Winter in Review

The city, the desert, and the new year

art by Takuya Kishi

status: out in the desert

KAI LIN: I was sick on the Nile all week. It was Christmas Day, but the deck of the ship was warm, the riverbank palms we drifted past placid as a postcard of June. That guy was back again, circling the lounge chairs like a hawk. He stuck his hand out to strangers and talked in a ceaselessly chipper tone, as if personally flaunting to me his good health, his happy state of mind. Every other sentence was punctuated with a braggadocios, declarative confidence, and every signature of youth was upon him. Just yesterday, he’d asked my father on the bus for his LinkedIn while we rode deeper into the desert to see the Abu Simbel temples. Just this morning, he’d asked me for a job referral. He was, to put it bluntly, really fucking on my holiday vibes. But even without him, I was feeling vaguely bad.

A love for the histories has always brought my father and I closer together. But as we silently trekked through Giza and the Saqqara Necropolis, both of us fevered and dizzy from whatever it was we’d caught and given each other, I could feel the future pressing in on all sides. When I got back to the States, I’d need to dive back into work; a promotion was on the line, and I was apparently the sort of person who cared about that sort of thing now. If I did get promoted, I’d need to decide pretty quickly if I wanted to stay in San Francisco or transfer offices. My friends were all shouting my name from New York City, incessantly, alluringly, unendingly. Girl it feels like the whole world is in NY, I texted my old friend Emily. She’d recently graduated from her Master’s program in Dublin; she was back in New York, too. Or I could leave my job entirely. Could I? Should I? I was tired. Sometimes I suspected it was this job that had ended my relationship—choosing it, I mean. But of course, I knew that was only sort of true. That was the problem with me lately. Everything was sort of true, sort of not. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt sure about myself, any opinion I had, any decision I’d made or was planning to make.

My father was distracted, too. He turned sixty this year and looked thinner than I’d ever seen him before. In Cairo, we sat at a McDonald’s and discussed potential places he might want to retire to. Vancouver was too far, San Francisco was too expensive, Boston was awfully cold in the winter. “I might consider moving to Orange County, if you were more settled in California,” he said, and smiled wryly. “It would be nice to live close to my daughter.” More settled, of course, meant nearly married. I drank my coffee silently. He was stressed about work, too—some big project he was managing, reduced funding, a bright young PhD fellow on his team that he was losing. We talked about all this in the even, reasonable tones of two adults, where once on previous trips he had watched me pore over maps and read up on ancient kings and queens, making fun of me from across the breakfast table for still acting like a kid.

“It’s not as fun to hang out with your children once they become adults,” my dad admitted to me later. I tried not to let that remark depress the hell out of me.

I wanted to enjoy my vacation (a deserved one, everybody told me repeatedly) but I couldn’t stop wondering about my life, my real life, as it would be waiting for me when the river cruise docked—unromantic, banal, warts and all. Friendships left in strange states of disarray, an apartment with a sink full of dishes I didn’t get around to washing before catching my ride to the airport, a million question marks surrounding my work and what I would do next, the daunting premise of dating as an adult—or, conversely, dying alone. The end of a year ought to have arrived with some sense of finality, of chapters closing and new pages being turned, but my life felt precipitously suspended in midair. Was I doing an okay job managing everything? Was I on the right track? Or had I missed a horribly important turn somewhere? Maybe that was why I felt so worried and strangled, laying awake at night as we floated languidly all the way down the Nile. “How could I have fought my way through to the serenity with which I contemplate the terrors of youth and endure the terrors of age?” That’s Kafka. Sitting in the sun on Christmas Day and watching that guy make his rounds, seizing every opportunity to pitch himself to any half-willing stranger’s ear, I was reminded of a younger version of myself. Similarly desperate to be seen, harboring a sense of self so clumsy, burgeoning, and hopeful that it needed to be repeated aloud over and over again, like an invocation. That version of me couldn’t see past herself—she was self-magnetizing, self-mythologizing, self-agonizing. She believed she was a great big power positioned at the center of a small, glittering toy world. Nowadays, I often felt the opposite—like I was a little toy woman with a little toy life, and the world was something great, terrible, and real.

Our Egyptologist, a handsome man named Waleed, made easy conversation with us later that afternoon about his wife and three sons, the house he was building for his brother in the countryside village they all lived in, how the entire village was comprised of nine intertwined families. It was clear from his voice that Waleed considered his life a fortunate one. I imagined what it felt like to be his wife, filling the first floor of our house with sand in the summertime to more easily track scorpions; I imagined trying a fourth time for a daughter with him, laughing in bed, laughing in the heart of the desert with somebody who loved me. Was she happy? Did she feel sure about her life? What would it take for me to get to that place? In my sickness-addled state, I felt unreasonably jealous.

I landed in San Francisco on the second to last day of 2024 and rang in the new year alone, asleep in bed with my window cracked open. I’d never felt so relieved to be back, even if “back” meant a resounding return to everything that was stressing me out. Is that a good thing? It certainly marks a personal departure from my long-standing escapist tendencies. Since then, I’ve made some decisions I feel good about and adopted new habits I’m excited to ritualize. I’ve had some difficult conversations and tied up some loose ends. I am in the process of negotiating terms of peace with my cat, who is pissed at me for leaving town for three weeks. And I am resolving to move more confidently in the direction of my dreams this year, in ways that both honor my growth and give grace to my continued awkwardnesses. Really, nothing has changed—life in the new year continues to pitter-patter on, as humdrum and insignificant as it is precious.

Then again, maybe that’s the real magic of a new year. When the clock strikes midnight, your life doesn’t change, a new page isn’t turned. Everything stays right where you’ve left it, down to the smelly dishes in the sink. And yet, we seem to discover some new strength, or a new way of seeing our old lives—and are inspired to go find ourselves in the desert again.

status: at the center of the world

EBIE: before i moved to new york, i had been convincing myself that san francisco was the better choice for work and love. but when that relationship ended the same week an internal transfer to our midtown office opened up, it felt like the universe was nudging me along, to flick the switch, take the leap.

i had the loveliest goodbye dinner at a wine bar in downtown DC. i’d written letters to my friends and set them around the table like place cards. that night, they pushed me to do a toast — i don’t remember what exactly i said, just that i had some of the happiest times of my life here. at which point in my post-grad friendship crisis this past year did i start making real friends? i thought about the way we met on bumble, in sublet facebook groups, at work. and how strange, you feel the most settled in a place right before you’re about to leave.

the first weekend of october came around, and in a rush, i left overstuffed bags of my things by my curb in hopes someone would pick it up before the trash guy came. we stumbled down my stairs with my four suitcases and hopped onto a 5 am amtrak. those early train hours were magical — like kids on a field trip, D fell asleep next to me while i nibbled on the blueberries we packed in a ziploc the night before.

since then, the magic has only grown. all the mini new york trips i’ve taken prior to this, including my mini summer internship stint, seemed to scream you were meant to be here all along! it’s time i listened to her because it turns out i’m still sixteen and making hearts with my hands in front of the new york skyline. i do wonder now what my uber driver thinks when i take out my phone for a pic, if he even noticed or has grown accustomed to blocking out girls’ squeals from the backseat.

we rang in the new year at rachel’s place in bed stuy. we actually completely lost track of time making gin or tea or something and missed the countdown. but divine timing had it that right as we stepped foot onto her rooftop, fireworks started exploding all around us. we started jumping and down, unaware and unbothered by the puddles of water.

there’s this line in vivian gornick’s memoir, “i knew there was a center of the world and that i was far from it.” in that moment, on rachel’s rooftop, manhattan to our west, williamsburg to our north, the weight of 2024 behind us, it felt as if we were twirling in the center of the world. we passed around the champagne until the very last drop, blasted young and beautiful from our phones until it got too cold. from the balcony, though, we continued the party, yelling HAPPY NEW YEAR into the dead of night, to all who would listen (drunk friends, couples walking home), and cheering when they yelled back at us.

it’s almost the end of January now. i still fall asleep to the glow of christmas decorations outside my window — a giant LED snowflake and bow strung across the street. they’ll come down soon, holiday sheen fading behind the rhythms another year — but i am at least determined to keep the sparkle of this city for as long as i can.

EB: i finished sally rooney’s latest hit intermezzo just before christmas. i loved how the plot mirrored middlegame in chess, endless permutations of moves, each character at risk of loss or sacrifice. rooney brilliantly shows the ways we hurt and hurt others, fumble through grief — i remain in awe of her ability to stir up every last bit of empathy in our hearts.

recently, i read the woman destroyed by simone de beauvoir. with its obviously sexy title and pink cover floating around on pinterest, i’ve always been curious about it and i’m so glad i picked it up! it’s a collection of three short stories, each told by a woman past their ‘prime’ age, focusing us to reckon with the dredges of womanhood. reading felt like i myself was unraveling.

KL: I recently read and enjoyed Death of a Salesman—this 1966 recorded play was a nice complement. I rarely have the literary palate for existentialism but maybe this particular season of my life is calling for it; I picked up a collection of short stories by Kafka as my first read of 2025. The Metamorphosis is masterfully inscrutable and inscrutably masterful, but my favorite story from the collection was The Great Wall of China, a meditative essay on faith disguised as a fictional account from a builder of the wall.

Rishi sent me this hilarious Substack essay last weekend, an open letter to my dog who, if i'm being completely honest, lowkey kinda sucks. Good timing, because Amora and I are once again locked in a psychological battle for dominance, making moves and countermoves. Reunited with me after my travels, she now flings herself displeasureably at my front door when I try to leave for work every morning, knowing I can’t lock up if she darts out (move). I make a cozy blanket pile on my new leather reading chair to entice her to stay put and relax while I’m gone (countermove). She pisses all over it (hardly a move, simply a flagrant act of terrorism). I pray we both get out of this alive.

EB: dear kai lin, brrr it’s cold in new york. how are you keeping warm this winter?

KL: Well, I was definitely cold in Paris this winter. Caught up in a million things the week leading up to my flight, I had never packed so haphazardly for a trip before—I ended up having to buy socks and underwear at a corner Monoprix, two packs of throat lozenges at a pharmacy, and an overpriced EU adapter at an airport counter run by a woman who took one look at me and instantly hated me. I took my half-empty suitcase as an opportunity to lay siege to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and ultimately left Paris four days later with three new pairs of pants, two sweaters (one cashmere, one alpaca wool), and a $300 pair of leather boots that clacked satisfyingly against the pavement when I walked around. By then, I was very warm indeed.

I still think feeling cold is partially a mental thing (you’ll remember I said this often in college). We’re wired to conserve energy and hibernate in cold weather, leading to more lethargy than normal. Aside from the usual remedies—hot tea in the evenings, piles of soft blankets, long socks—I also think stimulation helps keep the cold at bay. While walking along Boulevard Haussmann at sundown in my skimpy stockings, I remember pausing at the sound of silver bells and watching a long sequence of mechanical puppets in the connecting display windows of Printemps, the biting wind forgotten for a moment. Or, after dinner one night, I’d stopped by a midnight crepe stand and then wandered into a smoking cafe next door. Seated outside in the freezing cold with a familiar Marlboro, I watched a group of college students play poker two tables away, laughing and shouting in French that sounded filthy, and felt my physical discomfort ease. It’s not a perfect science, but I try to focus on why I’m outside, freezing my ass off. Some moments are worth being cold for.

KL: Dear Ebie, how’s your appetite for novelty in the new year? What’s one brand new thing you’re introducing into your life in 2025?

EB: peep the new my brilliant friend! out with the pink, in with the blue. as for me, no major rebrands in store for 2025 (yet!). i used to treat new years as an overhaul of my life philosophy— one year, my resolution was literally to say yes to everything (it was a good year, albeit chaotic). now, i’m leaning more into into the life i’m building in this city, letting small joys grow and deepen.

my friend and i have started going to angelika’s on tuesdays (their discount day). last week, we watched the room next door, an almodóvar film about mortality and friendship, so beautiful and sad. walking out the theater at 10 pm on a weekday and down the stairs of bleeker street, we were in a different reality, still in slow motion, as if nothing else mattered but the pairs of us, deep in conversation about the film.

i’ve grown to love the “repeat” button on my gcal. i have a rotational block for museum, pilates, cafe throughout the week, a routine to explore new places intentionally. i think i’m still catching my breath from all the changes that occurred in my life the second half of last year, and i’ve learned not to wish away winter. when spring comes, the energy will shift again…there’ll be more newness, rebrands, goals to reach, whether i’m ready or not…and i’ll long for this season’s stillness.

---

Thanks for reading! Part collaborative writing experiment and part guilty-pleasure digital archive, My Brilliant Friend delivers thoughtful dialogues on love, friendship, and culture to your inbox. You can subscribe below to receive new letters from us directly or visit us at mybrilliantfriend.substack.com.

My Brilliant Friend is co-written by Ebie and Kai Lin.