Spring break is an American fantasy.
Plus an $18k BLADE membership, and a rare Los Angeles restaurant review.
Good morning everyone.
Today’s letter includes: the diary entries from six college students who went on spring break this year, a review of LA’s most Instagram Storied new restaurant, an exclusive quote from the CEO of BLADE, and a mermaid thriller set in Florida.
Spring break forever.
Earlier this year, I was thinking a lot about spring break. I didn’t go to a school that was big on organized spring break trips. I guess The Fashion Institute of Technology was far more about the experience and success of the individual than organized camaraderie. But I did date someone from a southern school my junior year, and I went on a spring break trip with him and his friends.
Over the past few years, spring break has become a marketing moment for brands, just like Christmas or back-to-school. Alex Cooper’s Unwell hosted a several-day spring break trip to Miami for fans of the podcast network to attend. Emergency contraception brand Julie took advantage of the cultural party moment and built a campaign around spring break. Vacation Sunscreen ran a 7-day spring break megasale.
In a 2013 interview, Harmony Korine gave a detailed breakdown of his candy-colored vision while making Spring Breakers. “Kids kind of go and destroy everything, and then drive back home and pretend that none of that happened.” He described Spring Breakers as a pop-poem, not a literal interpretation of how people travel during their week-long break from classes. “In a lot of ways this movie is about the culture of surfaces, and how things look.”
But I wanted to read the diaries of the people actually paying thousands of dollars to go on these trips. Not the TikTok versions, and not just what made it to the Instagram grid. I’ve had an idea for years to send college students out partying with disposable cameras, and have them write about their thoughts when they get home late at night, after they’ve taken off their makeup and plugged in their phones to charge. I’ve pitched it to at least two past consulting clients of mine, if not three. The great part about writing this newsletter is that I get to play the role of writer and editor — I greenlight and decline my own ideas.
Feed Me’s editorial assistant
helped me make this project come to life this year (hire smart young people — they have a completely different way of networking and outlook on publishing than you do). Last week, as students began gearing up for finals, we received the last developed roll of film.Below are excerpts from this project, and later tonight, paid readers will receive a second newsletter with the full commissioned accounts and photos of spring break trips.
Inside the Harvard soccer team’s jet lag fever dream. By Riccardo Rollo and Andreas Savva.
“On our second day, we trained with our coaches and toured Milanello (AC Milan’s training facility). That evening, we cleaned up nicely for an alumni event at the Ralph Lauren café. Nothing like sipping espresso and fake laughing in blazers with a bunch of sharply dressed alumni who all seemed to work in private equity or had “early-stage venture” in their LinkedIn bios. One guy told us he once pitched a sports drink to Zlatan. Another casually dropped a story about a team trip where they lost a teammate overnight—only for him to show up the next day with no luggage and no idea how he got back. That got a real laugh.”
The cure for a San Juan hangover is a Los Angeles detox. By .
“I had fun this week—I got tan, I laughed with my friends, and I got over my godforsaken illness.
But I also felt like a small part of a 16-person organism, overstimulated by nonstop group time, communal sleeping arrangements, and the logistical gymnastics of keeping everyone happy. On top of that, snarky comments, oversalted plane food, sharing a bed, sharing a bathroom.
I found myself dreaming of LA, of dry heat, bright-green matcha, sushi, yoga, flea markets and farmer's markets and places to sit outside. Sleep. Conveniently, that was the next stop for four of us.”'
Whatever TikTok tells you to do in Florence, do the opposite. By Madeleine Signore.
“Elena’s apartment is a ten-minute walk from the Duomo and large enough to house six girls comfortably. She had repurposed a spare room into a closet for her staggering collection of vintage clothes; highlights include a Chrome Hearts slip dress and a Gucci motorcycle jacket with a horsebit chain affixed to the tag. I wore the latter to the bar and the prospect of spilling Negroni on it had my heartrate surging.
Her roommates were milling about the apartment upon my arrival, which surprised me. At my house in Oxford none of my three roommates spoke to one another unless it was absolutely necessary. Elena explained to me that the party scene in Florence subscribes to no calendar; Sunday and Thursday are equally viable choices for a night out. Given my housemates’ mutual apathy, I felt touched by the warm coexistence shared by everyone in Elena’s flat. Music played constantly and every flat surface was covered with the universally recognizable hallmarks of collegiate life, albeit with an Italian flavor: foreign vodka brands, half-used boxes of pasta, textbooks, and curling irons, the arrangement of which ostensibly lacked rhyme or reason.”
Limbo in La Privada. By Harry Tarses.
“The Airbnb proves to be no more than a changing room, and within an hour of landing I am at a beach club called Taboo (which despite its name is pretty loud). I enter with far more confidence than I should be allowed, but I really like the shirt I’m wearing – killer pattern. I am confronted with twin seas — sea of blue, sea of Brown. Scattered across the beachfront and speckling the ocean are some 100 of my peers, all engaged in various levels of vacationing, all wearing great patterns.
At the bar the seats are swing sets, wooden and tastefully upholstered with thick rope. My sandcastle plot’s been foiled by sun-tanners, but the question remains; are we all just trying to be kids again? I’m sitting with this question as we’re preparing to leave when an actual kid comes up to me and starts trying to sell me on his artisanal turtles. He’s about 7 years old, but it doesn’t stop him from blowing kisses at my girlfriend, getting rough with a guy when he tries to shoo him away, and ultimately driving a very hard bargain. He’s a bona-fide businessman, and this is not the childhood experience I’d been imagining in Tulum. Suddenly, I’m nervous he can smell the tequila on my breath.”
The familiar feelings of college, distilled in Jackson. By .
“On Sunday, I hauled ass at 3am to get to the Providence airport for a 5am flight. I was embarrassingly excited at the prospect of a 2 hour layover in Atlanta. I ran into three friends who were on their way to Tulum at the airport, and that was the closest to debauchery we got this Spring Break. The Delta hub has been something of a myth in my eyes. The Busiest and Most Efficient Airport in America. It was pretty mid… I jumped onto a second flight and landed in Jackson – getting off onto the tarmac under the mountains that make the Ye album cover is a breathtaking experience, even if he’s fallen out of favour. At the baggage claim, I was offered a mimosa or orange juice, and due to the lack of sleep, I chose the latter. No drunken misbehavior in this story, that was the only sip of alcohol we were offered over the trip.”
Señor Frog’s should never be entered with intention. By .
It’s 3 a.m. in Evanston, Illinois., and my jade roller awaits me in the basement fridge next to the remnants of our jello shots from our first (and perhaps last) Chicago St. Patrick’s day. Being awake at this hour is a personal attack — one softened only slightly by Ava’s dad acting as our chauffeur through the flat, empty roads of Chicagoland to O’Hare. I’m wearing the last pair of underwear that didn’t make it into my buckling suitcase, emblazoned with the on-the-nose “Sunday Scaries.” Under my sweatshirt, I sport a shirt that reads “M.I.L.F. (Man I Love Feet).”