We wandered into the Brooklyn Botanic Garden as if in a dream.

To get there, you’re ricochetted underground in the slow heat and dark of the subway for almost an hour; the train reaches the last stop and you emerge into the bright of day like a pallid ninja turtle, and the minute, the goddamn minute you turn your bewildered head it is right there; you’re suddenly surrounded by tall velvety leaves, lush grass, majestic columns. I’d never seen anything like it. The entrance garden was nearly empty; a cool breeze shifted its colors, showing silver underbellies, pistils heavy with pollen like clotted cream.

“Whoa,” Steve said. “Whoa,” I said.

“Well this was worth the ten bucks,” he said. “I am drunk on photosynthesis,” I said.

The night before, we had taken too many shots of bourbon after a day already devoted to drinking; we had hunched despondently over the table in a glowing red bar, and then cried at each other at 2am when the G took a million years to arrive. “Are we going to talk about this now? I guess we’re talking about this now, the train’s not coming.”

Morning had come slowly, carefully. By the time we arrived at the garden, we only had an hour and a half before it closed: an issue that had caused me some stress before we left. But it was okay. It was all going to be okay.

This weekend Steve visited from Minneapolis, and Dennis visited from Kansas City, and because New York is all eager to impress, we crammed in as many activities as possible. Friday night we went to Sleep No More (amazing! Also, confusing!) and ate at a terrible pizzeria off the High Line, and Saturday we took a ferry to the Jazz Age Lawn Party on Governor’s Island.

Caught up in wandering the grounds and getting our pictures taken, by the time we thought about eating lunch we found the real food lines were impossibly long — stretching around the perimeter of the party and into the dance floor. So we waited for them to shorten. And waited. Dizzy and excitable by five o’clock, it suddenly occurred to us that we had only consumed St. Germain cocktails and strawberry vanilla ice cream since noon. (Other short lines: vintage hat store! Guess who was drunk at the hat table? Guess who owns a hat?)

So I offer that caveat before sending you to the full album of photos, where you will see me with a traffic cone on my head, and Dennis with his face stuck in a construction barrier, and Steve balancing on a railing, and inexplicable push-ups in the grass.

“Uhhhh . . . who wants another elderberry liquor cocktail? We’ve got to use up these goddamn tickets.”

It was a pretty good weekend.

This photo is actually another from the readings at The Moth, because I didn’t take any pictures at all on Day 17. On Day 17 I met up with a former photo teacher I’d really admired for dinner (professionalllll!); this wound up starting significantly later than planned when I got off at a stop in Manhattan thinking it was Brooklyn, and then tried to walk my way to the correct location.

It was pouring rain and by the time we connected I looked like an orphan, hair plastered to my forehead and backpack heavy with rainwater, limping around in heeled boots. He showed me the darkroom built into his apartment, some prints he was working on, the crazy view from the balcony; I tried not to leave wet buttprints on his furniture.

Breakfast! Guys, I really need to go grocery shopping.

Brendan and I met up Tuesday evening to stand in line for two hours for The Moth tickets, because long lines are always worth it. I was leaning against the bookstore wall busily shoving quinoa and apricots in my mouth (I’m not a rich person, I just play one in NYC), when he said “Oh, and my friend Julie is coming.” He looked down at his phone. “She’s here now actually. Hey baby!”