I was biting into a flaky croissant when Chloe Malle called, asking if I wanted to spearhead this year’s “I Tried to Go to Every Met Gala Afterparty” story. I blurted out “yes” before she could finish her sentence. Covered in crumbs and looking more like a fledgling Andy Sachs in the first Devil Wears Prada than a future Met Gala attendee, I accepted the challenge. It felt less like work and more like a dare.
I boarded a flight from LAX with a light pink Rimowa suitcase whose contents suggested I had grand plans. Packed inside was a 1980s Saint Laurent black tulle bubble-skirt dress and a pair of six-inch Brian Atwood patent pumps. Clothes meant to convince me I belonged in the rooms I’d be reporting from, and heels that promised an elevated perspective.
I was returning to the city where I’d spent over a decade of my life, this time as a professional interloper. Two of my closest friends—artist Anna Weyant, a member of this year’s host committee, and actor Lily-Rose Depp—would be inside the actual gala. I would be circling it, like a moth, attempting to hit every afterparty and see what happens after the world’s most photographed dinner lets out.
At 9:30 p.m., my Blacklane driver picks me up in a blacked-out Escalade from the Bowery Hotel, where I’ve spent the last two hours watching YouTube tutorials on perfecting a smoky eye. The gala itself wraps around this time, and most attendees drift back to their hotels to change into something a bit more comfortable or daring, before heading to the after-parties.
My original plan was to stop at The Mark Hotel, the unofficial Met Gala headquarters a few blocks from the steps, where many guests and brands get ready for the night. But as I head uptown, I make a last-minute decision to skip The Mark and go straight to The Carlyle instead.
Stop 1: The Carlyle
I arrive at the Carlyle at 10 p.m. sharp. The entire block is barricaded, so I’m forced to do a humiliating, highly public lap in six-inch heels, wobbling like a newborn deer. At one point, I consider scaling the barricade and becoming a headline.
When I finally make it inside, flushed, the party is… empty. The Met Gala hasn’t even ended yet, no one’s changed, and no one’s arrived. It’s just me, alone, among an army of well-dressed PR girls.
Live jazz hums through Bemelmans Bar as I sit alone on a bench, jotting down notes. I take some extremely cute photos of the Madeline lamps that match the Ludwig Bemelmans murals, even though I am technically supposed to be reporting and not bonding with light fixtures. I spot Coco Rocha across the bar rocking a Maleficent hair situation and some Vanity Fair writers clustered at the bar ordering drinks. Someone mentions the Met still hasn’t let out yet, which means I am both early and late to whatever social ecosystem is unfolding in Manhattan. I consider my options, which are to stay here and continue admiring the lamps, or get back into my car and pursue the next location.
Stop 2: GQ After-Party Co-Hosted by Chase Infiniti, Damson Idris, Lisa, Paul Anthony Kelly, and Samuel Hine
I head downtown to GQ at Café Zaffri at The Twenty Two, where things immediately take a turn. A bartender opens a bottle of champagne with such force that the cork ricochets off the wall and nearly blinds someone. It feels like the most action the room has seen all night.
