilly

building a sense of community.” Dr. Robert C. Hanea, the founder and chairman of Therme Group, which develops and operates large-scale wellbeing destinations around the globe, agrees. “This is a real cultural shift,” he says. “We’re over-digitized and under-connected, and a hot room with strangers in it turns out to be a pretty direct fix for that. Sauna has been central to cultures around the world for centuries.” Hanea was behind the wildly popular “Culture of Bathe-ing” pop-up sauna village at Domino Park. “It wasn’t a spa day, it was a gathering,” he explains. “We’re in the middle of a loneliness epidemic that has nothing to do with a lack of information about wellness, and everything to do with a lack of places to actually be with people. Bathing solves that directly.” 54 56

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TOP ROW: RAPHAËL GAULTIER, RAPHAËL GAULTIER, ALY KULA; 2ND ROW: SEAN DAVIDSON, RAPHAËL GAULTIER, RAPHAËL GAULTIER PORTRAIT: ERIC VAN NYNATTEN

LORE BATHING CLUB

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COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

Meet the Ladies Who Mahjong LUNCH, WHO DOES THAT ANYMORE? MAHJONG TILES HAVE TAKEN OVER UPPER EAST SIDE HIGH SOCIETY—AND MIGHT JUST MAKE YOU SMARTER IN THE PROCESS. JANET MERCEL TALKS TO THE DOYENNES BEHIND THE REVIVAL.

MAHJONG MAVENS Sophia Khan, Jackie Gossels, Brooke Parker, Cristina Dolan, Jaclyn Rottenstreich. 58

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MADISON VOELKEL/BFA.COM

f you were in the Conservatory Garden for the Women’s Committee of the Central Park Conservancy’s Frederick Law Olmsted Awards Luncheon—aka the “hat luncheon”—you likely noticed one table drawing the most attention. Eleven women in bright dresses, with hats built tile by tile around the game that has, this year, eaten New York. On one, a peregrine falcon stood in for the bird (bam!). A daffodil—the flower planted across the five boroughs after September 11th—was the spring tile. There were pink roses for the state flower, and firecrackers (crack!) over the Statue of Liberty. New York Social Diary featured the group as its hero image. WWD loved the vibe. Vogue called it “campy,” “beautifully executed,” and “so of the moment right now.” The ladies who lunch have become gamers, and it’s not subtle. There’s a regular game at Casa Tua, and one at the 92nd Street Y, where the author and filmmaker Jill Kargman moderated a sold-out night built around the release of this year’s National Mah Jongg League card. It’s at Oscar de la Renta and Ralph Lauren, where the houses have worked out that a morning of tiles puts sixty women on the sales floor before lunch. The Central Park Conservancy itself held its first mahjong social at the restored Chess & Checkers House; tables were gone in minutes. Julia Roberts plays, Kelly Ripa plays, and so does Sarah Jessica Parker…but not necessarily together. (Oh, to be a fourth at that table.)

TBC CUSTOM MAHJONG

PLAY TIME This custom Mahjong set was created as a keepsake of Rottenstreich’s hat lunch table theme, featuring the same images used on the hats with some sentimental details included on the additional tiles.

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AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

JULIA ROBERTS PLAYS, KELLY RIPA PLAYS, AND SO DOES SARAH JESSICA PARKER… BUT NOT NECESSARILY TOGETHER. (OH, TO BE A FOURTH AT THAT TABLE.)

MILES OF TILES A TBC custom Mahjong set.

TBC CUSTOM MAHJONG

Jaclyn Rottenstreich, who masterminded the hat luncheon theme and commissioned the milliner Cherry on Top Derby Hats, says the friends who teased her—what are you, a little old lady? —have come around. “I said, ‘you better get on board, or you’re going to be left in the dust,’” she says. Between mahjong speakeasies, cocktail hours, fundraisers, and retreats, the game is behind every manner of social event. The fustiness is gone. “The only time you’re ever at a table with a lot of people these days is in mahjong. People just aren’t doing lunch anymore.” “Mahjong feels timely because it has become such a popular way for women to gather. It gives people a reason to come together that is more interactive than lunch and more intimate than a cocktail party. It is social, but not passive. People talk, laugh, strategize, compete, and connect. It also feels refreshingly analog in a world where everyone is usually on a screen.” Brooke Parker adds. If the uptown takeover has a modern face, it

CHRISTA MAXWELL/PATRICIA BURMICKY PHOTOGRAPHY

CHOWING DOWN Ainsley Earhardt is in on the Mahjong craze.

might be Kargman. In October she’ll compete in the annual Mah Jongg World Championship in Vegas, although she says she’s only going “because Metallica is at the Sphere.” She tied for fourth at a Miami tournament, which is what talked her into Vegas. “I don’t get nervous. I have a life,” she says. “There are people where this is their whole life. Every pillow in their house is mahjong-themed needlepoint. They have fifty Labubus pinned on for luck. They’ll clack the tiles and rub them around their boobs counterclockwise for luck. Their Hop Toi; it’s a rituals thing. I just don’t really give a shit, because I think it’s fun.” Like any sport, it has its sore winners and losers. “So much of your personality comes out at the mahjong table,” says Gregg Swain, co-author of Mah Jongg: The Art of the Game. “There’s a funny saying in China that you should never marry anybody unless you’ve played mahjong with them.” Kargman knows this firsthand: “Some people get really angry,” she reports. “I’ve had someone

throw tiles. Okay, I guess you really want that gift card. I’ve done tournaments where the people are just mean and joyless. I’m not trying to be national champion, but I am fast. So why not have the challenge?” For anyone on their neuroplasticity journey, the challenge is the point. “I know it staves off dementia,” Kargman says. “My grandmother was ninety-eight and three-quarters when she died, and she played the week before. Sharp as a tack.” Dr. Heidi Bender, a neuropsychologist at Weill Cornell Medicine, works with children testing for attention deficits and learning differences. She met Brooke Parker through the school-placement world—and was the one to recommend the Kentucky milliner for the hat luncheon. (Brooke Parker also suggested her kids’ school start a mahjong program after parent drop-offs, which caught on like wildfire.) Bender sees a parallel to pickleball’s arc—a game once coded as older-generation and now drawing younger players. “There’ll always be these ebbs and flows of activities that pique our interest,” she

says. “But now is the mahjong moment.” A diminishing mind and a developing one work the same muscles and benefit from the same exercise, and Bender describes mahjong as a near-perfect mental workout. “I emphasize the executive function, because you really must think steps ahead. It works on key brain skills,” she says. “You’re doing math and keeping track of a lot of details.” Particularly in older adults, the built-in community might be the strongest neuroprotector. “It’s stimulation and conversational upkeep, all those human skills. The social piece is so key—it not only staves off depression or mood issues, but it also helps with cognition.” For a lot of players, the intergenerational factor is one of the main draws, and most importantly– it’s analog. There are no screens, no scrolling, just tiles and racks. Mahjong’s rise in the time of smart houses and AI is no coincidence. “It’s a rebellion,” Kargman declares, whose mother and daughters all play. “You’re sitting with three friends, looking at each other instead of a screen. People relish that time. They carve it out.” A few days without it, she says, and the craving sets in. The intro line of one mahjong tutorial book reads, “The first impression many people have of mahjong is a game of mysterious ritual and inscrutable rules.” Since the same can be said for the Upper East Side, it makes sense that many beginners need the right person in their contacts: ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

“MAHJONG FEELS TIMELY BECAUSE IT HAS BECOME SUCH A POPULAR WAY FOR WOMEN TO GATHER. IT GIVES PEOPLE A REASON TO COME TOGETHER THAT IS MORE INTERACTIVE THAN LUNCH AND MORE INTIMATE THAN A COCKTAIL PARTY.” BROOKE PARKER

TBC CUSTOM MAHJONG; CHRISTA MAXWELL/PATRICIA BURMICKY PHOTOGRAPHY

READY TO CHARLESTON TBC Custom Mahjong Tiles and Amy Tarr, Hana Bitton, Heather McAuliffe, Kate Lauprete, Hope Rothschild, Jill Davis, Lizzy Quick, Neda Navab, Tracey Huff.

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

TIFFANY AND COMPANY

TRUE BLUE Tiffany Mahjong set.

Cari Kuprenas. The Mahj in the Wild podcaster has been playing for twenty years and teaches on both coasts. Kuprenas’ student body includes Sarah Jessica Parker and Jessica Seinfeld and is strictly word of mouth. After moving to New York ten years ago, she took on pupils to make friends. “I started playing at the Junior League,” Kuprenas says. “I had one friend, Gregg Swain, the doyenne of the Upper East Side, and within six months, through mahjong, I was running into people I knew on Madison Avenue. I have a friend who said, once you run into people on Madison Avenue, you’re a New Yorker.” This is not the game’s first American life. American mahjong—with the annual National Mah Jongg League card and jokers, descends from

the Chinese game that traveled west with Joseph Park Babcock in the 1920s. The Standard Oil businessman picked it up in Shanghai gambling houses and figured it would make a booming board-game trade back home—he trademarked “Mah-Jongg.” Abercrombie & Fitch, the Madison Avenue outfitter, dispatched buyers to Asia to source every last set they found, ultimately selling 12,000 before the craze died out. Then, in 1937, five Jewish women founded the National Mah Jongg League. The game that resulted is a very different one, and it’s the version most people here play, but every variant traces back to China. Kuprenas, a fifth-generation Angeleno from a family restaurant empire that lays claim to inventing the Chinese chicken salad, grew up with grand-

parents who were “mad-crazy” Chinese mahjong players, running high-stakes games above the restaurant into the wee hours. It skipped a generation–her mother never loved the game, because it kept her father away at his men’s club all night. “It becomes an obsession.” Otherwise, the association is positive. “I have the oxygen-mask theory,” Kuprenas says. “Put on your own mask first before you help anyone else. Mahjong takes that role in your life. For two or three hours out of your week, all your troubles, the stuff you’re trying to take care of—it’ll be there when you’re done.” Devotee Lizzie Tisch agrees. “It’s a time to decompress. I joke that my daughter somehow manages to call every time I’m playing. Now I just answer the phone saying, ‘Mahjong!’ and she knows that I’m in the middle and I’ll call her later.” Tisch began learning the game from Kuprenas about a year and half ago and was hooked after three lessons. “Much to my husband’s chagrin, I’m sitting there in bed at night, playing mahjong on my iPad. We started organizing regular groups, and I would raise my hand, telling anybody I knew that played. I’m available. Count me in.” The hook, Tisch explains, is a combination of things. “It’s like learning a new language, but not as hard. It’s just something good for my brain. I love the tactile nature, the little ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

AVENUE MAGAZINE | ISSUE TWO 2026

at Smith, she teamed up with four friends to write what she calls “the first book on mahjong tile art.” “Mahjong was the 6th biggest export from China in the 1920s. It really helped their economy, which was down the tubes. Everybody who could get into the Mahjong business got into the Mahjong business. They had some of the best wood carvers, inlay artists, and painters,” Swain says. When the game fell out of favor, many sets ended up in landfills or molded in basements. While not everyone may understand the origins or meaning behind the tiles, Swain says at least the artwork is being newly appreciated. “There are new sets galore, and the themes are really fun.” Beginners are better off learning on a plainer set, but from there, figuring it out is half the fun.

LUCK BE A LADY Barbara Scott, Lisa LaLonde, Aileen Bruner.

CHRISTA MAXWELL/PATRICIA BURMICKY PHOTOGRAPHY

clacking noises the tiles make. And, of course, the shopping element is super fun.” Although the point of entry can be as low as a traditional set for $30, personal mahjong aesthetic comes with its own price tag, depending on where you shop. Hermès sells a set; so does Brunello Cucinelli. Kargman has fourteen sets. Kuprenas refuses to divulge how many she owns. “A lady never tells. And my husband doesn’t know how many…the beauty of Venmo!” In 2014, when Gregg Swain wrote The Art of the Game, the tiles themselves were the point. Her grandmother had played, but Swain didn’t learn until 2010, from Linda Feinstein of The Manhattan Mah Jongg Club. Looking for the meaning behind the images in vintage sets, having studied art history

“THERE ARE PEOPLE WHERE THIS IS THEIR WHOLE LIFE. EVERY PILLOW IN THEIR HOUSE IS MAHJONG-THEMED NEEDLEPOINT. THEY HAVE FIFTY LABUBUS PINNED ON FOR LUCK. THEY’LL CLACK THE TILES AND RUB THEM AROUND THEIR BOOBS COUNTERCLOCKWISE FOR LUCK.”

CHRISTA MAXWELL/PATRICIA BURMICKY PHOTOGRAPHY

JILL KARGMAN

With a background in clinical psychology, Swain brings it back to exercising our gray matter. More elaborate designs make players use their brains differently: the visual discrimination area works harder. “An 8 bam doesn’t look the same from set to set, so it forces you to really look.” “I grew up in New York,” Swain recalls, “in the days before everybody had air conditioning. People would spill out onto the sidewalks with game tables in the shade. They would say marvelous words like ‘dragons’ and ‘flowers.’ I thought they were swearing. Crack! Bam! I was quite shocked that these older ladies were sitting around swearing. At the end of every game, they would burst out into laughter. And I thought, my goodness, whatever they’re doing, I want to do it.” ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

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COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

THE NEW CROWN OF FLORENCE At Auberge’s first Italian property Collegio alla Querce, Janet Mercel finds a noble palazzo—once home to squatters, raves, and the children of Ferragamo and Pucci—reborn as 83 rooms of frescoed, oak-marked splendor.

FLORENTINE FANTASY Rooms with a view at Collegio alla Querce. ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

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STILLED LIFE A suite at Collegio alla Querce. 68

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COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

ollegio alla Querce only opened last year, but its entrance has already achieved legendary status. Cinematic cypresses wind away from the hum and dust of Florence, along the drive that takes us up, up, up the hill to the wrought iron gate that greets us with baronial majesty. Le Cure is just a twenty-minute taxi ride from the airport and a thirty-minute walk into the city center, but this neighborhood is where the edge of metropolitan life melts into countryside. Up here, we are a world away from all that. We crunch across pearly gravel through tiers of Baroque gardens, toward the copse of 16th-century buildings. It carries all the grandeur of great literature—Manderley, The Thorn Birds’ Drogheda, Brideshead—especially when a shimmering olive 1979ish MGB roadster swings in next to us and a small pile of indecently tanned Italians in white spill out. Collegio alla Querce is Auberge’s fourth European property, its first in Italy, and has been awarded two MICHELIN Keys. Revived from the late June heat with cool towels, we’re led through hushed corridors to our guest quarters—yes, quarters, passing through room after room of impressive ceiling heights befitting a 16th-century noble palazzo. Many of them feature original frescoes. Plaster crests climb the walls up to the marble arches. Trees in heavy pots stretch towards the skylights in the Conservatorio. Every sconce has a Venetian fabric screen. We pass a trophy case with brown leather cleats and rugby balls—alumni memorabilia from the ghosts of Florentine aristocracy. Patterning the floor at what was once the original entrance is an enormous mosaic of an oak, the DNA of the whole operation. The “College at the Oaks” is named for the local trees, but also something more mystical. According to a legend circa 1520, the Virgin Mary appeared at a nearby oak tree to heal someone praying to her. Then the site became a holy place of worship. A private villa was built around 1400 and was expanded into a mansion by a noble family in 1775. The Church acquired it in 1868 and ran a boarding school for over a century before it sat abandoned for two decades, though it was technically still under the friars’ care until around 2015. It operated as a school recently enough that at the opening party, alumni milled about under the spell of their own memories. Salvatore Ferragamo was a student, as were Stefano Ricci’s family, Emilio Pucci’s offspring, and generations of Italian nobility. Even after the pupils left, the dormant estate was far from still; plenty of Florentines remember the squatters and aughts-era raves that took place high on the hill, within its deconstructed walls, before the hospitality developers arrived. The restored chapel

COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

IT CARRIES ALL THE GR ANDEUR OF GREAT LITER ATURE—MANDERLEY, THE THORN BIRDS’ DROGHEDA, BRIDESHEAD—ESPECIALLY WHEN A SHIMMERING OLIVE 1979ISH MGB ROADSTER SWINGS IN NEXT TO US AND A SMALL PILE OF INDECENTLY TANNED ITALIANS IN WHITE SPILL OUT.

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STATE OF ART Collegio alla Querce is filled with sculpture and art. 70

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COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

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COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

AUBERGE WORKS WITHIN ITALY ’S CULTUR AL HERITAGE CODE TO RECOVER AS MUCH OF THE SCHOOL’S ORIGINAL ART AS POSSIBLE—YOU ’LL FEEL LIKE YOU ’RE SPENDING THE EVENING IN A PARTICUL ARLY COZY WING OF THE FRICK.

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EAT, DRINK, LOVE Room service chez Collegio alla Querce.

and theater now host students from the Scuola di Musica di Fiesole and the Fondazione Mascarade Opera, who come up to rehearse and perform. Our suite is the kind that requires a tour, and not just to show where the light switches are. Off of the foyer is the first walk-in closet (there will be more). It doubles as a wine room, upholsterypaneled and climate-controlled. Between the washed wood millwork and slate blue walls with sumptuous draperies, you could be wandering a classic six on the Upper East Side, outfitted for full-time life. Except for the astonishing view: on one side, the ancient acreage spools out clear to the vineyard landscape of Chianti. On the other, the roofs of the cityscape and spires of the Duomo. In the sitting room, the wooden shutters that flank the fireplace are flung open to the spread of Tuscan hills. On the dining table is a fleur-de-lis dusted tea cake, oak-tree monogrammed linens, and 72

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a plate of cookies spelling out my daughter’s name in jade green icing—the first of many opportunities for her to receive the royal treatment. Sloane’s wood crib is made with the same custom Rivolta Carmignani linens as our plush king, with the addition of a tiny wooden Pinocchio (Florence!) tucked into the layette blanket. My husband immediately ices a pre-batched Negroni from the mahogany not-somini bar, cracking open Tartuffo truffle cashews, Cerignola olives, and fennel taralli cookies. We barely unpack before heading to the largest hotel pool in Florence—115 feet long—it’s across the courtyard that used to be athletic fields. Lined with glossy olive trees, ivy-covered walls, and the smell of outdoor wood-fired pizza, it doesn’t feel resort-y. It feels more like strolling a very generous friend’s private home. After an hour or two in the sun, we drag ourselves back inside; we have a pasta-making lesson. I’m reluctant to abandon

our outdoor oasis, but I needn’t have worried. The open kitchen at La Gamella—meaning “school canteen,” which it was—is as romantic as the rest of the villa: it’s all classic Tuscan tile, plus copper pots and crockery. Sous Chef Mirko Cafasso is waiting with aprons and a teeny chef’s hat for Sloane. He helps her navigate her three-year-old fingers through fresh orange egg yolks in splatterware bowls full of semolina flour, melts sage in butter, and shows her how to roll ricotta into her dough and turn the crank on the pasta maker with unearthly patience—at least to this American. His “pay attention, Chef!” whenever she loses focus (often), is somehow both commanding and funny. Executive Chef Nicola Zamperetti peeks in on her progress. With two charming chefs to focus on, my tiny daughter bats her lashes so hard I can feel the breeze. After all, her blood is half Italian. Collegio has 83 rooms, many with original

COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

IT OPER ATED AS A SCHOOL RECENTLY ENOUGH THAT AT THE OPENING PART Y, ALUMNI MILLED ABOUT UNDER THE SPELL OF THEIR OWN MEMORIES. S ALVATORE FERR AGAMO WAS A STUDENT, AS WERE STEFANO RICCI’S FAMILY, EMILIO PUCCI’S OFFSPRING, AND GENER ATIONS OF ITALIAN NOBILIT Y.

IT BEGAN WITH THE AGNELLIS, WHO ARRIVED FROM TURIN IN 1926 AND BOUGHT A NEO-RENAISS ANCE VILL A FROM A RETIRED ADMIR AL.

COURTESY OF COLLEGIO ALLA QUERCE, AUBERGE RESORTS

STOPPED IN TIME A suite with original stone and plaster frescos.

frescoes, murals, and marble floors. Each of the six sprawling grand suites, adapted from former classrooms, is one of a kind: with a rooftop terrace, two full stone-lined baths, or, like ours, a private wine cellar where the sommelier (lured from the Four Seasons) will customize your program before you arrive. As the sun sets, two friends, both local Florentines, join us in our suite for aperitivo. One of them, a third-generation antiques dealer, points out an ancient Chinese Bi disc on a side table. The hotel owner is a collector, and the entire place, even the guest rooms, is filled with his personal artwork and objet d’art. Downstairs in Bar Bertelli, formerly the office of headmaster Timoteo Bertelli, bookshelves and vintage globes glow along the walls. (The astronomer taught here from the late 1860s until he died, save for a brief stint in the 1890s spent directing the Vatican observatory in Rome.) Hidden in the

walls is the door to Florence’s only cigar lounge and grappa room. A frieze of oval-framed student portraits peers down at us while we sip gingerinfused gin and wild mezcal. Auberge works within Italy’s Cultural Heritage Code to recover as much of the school’s original art as possible—you’ll feel like you’re spending the evening in a particularly cozy wing of The Frick. Rousing Sloane from her nap on a green velvet sofa, we leave our friends to their discourse on Chinese antiquity and Italian artistry and head down to a very late dinner. La Gamella shifts at night from garden atrium to fairy-lit enchantment. Arancini, focaccia, and fresh cherry tomatoes with olive oil, then comes the tonno alla pizzaiola—Mediterranean bluefin tuna tartare with roasted tomato, capers, olives, and oregano—and grouper with fennel, orange, wild fennel pollen, and taggiasca olives. Sloane doesn’t realize the impeccable man who strolls by to chat

with her about gelato is Lorenzo Maraviglia, the hotel manager. We try two kinds of grappa before rolling off to our turned-down chambers. In the morning, breakfast is in the kitchen and garden, keeping the cherished-guest feeling going. The Tuscan market has come indoors: boards of sfogliatella, plump as puffins, sit next to strawberries and Nutella. Mushrooms, potatoes, and sausages warm on the stove. The farm table is covered with roasted peppers and zucchini, crudités, and lox with baskets of bread. A wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano the size of a car tire sits beside silken blocks of feta. As Sloane says goodbye to her new friends, I’m silently thankful our next stop is to stay with friends in their home. After Collegio alla Querce, it’s the only thing that could possibly feel right, and saves another hotel from an impossible act to follow.

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JOURNEYS

FEELING ZEN A view of Takanawa, Tokyo’s hottest neighborhood, the lobby of the JW Marriott Tokyo.

INSIDE TAKANAWA, TOKYO’S HOTTEST NEW NEIGHBORHOOD JW MARRIOTT HOTEL TOKYO

Diehard Japanophile Burke Hildner jets to Tokyo and discovers the city’s buzziest new neighborhood: Takanawa.

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JW MARRIOTT HOTEL TOKYO

“TOKYO HAS ONE OF THE BEST WATCH COLLECTOR SCENES IN THE WORLD, AND MY ADDICTION PULLS ME INTO THE EXCITING TWISTS AND TURNS OF NAK ANO BROADWAY.”

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U THE NEW NIPPON The pool at the JW Marriott Tokyo; right: MoN Takanawa, the Museum of Narratives. 76

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ntil recently, Takanawa was known for its wooded hills and soaring views of Tokyo Bay. Every spring, the cherry blossoms put on a remarkable show of exploding colors. But with the recent unveiling of starchitect Kengo Kuma’s MoN Takanawa: The Museum of Narratives, a stunning cultural hub for art, performance, education, Japanese tradition and of course, technology, the neighborhood is now Tokyo’s hottest destination. And thankfully, Takanawa’s connection to nature and Japan’s ancient past still echoes through the district. After living on Japan’s southernmost tropical island Okinawa for several years, I’ve come to think of Japan as my adopted, second home. I’ve skied the snow-covered mountains of Hokkaido, dove off remote beaches, and wandering through Kyoto’s ancient temples. I’ve never stopped find-

ing new reasons to fall in love with this country. Okinawa is rarely on most travelers’ lists, but it was the perfect departure point for endless adventures throughout the rest of Japan. Each trip I took revealed a different aspect of the country. I fell in love with how Japan serenely balances tradition with innovation better than anywhere I’ve ever been. I moved back to California last year, and while it is great being home, I found myself suffering from withdrawals. I craved the soba noodles and pork sandwiches from Lawsons. The crunchy, buttery fried chicken from Japan’s famous 7/11’s alone was worth a trip back. But really, I missed being in a country where both exhilarating, forward-thinking energy and a calming order are embedded in everyday life. My cravings became too much to bear so I book a quick trip back and bring my girlfriend, Delaney, so we can experience Japan together. I book a suite at the new JW Marriott in the heart

JW MARRIOTT HOTEL TOKYO

JOURNEYS

YASUYUKI TAKAKI

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URBAN ESCAPE A curved corner of the JW MARRIOTT TOKYO.

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of Takanawa. With the museum opening, there is a lot of buzz about the JW Marriott and its design, centered around the very Japanese philosophy of mindfulness and balance. The perfect spot to explore the neighborhood and dart all over Tokyo. The 200-room hotel is exceptional, combining the best in contemporary design with the Japanese tradition of wabi-sabi, which finds beauty in simplicity, as well as imperfection. Rustic metals, textured stone, natural wood grain, and subtly ir-

regular lines create an atmosphere that feels distinctly Japanese. Organic and subtle, rather than forced and ornate. As I explore the hotel, many of the spaces grow darker and more intimate, conjuring memories of the forest that once covered this part of Tokyo. Other areas are flooded with natural light and have tremendous panoramic views of Tokyo Bay, creating an immersive experience and connection to the landscape that once defined Takanawa. A striking Mount Fuji and luminous glass “Tree House” sculpture anchor the hotel’s interior and serve as the focal point for the rest of the public spaces. We quickly unpack and then sip some sake and a Sapporo at The Hill, JW’s cocktail and tea lounge. There is a massive Ficus tree surrounded by glass sculptures that shimmer like the waters of Tokyo Bay. Nearby is the main restaurant Kakō and Saki, an intimate omakase bar, already a favorite with sushi enthusiasts. After a drink, we check out the pool where large boulders frame the water with soft lighting—a modern, zen take on a traditional onsen and the ideal escape after a busy day racing around Tokyo. Delaney and I take a dip, then head upstairs to shower before dinner. I’ve had some astounding meals in Japan, and Kakō ranks amongst the best of them. Dinner is a greatest hits spread of pristine sashimi, perfectly marbled wagyu, lightly battered tempura, simple soba noodles, and perfectly grilled chicken donburi. Food at large hotels often feels compromised, but that isn’t the case at Kakō. Every dish reminded me of the many authentic meals I’ve had at hidden neighborhood restaurants and mom and pop cafés throughout Japan. The JW Marriott is in the Linkpillar South development, a new complex with tons of luxury boutiques, art galleries, and endless restaurants. The NEWoMan Takanawa, a futuristic mall with an above ground botanical garden and 100-yearold banyan tree, also just opened. In Tokyo, shopping is a samurai sport and NEWoMan is the place to be. The chic, sustainable brand CFCL is debuting their largest store. Beams Cultuart, a project by the cult label Beams, is mixing fashion, music, and design with a gallery space and milk tea stand, like only the Japanese can. Thanks to the new Takanawa Gateway Station, the rest of Tokyo is just stops away. When I go to Tokyo, I give myself a mission, and it usually involves watches. Tokyo has one of the best watch collector scenes in the world, and my addiction pulls me into the exciting twists and turns of Nakano Broadway. We wander the chaotic maze of shops packed with luxury watches, as well as vintage toys and animé—a celebration of Japanese pop culture. Starved after shopping, we decide to find some good ramen and hit Kappabashi Street in Taito City. The area is booming with restaurants and traditional shops selling handcrafted pottery along with kitchenware made by artisans from across Japan. I return home with fragile and delicate pieces that thankfully didn’t break in my suitcase, so I can enjoy a little ohayou gozaimasu each morning with my Cheerios in California.

JW MARRIOTT HOTEL TOKYO

JOURNEYS

YASUYUKI TAKAKI

EDO-CENTRIC MoN Takanawa, the Museum of Narratives, a street in Taito City, the New York Bar at the Park Hyatt Tokyo.

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MEDITATE ON THIS A spa room and rounded tub at the JW Marriott Tokyo.

“IN TOKYO, SHOPPING IS A S AMUR AI SPORT AND NEWOMAN IS THE PL ACE TO BE. BEAMS CULTUART, A PROJECT BY THE CULT L ABEL BEAMS, IS MIXING FASHION, MUSIC, AND DESIGN WITH A GALLERY SPACE AND MILK TEA STAND, LIKE ONLY THE JAPANESE CAN.”

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We continue exploring Tokyo, like characters in a Studio Ghibli film, turning down random streets, stumbling upon hidden shops, while eating our way through the city. I bring Delaney to Udon Shin, a tiny restaurant I first stumbled upon during my first trip to Tokyo in 2016. Udon Shin is transformative. Located in Shinjuku, it draws a mix of tourists and locals, but on this trip, it leans noticeably local, which is a good sign, especially in Japan. I order a bowl of thick udon with butter and bacon tempura, then quickly remember why I’d been thinking of this place for the past decade. We sleep incredibly well in our suite, and start mornings with a swim, and room service breakfast. On our last night, we eat at Sake, the hotel’s omakase restaurant, and have another amazing meal. But the entire trip, I’ve had a surprise up my sleeve. After dinner, I bring Delaney to one of my all-time favorite spots in Tokyo, a place many travelers recognize by name, sight, or sound: the New York Bar at the Park Hyatt Tokyo. Made famous by Sofia Coppola’s “Lost in Translation,” the sleek lounge sits high above the city, glowing in dim light and the smooth sounds of live jazz. We sip sake and try cocktails inspired by New York, jazz and Tokyo, as the band plays against a backdrop of glittering skyscrapers. With Mount Fuji faintly to the left, the Shinjuku towers behind the stage, and the vast stretch of Tokyo unfolding toward the bay, the energy in the room is unmatched by anything I’ve experienced anywhere else in the world. It is the perfect ending to the perfect vacation. And yet another reminder of why I want to keep coming back to Japan.

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JOURNEYS

JW MARRIOTT HOTEL TOKYO

URNING IT A wall of urns at the JW Marriott Tokyo.

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THE LOREN BERMUDA

JOURNEYS

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SUN SOAKED The Loren in Bermuda is an easy flight from NYC.

A First Trip, a Cliffside Dinner, and Falling in Love in Bermuda

THE LOREN BERMUDA

BY RACHEL HECHLER

here is something uniquely revealing about a first trip with someone. A dinner can be charming and intimate; but a weekend? That’s important data for the future. You learn whether they are stressed by the airport. If they insist on over-scheduling an itinerary. Whether they can coexist peacefully during a wrong turn, hunger, sunscreen negotiations, or the mildly humbling experience of driving an electric two-seater on the opposite side of the road in Bermuda.

Fortunately, our first trip together happened at the kind of hotel that makes romance feel less performative and more inevitable. In case you did not know this (as I certainly did not), Bermuda is less than a two-hour flight from New York—a fact that feels borderline offensive once discovered. No brutal travel day, no logistical Olympics, and no recovery required. The Loren at Pink Beach sits just fifteen minutes from the airport, which, after years of New York travel logic (leave four hours early in case of catastrophe) felt suspiciously convenient. We had barely settled into vacation mode before stepping into an airy, polished lobby framed by what Bermuda does exceptionally well: impossibly blue water, dramatic cliffs, and views striking enough to make you stop mid-sentence. The hotel feels chic in a distinctly modern, boutique way—elevated without being sterile. Small enough to feel intimate yet polished enough to feel indulgent. The kind of place where everyone seems quietly attractive and appropriately relaxed. Our terrace suite immediately delivered on the fantasy. Spacious, calming, and thoughtfully designed, it struck the rare balance of feeling clean and contemporary while still having personality. The ocean view was stunning in the way that luxury hotels promise, but do not always execute. Outside, a private lounge area quickly became our unofficial headquarters between pool hours, afternoon lounging, and pre-dinner drinks. Inside: a soaking tub worth using, a generously sized shower, Jack-and-Jill sinks (quietly underrated), and one of those details that always wins me over—impeccable turndown service. Slippers placed beside the bed. Lighting softened. Chocolates on pillows. The subtle luxury of feeling anticipated before having to ask. A chilled bottle of rosé and fruit plate waiting in our room upon arrival certainly did not hurt either. What The Loren understands particularly well is atmosphere. During the day, the energy is easy and unfussy: long pool afternoons, fresh coconut water in hand, and couples quietly reading beside the water. Stylish friend groups drift between loungers while couples settle into the distinctly luxurious rhythm of doing very little. At night, there is a beautiful shift. Dinner at Pink Beach Club feels cinematic in the way only oceanfront dining can. Perched dramatically above the water, dinner unfolds against crashing waves and panoramic views that somehow feel both expansive and intimate. It is objectively romantic, which I can confirm after exchanging our first “I love yous” over cocktails and dinner. A fairly high ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

JOURNEYS

TRUE BLUE Views at The Loren gaze out on to the Atlantic Ocean.

bar for vacation memories, admittedly. The service throughout the weekend felt warm rather than scripted, attentive without hovering. One bartender, after discovering my preferred martini order, hand-stuffed blue cheese olives so I could have a properly dirty Ketel One martini my way. The pours were generous in a way that repeatedly made us glance at one another and quietly wonder if Bermuda simply understands hospitality better. Pre-dinner cocktails and flatbread overlooking the water quickly became one of those vacation rituals you immediately know you will miss once you are home—equal parts glamorous and relaxing. The hotel also leans into thoughtful programming in ways that make it feel slightly more interesting than your average beach property. During high season, The Loren hosts an ongoing chef series, welcoming Michelin-starred, celebrity, and James Beard Award-winning chefs for intimate dinners. It gives the hotel a layer of culinary credibility without becoming overly self-important. The Loren does many things well, but perhaps most importantly, it makes an excellent home base for exploring the island. Renting a Twizy directly from the property and driving across Bermuda turned out to be one of our favorite pastimes. The on-site pickup could not be easier, and there is something undeniably joyful about spending the day driving along the coast with a very good playlist, experiencing the charm of both Hamilton and St. George’s. We also discovered beaches and neighborhoods that briefly convince you to entertain wildly unrealistic relocation fantasies. My boyfriend, for the record, is still casually looking into Bermuda real estate and periodically using 84

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THE LOREN BERMUDA

“STYLISH FRIEND GROUPS DRIFT BETWEEN LOUNGERS WHILE COUPLES SETTLE INTO THE DISTINCTLY LUXURIOUS RHYTHM OF DOING VERY LITTLE.”

the phrase, “I think we should be Bermuda people.” For dinner outside the hotel, we became borderline evangelical about Intrepid at the Hamilton Princess. Ask for Michael if you can, and under no circumstances should you skip the chocolate cake. Some desserts are memorable. This one felt emotionally significant. The spa at The Loren is less destination-spa fantasy and more quietly restorative—which, frankly, suited us perfectly. After an eighty-minute massage, we wandered into the sauna, then walked approximately thirty steps to jump into the pool. Convenience, it turns out, is an underrated luxury. What stayed with me most about The Loren, though, was not any single amenity. Luxury hotels often try very hard to manufacture romance. Candlelight here. Champagne there. The Loren succeeds because it gets out of the way. It quietly creates the conditions for closeness: beautiful views, attentive service, a calming room, excellent cocktails, and enough ease that the person you came with becomes the main event. And for a first trip together, that turned out to be better than we could have dreamed.

THE LOREN BERMUDA

TABLE FOR TWO The Loren is a perfect escape for couples.

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THE NAME—AND ETHOS— COMES FROM THE LOULU PALM, WHICH REPRESENTS “A TESTAMENT TO NATURE'S ABILITY TO RENEW WHEN TREATED WITH CARE.”

Allison Sarofim’s Cult Beauty Brand Loulu

GUTTER KARL GIANT CREDITS TKTKTKTKTKTKTKTK;

HAUTE HAWAI Loulu products were created in Oahu.

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out of the present moment. We designed our products to be anchors, rituals, something to look forward to. It’s in the sensorial texture of our AstaFusion® oils that draw you back in, or the grounding act of activating a fresh Vitamin C pod—a ritual that isn’t only for presence, but is a scientific necessity for ensuring that 26% vitamin C is 100% stable at the exact moment of use. These are daily touchpoints that remind you to pause, breathe, and check in with yourself. That feeling of being centered and nurtured, knowing your skincare is truly working at its peak, is a radiance that you can see and feel. The Loulu Palm is a beautiful symbol of renewal. In my experience, renewal isn’t about erasure; it's about resilience. The Loulu palm survived by adapting and flourishing with conscious care. We see the skin in the same way. So many high-end products are aggressive; designed to ‘correct’ you. Our formulas are made to empower your skin by supporting its own innate power to renew itself. We provide the tools—the potent antioxidants, the barrier-supporting lipids, the clinicallyproven actives—that allow your skin to find its most vibrant, healthy, and resilient state. You spent over a decade developing Loulu.

LOULU HAWAI’I

NATURE CALLS Loulu’s beauty line is 100% organic.

’ve been busy. The seasons are changing; my vacation bronze is fading fast. I’m in the typical April rut: feeling exhausted and my dull skin is begging for a reset. The instant fix? A facial by the cult-beauty brand Loulu which gives me that glamorous glow I thought only a long day at the beach could achieve. Globe-trotting entrepreneur Allison Sarofim spent over a decade perfecting Loulu in her Oahu lab. “I embarked on creating a research-backed system that incorporates responsible science to enhance the potency of natural botanicals,” Sarofim explains. “When I saw the clinical results—where 100% of participants showed a visible transformation—I knew we had created something truly special. We see the skin not as a surface to be corrected, but as a living organ that communicates our inner vitality.” The name—and ethos—comes from the Loulu Palm, which represents “a testament to nature’s ability to renew when treated with care.” The Loulu Palm was once on the brink of extinction but now thanks to conservationists, flourishes. Sarofim rejects the busy beauty industry’s obsession with speed, embracing a “slow beauty” approach, valuing integrity and results that endure. Loulu goes deeper than skincare with supplements (in chic teal green packets) that are formulated to work hand in hand with the topical products, nourishing skin from the inside out. I go to the Fifth Avenue Hotel and enter a pop-up world of Loulu. The scent of tropical flowers pulls me into the suite. Izumi, a Loulu alchemist, tells

me, “it’s never just about surface beauty; it’s about restoring balance and vitality from within.” My facial is completely revitalizing—a boost that felt more like renewal than repair. In the days following my Loulu facial, I stay consistent with the AM and PM Oils and the Pod Power Duo. My skin is revived: hydrated, bright. and lifted. I have officially joined the cult of Loulu. So, I ring Loulu’s Allison Sarofim for a chat. Loulu was born on the idea of harmony between nature and science. Balance isn’t a fixed point; it is something that changes often in different stages of life. Right now, it’s about accepting my busy schedule and honoring my need for the restorative calm of nature. I applied this same principle to Loulu. We don’t see nature and science as opposing forces; we see them as essential partners. Nature provides profound, raw intelligence, and our responsible science—like proprietary fermentation and plant stem cell technology—amplifies that intelligence, making our botanicals dramatically more potent and biocompatible than their standard forms. In our formulas, true balance is where advanced science unlocks nature's full potential. So much of modern beauty feels about correction and control, but Loulu feels grounded in presence.

I was driven by my own frustration with the market's compromises—the choice between simple farmers’ market fare or harsh, syntheticladen formulas. I vividly remember reading articles about the BP oil spill and the call for scientists to help. They were using microalgae that could literally eat the oil off the surface of the water, like a Pac-Man. Months later, on a flight to Hawai’i, I read a feature in Hana Hou! magazine about a scientist in Hawaii working with local microalgae. The two ideas just clicked. I thought: what if we could develop our own ‘haute couture’ microalgae? What if we could biofarm it in our Oahu lab to have the most beneficial characteristics for skin, creating a pure, potent, and consistent product that doesn't damage the local flora? That was the start of a decade-long endeavor. You’ve said that “skin communicates our inner vitality.” My inner vitality is always restored by returning to a state of balance. It’s the quiet of a morning meditation, the nourishment from a clean diet, and, quite honestly, the grounding power of my daily skincare ritual. That’s what we’ve tried to bottle—not only the ingredients, but that feeling of inside-out well-being. It’s why our Aloha Elixirs are just as important to the Loulu system as our most powerful serums: they create the foundation that allows our advanced topicals to deliver their most transformative results. But above all, it’s my connection to Hawai’i and its nature that is incredibly restorative. —Maggie Davis

This is so true. So much of modern life pulls us ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

NOTORIOUS NEW YORKERS

Houdini, The Great Escape No one pulled a Houdini better than the magic man himself, born Erich Weiss, in Budapest. At 5’5”, he was a larger-than-life superstar who wowed the world and got rich doing it.

id a toddler, barely old enough to walk, jimmy the lock on the box in his mother’s kitchen to steal her apple cake? It may be the most on-brand origin story imaginable, except that it was probably the first of many tall tales, as fabricated by Harry Houdini, the man himself. Despite his David Copperfield-esque origin story as an American son, Harry Houdini was born in March of 1874 in Budapest, a fact so well hidden it was only unearthed in the 1970s. He didn’t make it to the United States until he was four, to the town of Appleton, Wisconsin, which he would later claim as his birthplace. But instead of his real name, Erich Weiss, we’ll call him Houdini, as he would have wanted it. Despite signing his name to family as Erich until he died, Houdini was the realest version of the man there ever was. After years of fame under that moniker, he officially changed his name to Houdini in 1913. Not Harry. Just Houdini. Who, or rather, what, was Houdini? An escape artist, illusionist, magician, stunt performer, a skeptic, sometime self-delusionist, and the world’s greatest showman. What he was not: a spiritualist, supernatural, or a fraudster, a character he abhorred above all. There was nothing paranormal about Houdini’s work. His powers, he wanted everyone to know, were his own. He wanted the credit for his feats– they were not miracles, or a spirit-given gift of magic. As Michael Caine’s elegant engineer, or magician’s trick inventor, explains in The Prestige, he was “a wizard; a man who can actually do what magicians pretend to do. It’s not a trick, it’s real.” (Although the line is referring to Nikola Tesla, you get the gist.)

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LOCK AND CHAINED Houdini in his element.

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By Janet Mercel

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HOUDINI WOULD ALWAYS RELATE MORE TO CULTURAL OUTLIERS, EVEN WHEN HE HAD MADE HIS FORTUNE AND BECAME A POWERFUL MEMBER OF SOCIETY.

TRAP TRICK Houdini performing “Water Torture Cell.”

Celestially gifted or not, Houdini was a man whose life was powered by a single goal. Besides proving he was the most important performer in the world, he wanted to become rich and famous so he could deliver his mother from abject poverty. It was a promise he made to his rabbi father on his deathbed when Houdini was 18 years old, but he didn’t wait for his dad to die to start fulfilling his ambition. A performing trapeze artist and contortionist by age nine, he ran away to join the circus— literally—at twelve. This was in 1885, when America was circus-mad and limelight-crazy, and while his trapeze act never took off, Houdini’s confrontations with magicians and their tricks did. He took those lessons with him when he rejoined his father in New York. In Manhattan, they lived five blocks from Central Park. Already a gold medal chaser and natural competitor, Houdini ran ten miles a day, obsessively training in swimming and boxing. A knack for athleticism and conjuring would soon fuse to make the most accomplished known escape artist. As an adult, Houdini stood tall at around five foot five inches. He was jacked, with a perfect He-Man physique, albeit compressed. His wife Bess, whom he met and married at age 20, while they were both Coney Island performers, was under five feet and maintained a childlike frame all her life. The newlyweds ran the circuit together, lowest common denominator stuff. At beer halls and dime shows— temporary showcases in vacant storefronts like latter-day pop-ups—producers kept their performers on a grueling schedule. In the late 1890s, the Houdinis were on the hook for an average of a dozen low rent shows a day. Harry Houdini was a jack of all trades for big-top performing: hypnotism, acrobatics, mind reading, card tricks, and sleight of hand. He stayed out of people’s way and tried to survive among the freak show acts such as performing monkeys, the rattlesnake-bite lady, an armless violin player, and the Japanese needle swallower, even though he considered them friends. Houdini would always relate more to ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

cultural outliers, even when he had made his fortune and became a powerful member of society. For the uninitiated, a taste of Houdini: a signature stunt that involved locking his wrists inside a large leather mitt while trussed from arms to waist with a leather belt. He was nailed into packing crates. Submerged in water in a padlocked iron can while chained or cuffed in the Milk Can escape. He spent more than $10,000 constructing the Water Torture Cell, into which he was lowered upside down from stocks and given just two to three minutes to get out without oxygen. Between the needle swallowing, bridge jumping, Shanghai Shackles, the upside-down straitjacket escapes (one of which took place hanging from a crane sixty feet above a crowd in Times Square), and being buried alive six feet under, it’s no wonder his performances were nicknamed “The Death and Resurrection Show” on the variety circuit. He was also, somewhat randomly, the first to make controlled, powered flight of an airplane over Australian soil. It was never going to be the parlor tricks that catapulted him into the big time. There were more talented conjurers and mentalists than Houdini, and he knew it. He was a scrapper who fabricated his own headlines and fought viciously with promoters to pay him his due, along with any imitators and imposters on his turf. “Houdini wasn’t a magician,” snarked a competitor. “He was an ambulance chaser.” It was on an East Coast tour in 1895 that he first challenged police to a stunt at the jail in Gloucester, Massachusetts, successfully claiming he could escape from any cuffs presented to him. Next, in Rhode Island, he escaped from six pairs at once and began a lifetime career in prison breaks. (Houdini’s 1906 book, The Right Way to Do Wrong, walks us through dozens of interviews with convicts and officers on the best ways to commit crimes and get away with it.) Houdini’s need for exposure, to hide and to be revealed in public in the most excruciatingly vulnerable ways possible, again and again, and a healthy dose of self-flagellation that came along with it,

RISING TO THE CHALLENGE A poster for Houdini at the Regent Theater in Salford. 90

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bordered on pathological and pornographic. He wore the scantiest of briefs, bathing suits, strips of fabric that could never be defined as clothing, his bits sometimes covered only by the manacles and chains that bound him. Psychological provocateur that he was, his real-life views on sex were perversely far more prudish. His preferred brand was clean entertainment, avoiding anything that smacked of smut—a rarity in a world of vaudeville dancers and circus freaks. He was really only comfortable around Bess and his other lifelong love—his mother. And maybe Charmian London, widow of novelist and wild man Jack London, with whom he had a singular and brief, but obsessive, affair. Dropping trou was partly by necessity—he had to prove he wasn’t hiding picks or keys anywhere on or in his person, in jails from Sing Sing to Moscow. Or Dresden, where in front of 300 German soldiers, he was stripped nearly naked, then secured with thumbscrews, handcuffs, finger locks, and leg irons. Houdini was left to find his way out. He did, with their materials undamaged, as usual. It was all part of the act, except when it wasn’t. Houdini’s run-ins with law enforcement may have been provoked by Houdini himself, but they were battles of will with real-life perpetrators who wanted nothing more than to prove their masculinity and

power over this brash stage demon; to see him well and truly humiliated. “I defy the police departments of the world to hold me,” he publicly announced, and they rose to the challenge. The stunts were life-threatening even beyond the usual lethal terms he set for himself. Traveling as a Jewish performer in Europe at the turn of the 20th century, even with a Roman Catholic wife, was a dangerous proposition. In 1903, Houdini arrived in Russia on the heels of a brutal pogrom, where the vicious penal system was alive and well in the streets for citizens to see. The Siberian Transport Cell was his private “performance” for the secret police in Moscow. After being strip-searched and placed in a horse-drawn prisoner wagon, one key locked it while the key to open it was a twenty days’ journey away in the island camp. Sweating in the icy prison yard, Houdini freed himself in forty-five minutes to no applause. He and his loyal assistant were strip-searched again for evidence of cheating. Nothing was found, presumably, or he would not have lived to tell the tale. Performance or not, this was no game. Despite his “success,” Houdini continued to challenge the system for several more months, until he felt he had settled whatever internal score he was reaching for, and finally decamped back to Germany. They barely

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NOTORIOUS NEW YORKERS

IT’S A MYSTERY HOW HE WAS ALLOWED IN (OR OUT OF) RUSSIA AT ALL, AT A TIME WHEN IT WAS ILLEGAL FOR JEWS TO WORK IN MOSCOW.

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ALL IN THE FAMILY Harry Houdini with his wife Beatrice and mother Cecilia Steiner Weiss.

let him leave. It’s a mystery how he was allowed in (or out of) Russia at all, at a time when it was illegal for Jews to work in Moscow. The next year brought one of his greatest escapes, the Mirror Handcuff Challenge (named for the London Daily Mirror, not the reflective surface). A journalist from the paper challenged Houdini to break out of a pair of handcuffs that had taken a blacksmith five years to construct and could be picked by “no mortal man.” At the Hippodrome in the West End, 4,000 spectators gathered to watch him. For over an hour, the crowd wondered if at last, the great Houdini had been defeated. At one point, he retrieved a penknife from his pocket with his teeth, slashing his coat into ribbons to better manipulate his body. After an hour and ten minutes,

he was freed, cementing his status as “The Handcuff King.” These days, the Mirror cuffs are in the possession of David Copperfield. (The modern magician, not the Dickens character.) One of the strangest episodes in a lifetime of oddities was Houdini’s friendship with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Sherlock Holmes author was a well-known Spiritualist, and his wife an accomplished, if self-described, medium. To Houdini, the work of the dead was deadly serious. He had no faith at all in seers, clairvoyants, or mediums. He and Bess had experimented with séances early in their career and been so successful exploiting marks that it left a terrible taste in his mouth. Capitalizing on the grief and sorrow of desperate people would come back to haunt him—and every other spiritualist of the day— years later when he made it his mission to conduct fake witch hunts and defraud imposters. After a bogus séance in which Lady Doyle “reached” Harry’s deceased mother, the Doyles doubled down. Harry had never given up hope of reaching her again, but an amateur trifling with his mom was beyond the pale. Eventually the event shattered their friendship with a series of public humiliations and takedowns that went on for years. Houdini considered quitting a dozen times over the course of his career. At first, it was before he’d made it as a top-billed performer playing for U.S. presidents and royalty, when he was povertystricken and exhausted. Later, it was when he was rich, famous, and exhausted. He returned home to rest at his Harlem brownstone at 278 West 113th Street, which he and everybody else referred to as simply “278.” Charmian London’s diaries, in a code that could be cracked by nearly anyone, referred to him as “278,” when not “Magic Man,” “Magic Lover,” or most flattering of all given the context, simply “Magic.” At one point, bereft over the loss of his mother, he and Bess abandoned 278 to live with his magician brother Dash in Flatbush, a home to which they both received mail addressed to “Handcuff, Brooklyn.” In October 1926, after a lifetime of performing while ill, freezing, with heat exhaustion, and broken bones, Houdini’s body finally gave out. In a bizarre incident nearly too stupid and wasteful to recount, a university student in Montréal sucker-punched the 52-year-old Houdini in the stomach before a show, while he unknowingly suffered from acute appendicitis. He performed anyway, fainting twice. When his appendix burst, he hung on for a few more days before finally calling it quits on Halloween afternoon. If ever in Machpelah Cemetery in Queens, his final resting place is impossible to miss. It’s the big one, the huge semi-circular stone monument, the “HOUDINI.” As far as the record stands, Houdini was bested only once. Walter B. Gibson, the creator of the radio show “The Shadow,” and Houdini’s chronicler and friend, took him for a ride in his Ford Model T. Trying to exit, the magician got stuck working the notoriously awkward handle of the coupe and needed to be set free by Gibson. “He began laughing because he, of all people, couldn’t get out of a Ford Coupe.”

ISSUE TWO 2026 | AVENUE MAGAZINE

CARSON GRIFFITH

Did you always want to be a writer? I was always nosy. Eventually, I figured out that journalism was one of the few professions in which being nosy and remembering everything anyone has ever told you are considered employable skills. “Rich People Shit” has everyone talking. “Rich People Shit” was already what I called my journalism beat. I spent years reporting on the peculiar ways that money, access, taste, and status intersect. Many of the best stories were too short, too niche, or too strange to become conventional features. I wanted somewhere to put them. I was nervous about starting a newsletter and it took me almost a year to finally do it, but it’s the best thing I’ve done. Rich people do some crazy shit. The funniest examples aren’t the biggest purchases. A $200 million house is almost boring at this point. I am more interested in the tiny absurdities that money creates. I’ve heard of a billionaire shipping his own mattress to Claridge’s because even one of the world’s most luxurious hotels apparently couldn’t be trusted with his sleep. There are also specialists hired to teach pets how to behave on yachts. Apparently, your puppy’s sea legs, like everything else, can be outsourced. Has anyone been offended by something you’ve written in “RPS”? Of course, because everyone is always offended by everything. But RPS is a privilege, not a punishment. It is not a gossip column. You would be surprised how often the person you are reading about in “RPS” is also the source of the information. I write about status symbols in “RPS,” but due to the very specific circle of people who read it, appearing in “RPS” has become a status symbol of its own. Substack is Instagram for people who actually read. The best part is having a direct relationship with my readers. I can hear something on Tuesday night, report it on Wednesday, and put it in front of thousands of people that morning. If you could profile one very, very rich person, who would it be? Warren Buffett, for my own personal interests, because I am fascinated by someone who accumulated an almost unimaginable fortune 92

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Social fixture Carson Griffith started her writing career at (where else?) AVENUE, and now is the Siren of Substack with “Rich People Shit,” her oft controversial, always juicy column and weekly newsletter that has the entire city buzzing.

while constructing a public identity around being remarkably ordinary. From a journalistic perspective, I would choose Jacqueline Mars or Gérard Wertheimer. Both control enormous, culturally significant family fortunes and have given so few interviews that much of what we know about them comes from other people. Profiling someone whose life has not already been packaged and explained a hundred times over is the real dream. Has NYC changed since you first arrived here? When I first moved to New York, you could go out on a Tuesday night and somehow stay out until four in the morning. Celebrities seemed to roam the city freely, without every movement being photographed, posted, or turned into content. Now everything closes strangely early, and there is a membership club on every corner trying to recreate the spontaneity we used to have for free. But for all the ways it has changed, New York is still the best city I know.

You’re invited to some of the swankiest parties in town. The best parties are the ones you can’t talk about, where everything worth repeating is also entirely unprintable. What is your ultimate escape? Mustique. Even with its decades of glamour, it has somehow avoided being overrun by the machinery of mass tourism that has swallowed so many other beautiful places. For something a little easier to reach, Shelter Island. I have a weakness for anywhere that requires a ferry. There is something about leaving the mainland behind that makes an escape feel official.

Membership clubs are popping up faster than Duane Reades. They are here to stay. New York is borrowing directly from the British model, and London has somewhere between 130 and 140 private clubs. Once New York’s market becomes saturated, I think we will follow London’s lead again. Clubs there are increasingly turning themselves into wellness destinations. Eventually, it will no longer be enough to offer a beautiful dining room and a difficult reservation. I want a “Real People Shit” book. I’m writing a novel, but between “RPS” and my other journalism, I am already negotiating with the same 24 hours everyone else gets. I could see “RPS” eventually becoming an entire series. First, though, I have to finish the book I’m pretending I didn’t just tell you about.

JANEIVY HILARIO

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