Letter from the Editor, December 2022
Dear Walden, Arielle, Alana, and Collin:
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Dear Walden, Arielle, Alana, and Collin:
Consider yourself warned, this letter is about Taylor Swift—although thankfully not in the Twitter discourse way. It’s become somewhat of a tradition to write one of these letters about a celebrity, mostly because of one particular Swiftie who used to occupy my role, and it felt only right that the release of Swift's tenth album earned her another.
Every year when it started to get cold, my grandma and I would set up shop in the kitchen and start our annual Christmas Eve ritual: making kolaczki.
If you’ve picked up a copy of Street before, you might notice something different about this one.
Most pitcher–friendly: Virgin Paloma
It’s just before noon on the Saturday of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and two tipsy Penn students stumble into a shop on the 34th block of Sansom Street. One is dressed normally save the green color of his shirt and a string of clover–shaped beads around his neck, while the other wears a St. Patty’s–themed scarf tied around his midsection like a sarong.
“I always enjoyed being the big little kid in the room,” says Ari Bortman (E ‘22).
The first piece of advice I got when I came into this job was to never stay overnight in the Stroffice. I was warned that sleeping here would be the telltale sign that work had overtaken my life, and that if it ever happened, I should quit. (Thankfully, it hasn’t.)
I almost didn’t run for this job.
If there’s one thing that stands out about Beatrice Forman (C ‘22), it’s that she tells the best stories. I don’t just mean in terms of material, although she often seems to find herself in the midst of truly mind–boggling dating nightmares that later become a series of hilarious texts. Bea is able to craft the most compelling narrative I’ve ever heard, whether the events happened to her or someone she just met.
Every year when the weather starts to get warm, it seems like everyone feels an intense need for change. We make vows, sincere or otherwise, about entering and exiting hoe phases, binge productivity YouTube videos, and begin our spring cleaning—all in service of our obsession with wanting something new.
I think my younger self would be disappointed in me today.
Cass Foley, or @cass_andthecity as she’s known to her nearly 162,000 TikTok followers, has become the de facto tour guide for people on either side of the Schuykill looking for the best place to do almost anything—get bottomless brunch with friends, donate to a community fridge, or take a weekend trip. Her knowledge of the city’s food scene seems borderline encyclopedic—she knows exactly the best spot to recommend for nearly any occasion.
It's the Saturday of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, but instead of going out, I woke up early to trek across campus and conduct an interview. A man in clover–shaped sunglasses and a green sarong is verbally accosting me, and it’s the happiest I’ve been all week.
At approximately midnight the night before I was supposed to leave for spring break, I decided to rearrange all the furniture in my room. Instead of packing my bags, I pulled out my measuring tape and got to work deciding which new layout would look best.
At the risk of sounding like Cosmo circa 2011, I recently decided to try a new self–care challenge. But unlike its twee–era predecessors, the TikTok–popularized “75 Soft Challenge” doesn’t hold you to unrealistic standards or punish you for being human.
I used to spend a lot of time in bookstores—well, more like one in particular. Nestled between a consignment store and my mom’s go–to tobacco place was a used bookstore that had everything from history books about the Cold War (likely donated by someone’s grandpa) to trashy romance novels (courtesy of someone else’s grandma).
Accountability is hard.
I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m bad at keeping up with my friends.
I once told a friend that my life is like a game of pastel Tetris: I hope desperately that I can arrange all the pieces before time runs out. I sandwich internship applications between classes and production nights, reserving whatever time is left for some semblance of a self–care routine.
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