The US Open with my best friend was our first stop on what I now call the trip that made us. Everyone who saw me after kept asking the same thing, “How did you even get tickets? Was it hard?” Honestly, it wasn’t. Same with the Olympics. The secret isn’t luck. It’s planning. Keep your ear to the ground, stalk TikTok for free tips, and register for the email lists. Tickets went on sale at the end of May. Sometimes, life is as simple as being on time.

But let’s rewind. What really set the tone for this trip wasn’t the tennis. It was the timing. Serenity and I planned this getaway right after we both broke up with our boyfriends. It was less “girls’ trip” and more “rebirth.” We weren’t just booking flights, we were writing a new chapter.

We checked into the Moxy East Village, the perfect little nest for two girls running around Manhattan. On Thursday, we did what any modern women would do. We dropped our bags, ordered drinks, opened our laptops for a dash of “remote work chic,” and got dressed for dinner at Gjelina NYC. It wasn’t your nonna’s Italian, but it was cozy, tasty, and walkable, which in New York is its own kind of luxury. Afterward, we ducked into Old Friend Photo Booth for pictures that were equal parts retro and ridiculous, grabbed a sweet treat at Van Leeuwen Ice Cream, and ended the night with an espresso martini at our hotel bar. A Thursday night starter pack.

Friday began, as all great New York mornings do, with carbs. We ordered Apollo Bagels on DoorDash while waiting for our coffee across the street at Not As Bitter, at first unsure if it would work. But when we walked in, it felt like yes, indeed, we were bigger than the program. Lox everything bagels in hand, no line, no wait. The matcha from Not As Bitter, though, lived up to the name in the worst way. Sometimes the aesthetic wins out over the taste.

Then, the Open. Getting there was easy, two trains, one hour, and an entire subway car of people dressed in Labor Day whites, stripes, and polos. You can bring your own food and drinks into the stadium, which is almost as American as the sport itself. Inside, it felt like a festival. Amex lounges, Heineken tastings, and, of course, shopping. The true main attraction? The Honey Deuce, and nothing else even mattered.

After the matches, but before heading home, we stopped on Park Ave, starving and still chasing redemption from the morning’s matcha. The food hit the spot, but the matcha? Completely forgettable. I can’t even remember where it came from, which says all you need to know.

The subway ride home threw one last plot twist. As soon as a man’s energy shifted in a way that made our skin prickle, we acted fast. We got off at the next stop, pretending to leave, then hopped back on in a different car. He followed, but just as the doors were closing, we locked eyes with him, and in that moment he realized he had just been outwitted by two Southern bells who do the chili dogging. Afterwards, we couldn’t help but laugh.

Serenity and I have a phrase for moments like that: chili dogged. It started with a mutual acquaintance we both happened to talk to, and when we FaceTimed him together completely unaware we were friends, his response was, You’re trying to chili dog me. And we just never forgot it. That moment was us in full effect, a little mischievous, and it’s still us today. Whenever the world tries to play us, we just call it what it is, chili dogged.

That night, we rallied. Sushi hand rolls for dinner, a green tea shot at a random bar blasting Soulja Boy, and suddenly we were in Brooklyn. The kind of what the heck are y’all doing over here energy that makes you wonder if Jay-Z really meant it or if it was just midnight and the streets were empty enough to make everything feel cinematic. We linked with an old college friend at an Afrobeats party, not quite our vibe. Secretly craving Miley Cyrus or Drake, we did what slightly reckless, secretly exhausted, fun-seeking girls do. We crossed the bridge back to the East Village and called it a night.

Saturday came with an alarm clock disguised as rooftop yoga at the Public Hotel. We thought it would be Instagram-cute. Instead, it was intermediate-tough. The regulars stretched like warriors while we fumbled through poses, giggling but trying to keep up. Brunch at Bubby’s saved us. Their green juice was amazing, their iced coffee tragic. Still, the pancakes alone made every sore muscle worth it.

SoHo was next. Lines out the door at every store, but we embraced it, logging 20,000 steps in shoes I had no business committing to. Somewhere between boutiques, we grabbed matcha at Blank Space, a 10 out of 10 redemption arc for Friday’s flop. Later, we stumbled into a bar that felt like a portal back home. SEC football on TV, the energy of Athens on a Saturday night, it reminded us that sometimes the South sneaks up on you even in Manhattan.

Dinner at Rosa closed out the night, just steps from our hotel. We had big plans to make it a “last night in New York” moment, but reality hit, exhaustion. We crawled into bed, woke up randomly at 1 a.m. to pack, and fell back asleep until our 7 a.m. flight.

Traveling with a new friend is always a gamble. It can bond you forever, or it can unravel everything. But with Serenity, it was neither gamble nor risk, it was fate. By the time she invited me over to bake and binge The Summer I Turned Pretty after our trip, I knew. We weren’t just travel buddies. We were locked in. A match made in heaven. And as Carrie Bradshaw once said, maybe our girlfriends are our soulmates, and the US Open was just our first set

-xoxo Sake

September 9. 2025