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 After-Party” 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 after-party 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 wraps up 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: Stay here and continue admiring the lamps, or get back in my car and pursue the next location.
Stop 2: GQ After-Party Cohosted by Chase Infiniti, Damson Idris, Lisa, Paul Anthony Kelly, and Samuel Hine
I head downtown to the GQ party 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.
The problem is: I’m too early. It’s still 11:40 p.m., and the crowds coming from uptown have yet to arrive en masse. Kareem from Subway Takes has a red talk-show booth set up, interviewing guests, while people linger in beautiful clothes. I spot The Dare in a sparkly Tom Ford jacket, and he tells me his set starts at midnight.
I text Anna Weyant, and she replies that The Met has just gotten out and that it’s total mayhem outside trying to get to her car. I decide to pick my battles and head out, glancing down at my spreadsheet of at least 10 more parties I’m hoping to hit tonight.
Stop 3: Chic French-Fashion-Brand Party
At the most exclusive fashion-brand party of the night, I was told no press and I wasn’t on the list. Fortunately, that never stops me. A woman flies over to my car when I open the door to check my name before I even step onto the pavement, which feels threatening. There are about 100 paparazzi outside, none of whom are here for me. I slide past them. As I was told no press, I’m not really even allowed to write about this party, but it was one of my favorites of the night.
Inside, things finally feel alive. It’s dark, loud, and people are smoking indoors like it’s 2007. I push into a back room, and suddenly there they are: actual Met Gala people. Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert Pattinson, Suki Waterhouse, and Mick Jagger breaking it down on the dance floor, as well as Emma Thynn, Marchioness of Bath, from my favorite television show, Ladies of London. It’s dense and glamorous.
I hear about a Jay-Z party at Crane Club that requires a QR code, which sounds like a logistical nightmare I don’t want to take on tonight. My friends leave for it, but I’m told I won’t get in so I can’t ride with them. I pretend not to care.
Stop 4: Monsieur Hosted by Baz Luhrmann, Catherine Martin, Evan Spiegel, and Miranda Kerr
I FaceTime my boyfriend from the back of the car on the way over, the city lights strobing across my face while I tell him I miss him and my cat too. I would do anything to be home, tucked in bed with them. He laughs a little. There’s something isolating about doing all this fun stuff entirely on your own. I spent more time in the back of my Blacklane car with Abdul, my driver, than I did at any of the parties. He moved through the night with such attentiveness, always at the door before I could reach for it, offering refreshments and gum, and even stepping out to walk me to the doors of each venue.
I make a quick stop at Baz Luhrmann’s party at Monsieur, where Miranda Kerr is sitting in a corner booth with her husband, looking as serene as ever. For a brief moment, I consider going over to say hi. (Just to clarify, I do not know her, and her bodyguard is radiating “absolutely not” energy from 10 feet away.)
I make a lap around the room, realize I know no one, and step out. The doorman even mentions, “Wow, that was fast.” I smile and hit him with a peace sign.
Stop 5: Zero Bond Hosted by Madonna and Sabrina Carpenter
I look at Find my Friends. Half of my friends have gone to sleep, and the other half are at Jay-Z’s (the one I couldn’t get into). I pull up to Bond Street, and it’s another Carlyle situation: The entire block is barricaded, no cars allowed in. I get out and chat with security. I’m not on the list, but I make it work, and she lets me through. If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I’ve always had a gift for getting past a velvet rope.
I ride up the elevator with Hailey Bieber, and we spill out into a massive, strangely empty room. The party is huge, physically huge, but there aren’t nearly enough people to fill it. I spot Sergey Brin with his girlfriend, GG, and stop to say hello, then randomly run into my neighbor from LA. I wander around until I find a curtained room where Sabrina Carpenter is talking to Stevie Nicks while eating French fries and hamburgers. It’s oddly relaxed. I strike up a conversation with Stevie Nicks’s personal security guard, who tells me she performed at The Met tonight and it was her first time attending.
Then Madonna walks in.
Someone whispers that it’s her first time meeting Stevie, which feels insane and also somehow the most important thing I’ve heard all night. I leave them to it and walk out for my final stop of the night.
Stop 6: The Box Hosted by Kate Moss
At this point, I get a text about one last party: The Box, hosted by Kate Moss, with performances from Diplo and Peggy Gou. My energy is waning, and it’s a little too late to be out this sober. Still, I step inside—and finally, a real party.
The sofas are all gone, replaced with a full dance floor. A live band is playing Michael Jackson, then it switches to trap hip-hop. People are actually dancing. There are naked women onstage with leaves over their privates. It’s toned down for The Box, which is saying a lot. No one is peeing on anyone or having sex on stage. For a moment, I feel like I’ve time-traveled back to the 2010s—1OAK, the golden era, when nightlife still had a heartbeat.
Then Busta Rhymes appears on stage, delivering what feels like both a motivational speech and a warning: “Every choice comes with an invoice,” he booms into his microphone.
He launches into, “Baby if you give it to me / I’ll give it to you / I know what you want / You know I got it.” The room loses its mind.
I’m told The Box will go until 6 a.m. I will not. I check my phone. It’s already 3 a.m., so I text my driver to take me home.
Stop 7: The Bowery Hotel at 4 a.m.
I stumble back to my hotel with bruised legs and blistered feet, having lived several different lives in the span of five hours. In the mirror, I attempt to remove my eyeliner, which has fused to my face. I find a single French fry in my purse. I put in my silicone earplugs and collapse, but not before setting my alarm for the crack of dawn (9 a.m.) to write my piece. I need my sleep, less for beauty reasons and more for brain power.
The night feels like a success but also like a marathon. I don’t think I’ll be going out again anytime soon.
But then again, I probably will.
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