2 August 2026
Lower East Side
74 degrees
It’s been one of those nights where I’m in need of something, but I don’t know what. Mental exhaustion is paralyzing, but luckily, even in that state, I was able to pick myself up and start walking.
I knew I wanted to land somewhere. It was late, and most of my go-to spots were already closed or asking something of me that I didn’t have to give... then I remembered the Pfister was open. And open late.
I come here often, but almost always during the day. If I’m here in the evening, it’s usually for dinner—in and out. I don’t think I’ve ever come here at night just to sit with myself.
I walked down Van Buren toward Cathedral Square. It was the last stretch of sundown: a blue-grey sky with dim white clouds, the cathedral quiet to my left. A summer of hot days and jazz fests had worn the park’s grass into a light, compact brown. My feet dragged reluctantly through the dry, brush-like blades, making a satisfying crunch against the quiet night.
I cut through the square, headed down Jefferson past Taylor's, and thought to myself, I wish I had whatever lively energy every Taylor's patron has. Every time I walk by, people look like they’re having the time of their lives—out with others rather than stuck inside their heads, like me.
In the middle of that thought, my phone buzzed with a text. Just one word: “journal?”
From my friend Britt.
I replied, "yes." We agreed to meet at the Pfister.
Britt and I have a deep knowingness between us. When I saw her text, I knew she needed whatever I needed, too. Britt is the type of friend you can talk with for hours—or sit with in total silence for hours. With us, there’s not much in between.
When we arrived, we decided to roam a bit first. We stopped at the window of Sasha’s painting studio—she’s the artist-in-residence at the hotel—and noticed how her work took on a completely different mood at night. A few pieces were spotlit, while others peeked out from the shadows. Then we wandered up to the Imperial Ballroom. The lights were on but dimmed, and we looked up at the ceiling before gazing out the windows at the occasional car and passerby below.
Eventually, we made our way down to Mason Street Grill.
It was a Sunday night with barely anyone there: a woman reading at the far end of the bar, a man alone with a drink and some appetizers, and two friends talking over empty glasses, just about to leave.
Soon, it was just us.
We split our go-to order—a Caesar salad with fries—and the server brought out warm bread and butter. We didn't talk much, mostly exchanging soft looks and passing notes back and forth in our shared notebook.
I hadn’t realized the only two other people in the room were musicians until I heard it: a piano solo, low and easy, followed by a trumpet weaving between the notes and riding the wave as they both improvised. It felt like the whole room leaned into the two of us and whatever fragile state we were in. Like the space noticed our week, picked up on our low-grade static, and gently eased it.
I started thinking about how many people must have come through here feeling the exact same way. Sat at the end of the bar alone. Taken a seat in the lobby lounge for no particular reason. Wandered the halls in the evening because they needed somewhere to be that wasn’t home yet. This building has held a lot of people’s worry over the years, answering it with quiet warmth.
I walked home that night feeling steadier than when I’d left.
I share all this because I think people forget the Pfister isn’t just for out-of-town guests or grand, special occasions. It’s open, and anyone can walk through those doors on an ordinary Sunday night and just sit for a while.
Megan