Hello and welcome to the 37th issue of Place and the first issue of 2021! We hope you have all had a restful holiday and are sending you the best as we venture into a new year. Before we kick off into this week’s letter, an ode to the tiny moments and places we miss, we want to remind you that you can now support Place and our mission of championing new voices via our membership program! For the price of a cup of coffee per month, you will help us commission work by emerging writers and artists, and continue to receive thoughtful reflection each week in your inbox. We have so much more planned ahead, and your contributions will help further this work! Find out more here.
At Place, we believe that the experiences, sensations and conversations we have as we move about the world stay with us, stacking up as the years go by, forming who we are and the way we view the world. Do you have a letter to share? Send it to us at placeletter@protonmail.com. If you are interested in writing for Place you can find our inaugural pitch guide here. If you’re the social type, follow us on Twitter (@place_letter) where you can share your favourite pieces and Instagram (@placenewsletter) for a visual feast. Yours, The Place editorial team.
Missing Places
In April 2020, writer Jia Tolentino sent a tweet about a place.
Any gig-goer will recognize the place and the feeling: A new song by a good band, the unparalleled energy of live music, the first sips of a drink that allows you to shake off the dragging bits of anxiety from the day and slip into your groovier self.
In the midst of our pandemic-related lofty discourse, focused on the vaccination schedules for billions of people, lockdown measures that shutter thousands of businesses and travel restrictions that keep us close to home rather than jetting off somewhere far away, we’ve found ourselves particularly nostalgic for these very specific places. That type of tiny moment we took for granted before and know we will be even more grateful for in the future.
We attempted to capture those feelings in a series of descriptions of places we’ve been dreaming of as of late as a slow entry into the new year where these will soon be possible and as an act of faith in the future when we will gather once again.
-Karis and Kylee, co-editors of Place
The moment when you walk into the pub, running slightly late, scan the room filled with people but not too filled with people. Your friends have already snagged a cozy corner booth and ordered pints with one spot left for you.
Asking someone to push the elevator button in a high rise office building because you’re in the back corner and can’t reach the front. They politely oblige and you never see them again.
Bringing a book and/or a journal to a cafe, ordering an espresso drink and sweet pastry on a bright ceramic plate, taking the first sip as you take in the other customers typing away at laptops or chatting with friends wondering if this will be the day you have a meet-cute (the answer is always no but it doesn’t matter).
Sitting at the top level of a sauna with a half-dozen other half-naked strangers in a steam-and-fresh-wood-scented silence.
A slow stroll through a farmers market, peering over the tote bag clad shoulder of other perusers at the stacked piles of bread, jam, cheese, chocolates, produce.
Being invited into someone else's home, to look at the art on their walls and the books on their shelves; to smell the food that they are making and hear the music they are listening to. A walk outside does not replace the intimacy that is afforded by going into the place where another feels safest.
Rotating green lasers and strobe lights illuminating the bobbing heads of hundreds of other Friday night club-goers dancing to a beat of a song you don’t know but already know you’ll love.
The large public spaces open for us to freely wander. Popping into libraries and museums, unplanned, meandering the quiet halls alongside other quiet observers.
Sitting down in the comforting dark of a movie theater, popcorn in hand, speaking quietly as the movie starts and hearing soft collective sighs, laughs and exclamations.
The elevated body heat, humidity and the scent of perfume or cologne that someone has left behind to go to the bathroom or grab a beer, while waiting for a concert to start.
Standing in a stadium in the final moments of an incredible match, screaming at the top of your lungs for a team you have barely watched, throwing up hands and hugging strangers when the final winning score is recorded.
Bumping into someone on a busy street, or a crowded shop, and not being worried about it afterwards.
Sampling makeup at a beauty counter, and not having to bug the shopkeeper every time one wants to smear a new shade of lipstick on my hand, which, in the end, will not be bought, leaving with a perfectly rainbowed wrist.
Being in a place, whether it's a bar, a dinner party, or someone’s breakfast table and actually introducing people to each other in person with eye contact and a hand shake, cheek kiss or hug.
The opening moments of a play or musical, when the lights have just dimmed and the faces of your fellow audience are illuminated in a yellow glow, expectant and eager looks toward the slowly filling stage.
The moment when an unexpected downpour on a previously sunny day sends walkers dashing to the nearest cover, huddled inside a tiny cafe with some 15 other people, all apologising to each other for brushing up against one another in our now wet clothes. Riding out the shower side by side, strangers, gathered by necessity.
Being able to make plans without thinking about the size of the group, testing protocols, mask requirements or the danger of gathering with others.
Going to an event alone, knowing that you will probably meet someone wherever you go.
*All photos were taken pre-pandemic
Place recommends:
The eerie rise of liminal spaces,
Performing modernity in Dubai,
And places to love in 2021.
Join us next week as we look to the horizon.