They Sold Us Fall, Y'all!

I remember when fall was something you experienced (back in the late 1900's - ha).

You could smell and hear fall before you saw it. Leaves crackling beneath your shoes, dry and papery, skittering across the sidewalk when the wind came through. Woodsmoke curled over the rooftops, carrying that sweet, dark smell of somebody's first fire of the season. The air had a bite to it, clean and cold enough to wake you up. At the Friday night football game, the field lights turned the October darkness silver, and the band sent brass and drums rolling into the stands. Your hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot apple cider, the steam warming your face. You pulled your sweatshirt tighter because you had underestimated the cold, and somewhere nearby a mother was unfolding a blanket while somebody's dad was hollering at the referee as if the fate of civilization depended on the third quarter. Fall wasn't something you decorated. It wasn't an aesthetic. It wasn't a lifestyle. It was something you stepped into. Something you could hear, smell, taste, touch and feel. It was just fall.

Then, somewhere along the way, we started buying the feeling.

Pumpkin spice everything. Fall candles. Fall mugs. Fall decorations. Fall outfits. Fall signs. Fall playlists. We were taught to associate a feeling with a product, and then the product became the way we accessed the feeling.

That's what I mean by a Happiness Hijacker. It doesn't necessarily have to take something away from us. Sometimes it simply gets between us and the thing that was making us happy in the first place.

The Happiness Hijackers figured out that fall could be packaged and sold back to us. And because we're human, we're remarkably easy to persuade. We want to belong. We want to be somebody. We want to be better. We want to feel in control. We want to believe we're living the good life. The 5 Bs are powerful human desires, and there's nothing wrong with them. The trouble begins when somebody else gets to decide what they are supposed to look like.

So we buy the candle. We buy the sweater. We buy the pumpkin-spice latte. We create the perfect fall atmosphere, and somewhere in the middle of all that buying, we can forget to actually experience the season.

Maybe we don't need another thing.

Maybe we need to walk through the leaves. Go to the football game. Drink the cider. Sit on the porch. Listen to the band. Watch the sunset come earlier. Let the woodsmoke find you.

Because perhaps the Happiness Hijackers' greatest trick isn't convincing us to want things we don't need. Maybe it's convincing us to buy things we could have simply experienced.

Fall was never something we had to purchase.

It was waiting for us outside.

What did fall mean to you before someone started selling it to you? 

Welcome Back to Pennsylvania! Or Not!

 

I thought I missed the bay in Fairhope, Alabama. 

Turns out, I missed something much bigger.

I mean, I do miss the bay. I miss waking up early and walking along Mobile Bay while the sun came up. I miss the pelicans dive bombing the water, the enormous live oak trees, the beautiful cottage homes lovingly cared for. 

But mostly, I miss people saying good morning.

People walking toward me said it. People walking their dogs said it. People riding bicycles said it. Sometimes the bicycle people would come up behind me, where I couldn't even see them, and still call out, “Morning!” as they passed.

This fascinated me.

There was absolutely no social obligation to greet me. We hadn't made eye contact. I wasn't blocking the bike path. They didn't need directions. I posed no immediate threat to their safety.

And yet: “Morning!”

It was as if the mere fact that we were both awake, outdoors and participating in Tuesday was sufficient reason to acknowledge one another.

I loved it.

Then I came home to Pennsylvania.

I should probably mention that I hadn't particularly wanted to come home. For family, yes! But I'd spent several weeks traveling through the South, and somewhere along the way I had become annoyingly happy. I had energy. I was writing. I was talking to strangers. Strangers were talking to me. I was taking long walks every morning and looking forward to them.

Frankly, I was becoming unbearable.

Then I came home.

Almost immediately, I decided to look for a little part-time job. Nothing terribly ambitious. Just something to get me out of the house, around people and making a little money while I worked on my writing.

A local restaurant was hiring. Perfect! I like the restaurant. I have front-of-house experience. I applied.

The woman wrote back and explained that you had to be at least 16 to host and 18 to serve. Was I within those age requirements?

I laughed.

Oh, honey!

I wrote back enthusiastically that yes, I qualified. In fact, I had been qualifying for quite some time. A few decades, give or take. I told her I had front-of-house experience and explained that I'd been out of work for the past year because my husband had cancer, but thankfully he'd beaten it and was doing great.

And then...

She didn't write me back.

She ghosted me.

Rude!

At first I assumed she'd gotten busy. It's a restaurant. People need ketchup. Things happen.

Then I noticed they were still advertising that they were hiring.

So I sent another email. Very pleasant. Very normal. Very much Hello, fellow reasonable adult, perhaps my previous email wandered into cyberspace.

Were they still hiring? Had the positions been filled?

Nothing.

Ghosted twice. 

Rude! Rude!

At my age, I didn't expect to be ghosted by a restaurant. I thought I had aged out of this sort of thing along with tube tops and waiting three days for a man to call.

Then, because I happen to be on the restaurant's customer email list, an announcement arrived in my inbox.

They were hiring!

Well, apparently they just weren't hiring me.

The email went on to talk about how they hire high-school students and give young people their first work experience.

And that's when something clicked.

I'd been going to this restaurant for years. I'd noticed that the staff was young, but I'd never really thought about it. The owner works there, along with his sister and her husband. Other than those three adults, everyone I've ever seen working there has been a kid.

It never bothered me. Why would it? Teenagers need jobs. Somebody has to teach them how to carry six glasses without requiring an insurance adjuster.

But suddenly I wondered.

Had I enthusiastically aged myself right out of a job interview?

I don't know.

Maybe my age had absolutely nothing to do with it. Maybe both of my emails were accidentally swallowed by the same unusually selective spam filter. Maybe there was another perfectly reasonable explanation.

But the timing was certainly interesting.

And standing there, freshly returned from weeks in the South, reading yet another announcement that this restaurant was hiring, I felt my optimism deflate just a little.

Welcome back to Pennsylvania. 

The bay isn’t the only thing I miss about Fairhope. 

I missed being welcomed.

Not in some grand way. Nobody in Alabama was waiting at the city limits with a sash and a fruit basket.

It was tiny things.

“Welcome in!”

“Morning!”

“How are you today?”

A wave.

A cashier who talked to you.

A stranger who acted as though noticing another human being wasn't an unreasonable demand on her afternoon.

Those things seem ridiculously small until you spend several weeks receiving them all day long. Then you go somewhere they happen less frequently and realize you've been living on tiny doses of human connection without even knowing it.

Three seconds here. Five seconds there.

Little droplets of belonging.

We spend an enormous amount of time deciding where to live based on property taxes, home prices, school districts, commute times and whether there's a Costco within twenty minutes. We discuss climate in terms of average rainfall and January temperatures.

But I'm beginning to think places have another kind of climate.

An emotional one.

Do people look at each other? Do strangers talk? Does someone hold the door? Does the cashier chat with you? Does a person riding a bicycle bother saying good morning to a woman who can't even see her?

Does ordinary life feel warm?

I've always believed belonging is one of our basic human drives. What I hadn't realized was how much belonging can be delivered in three-second increments.

I still live in Pennsylvania.

For now.

And I suppose I have two choices. I can spend my time complaining that people here don't say good morning enough, which would make me delightful company, or I can start saying it myself.

So I will.

I'll say good morning. I'll compliment somebody's flowers. I'll talk to the cashier. I'll wave at strangers.

Some Pennsylvanian may eventually report me to the township.

That's a risk I'm willing to take.

Because maybe I brought something home from Alabama besides photographs, an alarming credit-card bill and an unhealthy obsession with Fairhope real estate.

Maybe I learned that until I can live in the kind of place I want to live, I can at least be the kind of person I loved encountering there.

So tomorrow morning, I'll go for a walk.

If I pass you, don't panic.

I'm probably just going to say good morning.

Bless Your Heart. That’ll Be $1,470!

While the world slept, okay, maybe not the whole world, but certainly my neighbors on Morphy Avenue in Fairhope, my car alarm started...well...alarming.

 

Luckily, I’d already been awake since 2 a.m.

It was now 5.

We’d had a thunderstorm the night before, the kind where the bloated, angry sky unleashes torrents of rain as if it has a personal grievance against the earth.

I ran down the stairs of my Airbnb (22 stairs, my birthdate) and stepped outside. The hot, humid air clung to my skin like Saran Wrap.

I shut off the alarm.

Then I tried to lock the car.

Click.

Locked.

And a split second later:

Click-click-click-click.

Every door unlocked itself.

Oh no.

I walked around the car. The security lights from the garage illuminated everything well enough for me to see that nothing looked disturbed. No broken window. No sign that anyone had tried to get inside.

I tried the locks again.

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Same thing.

Oh no.

This had to be electrical.

And then I remembered the rain.

I opened the passenger door and discovered the front floor was wet.

Really wet.

My car had been parked overnight on a steep driveway, nose pointed downhill, resting in what I can only describe as automotive downward dog.

And now the panic rushed through me like its own electrical malfunction.

It was Friday.

I was supposed to leave Fairhope Sunday.

I was more than 1,000 miles from home.

I didn’t have a trusted mechanic here.

I knew enough to know I needed to get the wet area dry, but I didn't have quick access to a shop vac like I would have at home.

Looking back, I probably should have called one of the people I’d met: Sandy, Stacy, Betsy, Mike, Lila, or my Airbnb hosts, Wanda and Larry.

But it was five in the morning.

And I have this me problem of not wanting to bother other people with my problems.

So I waited.

At 8 a.m., I headed straight to the place where I’d recently had my oil changed.

I loved this place, by the way. You sat right in your car while they worked. Fast, efficient, no fuss.

During my oil change less than a week earlier, they had pulled out my engine air filter.

It was disgusting.

They showed it to me, then replaced it while I watched. Out came the filthy old one. In went a brand-new, blinding-white filter.

Remember that part.

It becomes important.

That morning I spoke to Jake, the manager. He told me they couldn't fix my current problem, but he had worked on Toyota and Lexus vehicles for more than twenty years and suspected water had gotten into the electrical system. He even knew where the security components were located.

He recommended Eastern Shore Toyota in Daphne, about ten or fifteen minutes away.

By the time I got there, my imagination had produced approximately 147 different scenarios involving my inability to get home Sunday.

At that point, I would have been thrilled just to make it back to the Airbnb.

Then came the good news.

Mark, one of the service advisers, said he'd make room in the schedule and get me right in.

He checked the sunroof drains.

Clogged.

Did you know sunroofs have drains that can clog?

I did not.

My husband did not.

My daughter did! Someone smart had told her that somewhere along the way!

Apparently she is now the family sunroof authority.

They took my car back.

I stumbled inside, enormously relieved.

Maybe my dad in heaven was looking out for me.

My father had worked as a service manager for years before opening his own auto-parts store. My dad could fix practically anything. More importantly, he was the kind of mechanic everyone wishes she had: honest, helpful and incapable of selling you something you didn't need.

And once inside, I discovered this Toyota dealership had a café in it.

A café!

Wow, I thought. This is really nice.

I was looking for positives.

Unfortunately, the positives were about to acquire price tags.

Mark returned with a list of things my car needed.

A new battery.

Okay. Maybe?

A brake-fluid flush.

Okay. Maybe?

A cabin-air filter.

Hmm.

And a new engine air filter.

Wait.

What?

That was the moment my own internal security system started alarming.

I knew that air filter was new. I had watched them put it in. Less than a week earlier, and I hadn't driven more than about fifty miles since.

I called my husband.

Now both of us were suspicious.

The cabin-filter recommendation bothered us, too. We'd had mechanics warn us in the past about unnecessary maintenance add-ons, so I began declining some of the additional work.

That's when, as I remember the conversation with Mark, the warnings became considerably more frightening as Mark took on a concerned look:

There had been water in my car.

What about mold?

What about mold spores?

Didn’t I care about what I might be breathing into my lungs?

Well.

I happen to be rather fond of my lungs.

Suddenly I wasn't simply deciding whether I wanted an optional maintenance service. I was standing more than 1,000 miles from home, preparing for a multi-day drive back to Pennsylvania, wondering whether declining something could jeopardize my health.

Then I brought up the engine air filter.

I told Mark it had been replaced less than a week earlier.

His response surprised me even more.

He told me they'd already replaced it, but he'd give me a coupon so there would be no charge.

Well.

How generous.

Except I couldn't get past one question:

Why had a service I hadn't authorized already been performed?

The original repair to address the clogged sunroof drains, wet electrical connections and malfunctioning locks was $475.

By the time all the recommended services were added, my bill had ballooned to roughly $1,470.

And that was with my complimentary replacement of my practically-new air filter.

Then there was more good news.

I was told that Evan, the mechanic, had replaced a broken hose free of charge, and that this had caused my check-engine light to go off.

This would have been considerably more exciting if I didn't already have a longstanding relationship with my check-engine light.

We're practically family.

Every time that light is reset, it comes back on.

It passes it’s inspection and emissions.

But dang if it doesn’t love to shine brightly.

We’ve made peace with each other.

At this point, something had shifted for me.

The man I'd initially been enormously grateful to was now someone whose recommendations I couldn’t trust.

Maybe every recommendation was legitimate.

Maybe some were.

Maybe none of this was unusual dealership maintenance.

I didn't know.

And that was precisely the problem.

I wasn't home.

I couldn't call my regular mechanic and drive over for a second opinion.

I couldn't leave the car overnight and figure it out tomorrow.

I had to leave Sunday.

I knew that, Mark knew that, and Evan the mechanic knew that.

And now another thought crept into my head.

What if I irritated this man by continuing to question him?

Was that rational?

Maybe not.

But I have worked in restaurants, and I'm also the woman who doesn't send food back to the kitchen because some tiny part of my brain imagines an angry cook rubbing my replacement hamburger across the floor.

Rare?

Of course.

Impossible?

I've worked in restaurants.

So now my imagination had moved on to my car.

What if somebody got angry because I questioned the recommendations?

Would my car be treated carefully?

Would something be overlooked?

Would I discover the consequences somewhere on an interstate in Virginia?

Again, maybe completely irrational.

But fear doesn't require supporting documentation.

And I needed that car to get me home.

Mark was the rock and the hard place.

And I was more than 1,000 miles from home.

So I finally said:

“Fine. Fix it all.”

Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

More than four hours after I'd been told it would take about two and a half.

My husband offered to help pay for the repairs. He wasn't happy about the situation either, but from Pennsylvania there wasn't much he could do.

Eventually, I got my car back.

And I made it home safely.

That's the good news.

My check engine light (that he fixed for free!) came back on the morning I left the cutest Airbnb in North Carlolina.

“Welcome back.” I laughed. Because at this point, it’s all I could do.

But there's another part of this story that has bothered me ever since.

I had loved Fairhope.

My Seeking Southern Charm Book Tour had given me so many of the things I'd gone looking for: friendliness, warmth, conversations with strangers, people willing to help one another.

And this experience left a little bruise on the memory.

Which isn't really fair to Fairhope.

The dealership wasn't even in Fairhope. It was in Daphne.

More importantly, what happened wasn't a Southern problem.

I live outside Philadelphia.

Believe me, dealerships and repair shops capable of turning one problem into twelve recommended services have managed to migrate north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

This isn't a Northeastern problem.

It isn't a Southern problem.

It's an industry problem.

And looking back, I keep wondering what I could have done differently.

Maybe I should have called Sandy or Stacy or Betsy or Mike or Lila.

Maybe I should have called Wanda and Larry.

Maybe one of them would have said, Birdie, take it to Joe over on Such-and-Such Road. He'll take care of you.

Maybe the better lesson isn't that you can never trust a mechanic.

My dad was proof that you can.

Maybe the lesson is that fear is expensive.

When you're far from home, short on time, dependent on an expert and unable to tell for yourself which recommendations are essential and which aren't, peace of mind becomes something people can sell you.

And I bought it.

For roughly $1,470.

Except the funny thing is, it didn't actually buy me peace.

It bought me a wish and a prayer that my car had been treated carefully and would get me all the way back to Pennsylvania.

It did.

And I'm grateful for that.

But as I sat in that dealership waiting for my car, I kept looking at that beautiful café I'd been so impressed by when I first walked in.

Wow. This is really nice.

By then, I was thinking something else.

Of course it is.

Somebody's paying for it.

And that day, apparently, somebody was me.

ps...Shout Out to my hometown service department: Reese's Garage in Silverdale, PA. I've always appreciated them, but now, even more so! 

Roll Tide, War Eagle, and the Great Fairhope Hat Confusion

Let me just get this out of the way up front: I am a fairweather fan, and I regret nothing.

 

I know, I know. Where I come from, that's practically a punishable offense. In Pennsylvania, loyalty to a team is a birthright, passed down like grandma's china and just as fragile if you drop it. You pick your team in the cradle, and you stick with them through fifty-loss seasons, bad quarterbacks, and owners who clearly hate joy. That's just how it's done.

 

Except I never got that memo. I loved the Eagles right up until Andy Reid left, and then — plot twist — I decided I loved the Chiefs instead, because apparently my loyalty follows coaches, not cities. Then Kansas City started winning every single year, and something in me rebelled. I don't want a team that wins all the time. Where's the fun in that? Give me an underdog. Give me heartbreak I can recover from by Tuesday.

 

So last year, fed up with how political the NFL had gotten — I just want to watch a game, not sit through a lecture — I switched my allegiance to college football. Specifically, the SEC. I started with the Tennessee Volunteers, because, duh, I love Country Music. It seemed fitting.

 

Then I took my Southern road trip this summer.

 

Somewhere between falling in love with Charleston and falling in love with Beaufort, I started daydreaming about a lottery-winning future where I split my time between the two. And then I landed in Fairhope, Alabama, and promptly fell in love all over again, because apparently my heart has no loyalty there either.

 

Naturally, that meant I needed a new team. South Carolina Gamecocks? Alabama Crimson Tide? I didn't even know if the Gamecocks were SEC (they are — I looked it up). But "Roll Tide" is just so much easier to shout than anything Gamecock-related, so Alabama it was.

 

I wandered into the cutest little boutique in Fairhope, the Cat’s Meow,  and found two ballcaps: a red one with a big letter A, and a blue one with the same letter A. Obviously — obviously — these were both Alabama hats. Red, blue, who's counting? I grabbed the blue one, and declared loudly to everyone that I was officially Team Roll Tide!

 

The sweetest, most helpful employee panicked. She looked at my hat. Then she looked at me. Then she asked, very carefully, if I was from Tuscaloosa.

 "No," I said, “I’m from Pennsylvania!"

 “Oh, NO. No…that is not an Alabama hat, honey, that is an Auburn hat!”

She kindly steered me toward the red hat, the actual Roll Tide hat, and saved me from a lifetime of confusing strangers and possibly a stint on Alabama’s most wanted list, as this particular mistake is basically a felony in these parts.

 I told my husband the story later, fully delighted with myself. He said I should be embarrassed.

 I said — why? This is a great story. This is peak me. A Pennsylvania girl, several states from home, accidentally pledging herself to both sides of the Iron Bowl in the same sixty seconds, laughing about it with a stranger in a boutique. That's not embarrassing. That's Southern charm doing exactly what it does best — turning a tourist's mistake into a memory worth keeping.

 So here I am, red hat on, hollering Roll Tide with total confidence now. Underdog status pending. Loyalty subject to change without notice.

That's just my nature.

And y’all know what’s coming next…

Roll Tide!

Carole Radziwill: The "Journalist" Who Missed the Crime of the Century

Imagine a town square where everyone gathers to gossip about the neighbors. It’s a place where you talk about who’s wearing what, who’s feuding with whom, and which socialite is currently acting out. It’s light, it’s petty, and it’s arguably a waste of time—but it’s a place where people feel they belong.

Now, imagine that one day, you walk into that square and bring up a fact that everyone knows but nobody is supposed to mention: that a local favorite—a woman who famously touted her credentials as a serious, investigative journalist—happens to be tied to a truly dark scandal. We’re talking about the global web of Jeffrey Epstein, a man whose operation is widely considered the crime of the century. You aren’t shouting; you’re just pointing at the evidence.

Suddenly, the town elders descend. They don't argue with your facts. Instead, they tell you that bringing up such things is "too political," or that you’re just "making things up." Then, they escort you out of the square and lock the gates behind you.

This isn't a hypothetical. It’s exactly what happens every day on websites like Reddit, which are essentially massive, digital town squares.

I recently pointed out the inconvenient reality of Carole Radziwill’s proximity to this scandal. Carole is former reality television star—whose name has surfaced in the files of the late Jeffrey Epstein. She's also coming back to the Real Housewives of NYC. Carole - a Journalist. Darling of the Elite Left. I didn't invent a conspiracy; I pointed to the public record. Within minutes, the moderators—the self-appointed gatekeepers of these digital spaces—scrubbed the post. They claimed it was a "political discussion," which is a fancy way of saying, "We don't want to talk about this, so we’re banning the topic." You’d think a self-described "journalist" would be the first person to demand transparency, to clear her name, or to help us understand how a convicted sex trafficker was taking her author photos!

But let’s be honest about the real policy here. If a public figure who didn't share the political or social leanings of the "In-Group" - let's say, Kelly Dodd, who is on the opposite political spectrum, were caught in that same scandal, the town square wouldn't be silent. It would be a riot. They would be demanding justice, printing flyers, and screaming from the rooftops. Because the target in this case is one of "theirs," however, the rules of reality suddenly change. The truth becomes "speculation," and holding someone accountable becomes "bigotry."

This is the work of what I call "Happiness Hijackers." They are the people who manage these spaces, and their goal isn't to foster open conversation; it's to enforce a specific kind of belonging. They want you to stay within the lines, to agree on who the "good" people are and who the "bad" people are, regardless of the evidence.

The Hijackers operate by making the cost of questioning the narrative too high. If you want to stay in the group, you have to be willing to look the other way when it’s convenient. You have to be willing to ignore the skeletons in the closet if they belong to someone you like.

What is censored is exactly what they are terrified of. They aren't afraid of a random post; they are afraid of the collective realization that the world is much darker, and much more interconnected, than they want us to believe. They want us to stay in the shallow end of the pool, worrying about the trivial gossip, rather than asking why a "journalist" managed to miss the biggest crime of our lifetime while walking right through the center of it.

So, my post was removed. The "Happiness Hijackers" have spoken. They’ve successfully purged the dissent, restored the order, and ensured that the members of the congregation can go back to their regularly scheduled programming, unbothered by the messy, inconvenient reality of the world outside.

I think I prefer being outside, anyway.  The air is fresher, the truth is louder, and the company is much more interesting.

The next time you see someone being silenced online, don't assume they’re wrong. Ask yourself: Who is so terrified of what they’re saying that they had to build a wall to stop it? I’ve learned my lesson: if you aren't making the Hijackers uncomfortable, you probably aren't telling the truth. And as for the ban? Sorry Reddit! I'd rather be banned than blind.

Carole Radziwill is a former Real Housewives of New York City cast member (2012–2018), a journalist, and an author. She's connected to the Kennedy family through her late husband, Anthony Radziwill, John F. Kennedy Jr.'s cousin, who died in 1999. Her 2005 memoir is:What Remains: A Memoir of Fate, Friendship and Love. She's been hired back by Bravo, and I'm sure we can expect a-lot of gaslighting about the Epstein connection. 

The Ghislaine Maxwell Photo

This is the detail that keeps getting brought up. Ghislaine Maxwell took Radziwill's author photo for the jacket of What Remains, published in 2005. That's the concrete, documented overlap—Maxwell is literally credited as the photographer on the book.

It's a strange, unsettling detail in hindsight. The woman later convicted of trafficking minors for Epstein is the one holding the camera for a grieving widow's memoir about love and loss. The juxtaposition writes itself.

Timeline of the Friendship

Here's how the sequence plays out based on what's been reported and what Radziwill herself has said:

Early 2000s — Radziwill and Maxwell become friends, running in overlapping New York and international social circles. Radziwill estimates the friendship lasted five or six years.

2005 — Maxwell photographs Radziwill's author photo for What Remains. This dates the friendship squarely in that early-to-mid-2000s window.

Mid-to-late 2000s — The friendship fades. Radziwill says it ended well before Epstein's crimes became widely public.

2012–2018 — Radziwill stars on RHONY; the Epstein/Maxwell connection isn't a storyline.

December 2021 — Maxwell is convicted of sex trafficking of a minor and conspiracy. Sentenced to 20 years in June 2022.

September 2025 — Radziwill publicly acknowledges she knew Maxwell "socially," denying any knowledge of Epstein's activities.

Late 2025 / early 2026 — A tranche of Epstein-related documents is released, and Radziwill's name surfaces in the files.

March 2026 — Radziwill breaks her silence in a New York Times interview. She's also announced to return for RHONY Season 16, which immediately stokes controversy.

What's Actually in the Files

The documents include:

Emails between Radziwill and Maxwell — in one, Maxwell gushes that Radziwill is "the most wonderful, the most beautiful, the smartest, the best, the brightest," signing off as "your BF friend."

Messages Maxwell sent to others about Radziwill, including to Ted Waitt (the Bill Clinton donor and billionaire) and Teresa DiFalco, Radziwill's sister-in-law and memoir editor.

An FBI document noting Radziwill was in Epstein's black book and had visited Maxwell's New York home.

Being in the black book isn't a crime—hundreds of names are in it—but it does mean her contact information sat in Epstein's personal Rolodex, which is exactly the kind of detail that keeps this story alive.

Her Epstein Clean Washing

Radziwill's consistent line, repeated across the NYT interview and earlier statements:

She was friends with Maxwell for five to six years in the early 2000s.

She "never knew Jeffrey Epstein" — only saw him in passing at a party Maxwell hosted.

Maxwell never mentioned Epstein to her during their friendship.

She describes the friendship as social, not deeply personal, and insists she never witnessed or was privy to any criminal activity.

Her famous framing: "If you lined up 10 women and you asked, like, pick the woman who would be involved in an international sex trafficking ring, it would not be her."

The subtext of that quote is doing a lot of work. It's her way of saying Maxwell's entire social persona was a carefully constructed mask—which, if you believe Maxwell was Epstein's chief procurer, is precisely the point. Predators in elite circles don't advertise.

The Bigger Picture

A few honest observations:

Proximity isn't guilt. Plenty of wealthy, connected people orbited Epstein and Maxwell without being complicit. The black book and party attendance alone prove nothing criminal.

But the "I never knew" defense has limits. After all, she claims to be a JOURNALIST. Epstein was first accused in 1996 in the Southern District of New York. The bitter irony is that Carole Radziwill built her entire Real Housewives brand on the claim that she's a "real journalist" — an Emmy-winning ABC News producer who covered war zones and wrote a memoir — yet she spent two decades embedded in the exact New York media and social circles where Epstein's intimidation of Vicky Ward and Graydon Carter was well known. The severed cat head, the bullet on the stoop, Epstein striding into Carter's office, the gutting of the Farmer sisters' allegations — this wasn't buried in a sealed vault; it was whispered among the very Manhattan literati Radziwill ran with, and she was married into the Kennedy orbit, ground zero for the high-society set Epstein cultivated. So for her to posture as a serious journalist while claiming total innocence and ignorance of the man everyone in that room knew was a predator means one of two things: either she's a genuinely terrible journalist who somehow missed the biggest open secret in her own backyard, or she's being less than honest about what she knew. Neither is a good look for someone who sells herself on her investigative credibility — and the fact that she'd rather trade on the "journalist" label than acknowledge the cover-up she breathed the same air as says everything about how that label actually gets earned in Manhattan.

The uncomfortable truth of the whole Epstein saga is that it implicates a sprawling network of elites - Right, Left, Tech Bros, Financial Bros, Entertainment Bros, Ivy League Bros, who all maintain the same posture: I knew the monster socially and I never saw a thing! Radziwill's story is one more data point in that pattern—and the fact that she's now getting her "apple" back and being placed on a Bravo show says something about who actually faces consequences. 

Nobody. 

The Happiness Hijacker at Yoga Class Or: How I Learned to Spot Moral Capture in Downward Dog

It’s ironic (but not really, it’s the way my life unfolds) that I came South to avoid politics for awhile and yet, found myself right back in the fray at...of all things...my Yoga class!

Some lovely women invited me to coffee after my first class. I explained why I was in Fairhope, what my book Sorry Bob! was about. That I was turning away from divisive politics and searching for more unity, more common ground, more common sense.  They were sympathetic and eagerly shared the name of a Substack spiritual writer: Cameron Trimble. Someone non-partisan, they said. Someone who talks about healing and unity and the spiritual work of seeing each other clearly “Just what you’re looking for!” 

I gave it a real shot. I wanted to like it. I wanted to believe there was a voice out there that genuinely transcended the noise.

Instead, I found the clearest example yet of something I've been writing about in my book. She is a Spiritual Happiness Hijacker. One of the worst kind, a “hidden” hijacker.  She wears the cloak of "I'm here to help you heal" while actually doing the opposite: gently, warmly, spiritually prodding you toward her political beliefs — and hiding the whole operation under moral capture. I’ve included her essay below mine, as well as a link to her work so you can read it and make your own conclusion. 

What I was promised:

A spiritual teacher. Someone above the fray. Someone who would help me see my own blind spots, my own capacity for contempt, my own log.

What I got:

A political sermon wearing a meditation shawl.

The signs:

I've learned to recognize the pattern now. It's not subtle once you know what you're looking at. But here's the thing that makes it dangerous: when we're searching for ideas that confirm what we already believe, we discount the warning signs. We want the teacher to be real, so we ignore the tells.

Here's what I look for now:

The universal opening. She starts with something no decent person could disagree with. We shouldn't dehumanize each other. Labels are spells. Grief is real. Everyone nods. Including me.

The pivot. Then comes the hinge — usually a single sentence, easy to miss if you're already nodding. "Of course, the threats are not equal." That's the moment the sermon stops being about all of us and starts being about them. The universal principle just got a carve-out, and the carve-out always benefits the person speaking.

The one-sided diagnosis. From here on, one side gets understood, humanized, given the benefit of the doubt. The other side (the Right) gets diagnosed. The “Rights” grief is "understandable but rooted in exclusion." The Right’s fears are "misplaced." And just like that, she is doing in her essay what she claimed we should stop doing. The right are not people anymore. They're a problem to be managed.

Then we have the absent mirror. This is the biggest tell. In thousands of words about dehumanization, the author never once asks what log is in her own eye. Never once says "here's how I dehumanize my enemies." Never admits to a single thing that costs her. She is always the one who sees clearly, never the one who is seen.

The loaded questions. Same trick my daughters fourth-grade teacher used when trying to coax my daughter into politics and into the democrat party: "Do you think we should protect the vulnerable?" Yes, obviously. "Then you agree with my politics." No — I agreed with basic decency. You just stuffed your platform inside it and handed it back to me like I ordered it.

The hypocrisy:

Here's where it gets almost funny. The entire piece is an argument against dehumanization — and it is, itself, an act of dehumanization.

She tells us not to turn people into categories. Then she spends the essay sorting her opponents into categories.

She tells us to notice the spell of political labels. Then she casts the spell — just with her own labels.

She tells us to ask what fear or grief drives someone to a position we hate. Then she asks that question about her own side, and only about her own side.

She quotes Jesus on the log in the eye. Then she spends three thousand words removing specks from eyes she has never met, while insisting her own vision is already clear.

The piece doesn't fail at its stated goal. It is the thing it warns against. It just does it with better lighting and a softer voice.

Why we fall for it:

This is the part I keep coming back to, because it's the part I'm still working on myself.

We fall for the happiness hijacker because often times, we want to. We want a teacher who tells us we're basically good and the problem is out there. We want our anger blessed. We want our contempt called courage. We want to feel like we're doing spiritual work without having to do the actual work — which is looking at ourselves.

The spiritual happiness hijacker offers that. She offers reassurance dressed as challenge. She makes you feel like you're growing while you're really just being recruited.

What a real teacher would have written:

A real teacher, someone actually doing the work of seeing clearly, would have asked herself the hard questions first.

How do I dehumanize the people whose politics scare me?

What label do I reach for when I want to stop listening?

What would it cost me to admit that some of my opponents are grieving something real?

Where is my log?

She didn't. She couldn't. Because a real answer to any of those questions would have ruined the sermon.

The takeaway:

I'm not saying Rev. Trimble is a bad person. I don't know her. I'm saying she's doing a thing — and that thing is everywhere, in yoga studios and pulpits and wellness newsletters and think pieces, all of it wearing the same gentle, wise, "I'm just here to help" face.

Learn to see it. Not so you can dismiss everyone who disagrees with you. So you can tell the difference between someone who wants to help you think and someone who wants to help you agree.

The first one will make you uncomfortable. The second one will make you feel wonderful.

That's how you know.

Below is Rev. Trimbles essay that I wanted to love but quickly spotted the patterns of cloaked divisiveness. 

https://substack.com/@camerontrimble

The Spell of the Enemy

A Meditation by Rev. Cameron Trimble

Rev. Cameron Trimble

Aug 04, 2026

“Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye but do not notice the log in your own eye?” —Matthew 7:3 (NRSVUE)

We are living in a time of frightening words: Fascist. Communist. Socialist. Traitor. Marxist. Nazi.

Some of these words refer to real political ideas. Sometimes, they help us see real threats. The current administration has often pushed the limits of presidential power, challenged democratic institutions, and treated vulnerable people as if they do not matter. We need words that are honest about this. If we avoid calling out authoritarianism, it does not make us kinder. It just makes it easier for others to control us through fear.

But when these words show up in our political debates, they stop describing actions and start defining people completely.

“He is a fascist.”

“She is a communist.”

“They are destroying America.”

After we use these labels, we stop listening. We stop asking what fear, loss, or hope led someone here. By calling them the enemy, we feel allowed to ignore them.

The accusation becomes a kind of spell.

When this happens, we start to see our political opponents as less than human. Everything they do seems to prove what we already think about them. Every election feels like the last chance to save the country. Every compromise feels like giving up. Every loss feels like proof that the system is rigged. We stop being curious, because being curious feels risky. This is how a society becomes trapped inside its own fear.

I want to be careful here. The threats are not equal. The Trump administration holds the enormous power of the federal government and has used that power in ways that threaten democratic institutions and place already vulnerable people in greater danger. The growing democratic socialist movement does not possess comparable power, nor does it pose the same threat. Its calls for health care, housing, worker protections, and a more equitable distribution of wealth emerge from real suffering in a country where millions of people work hard and still cannot afford to live.

Being honest about right and wrong means we have to see that difference. It also means noticing how easily we all fall into the habit of turning others into enemies.

If you listen closely to the accusations, you can hear sadness underneath. Factories have closed. Family farms are gone. Small towns have emptied out. Wages have not kept up with the cost of living. Parents who hoped their children would have better lives now see them struggle to pay for rent, health care, or school. The promise at the heart of the American story, that each generation would do better than the last, has been broken. People feel the breaking, even when they do not have words for it.

Some people who support MAGA are mourning the loss of a world where white Christian identity shaped public life. That world gave some people a sense of belonging and meaning, but it did so by leaving others out. For those who grew up believing this was normal and right, its end can feel unsettling.

Many people on the democratic left feel a different kind of grief. They mourn the promise of a multiracial democracy that has not been fulfilled. They are upset by the huge gap between the very rich and those who have to choose between medicine and food. They grieve for lives hurt by racism, unfair work, environmental harm, and being ignored by politics.

These kinds of grief are not the same, but they are both real. When we cannot talk honestly about our grief, we often look for someone to blame.

That might be where we are today. We face losses that are too big and complex to handle, so we turn them into enemies we think we can fight.

We blame immigrants for struggling towns. We blame billionaires for a broken economy. We call MAGA voters monsters and socialists thieves. We take problems that have built up over generations and put a face on them so we have someone to hate. When we are scared, hating someone can feel powerful.

But hate can also stop us from seeing a deeper truth: many of our problems cannot be fixed just by beating one political group. This country was built on stolen land, enslaved labor, cheap energy, and the idea that growth could go on forever, even though the planet has limits. Both major parties have relied on this system. Both have promised that, with better leaders and policies, things can keep going as they are.

But now, the system is destroying the things we need to live. Our soil is worn out. The climate is changing in dangerous ways. Our communities are tired. Money keeps going to the top, while loneliness, sickness, and sadness spread. No old label can really describe the world we are living in now.

Maybe that is why we are so afraid. We do not know what will happen next. So we turn to old enemies and old stories: fascism versus communism, freedom versus tyranny, real Americans versus those who want to destroy America. Using these old words makes the world feel understandable again. It tells us who we are and who we should fight.

Jesus once asked why we see the small fault in someone else but ignore the big fault in ourselves. He was not saying we should ignore what is wrong. He wanted us to see how judging others can keep us from looking at ourselves.

What is the log in our collective eye? Maybe it is our wish to see ourselves as innocent. We want to believe that only the other side is cruel. We want our own fear to look like virtue, our contempt to look like courage, and our desire for power to look like justice. We hope that if our side wins big enough, we will finally be safe.

But no political victory can heal grief we refuse to grieve. We need to do more than just be polite. We must call out authoritarianism when we see it. We must stand against policies that cause harm. We must protect people who are targeted by the government. We must speak honestly about unfairness and racism.

As we do this, we also need to protect our own humanity. We should not let ourselves enjoy putting the worst label on someone else. We need to be curious about what pain lies behind anger, even our own. We must learn to grieve what is lost without blaming others for it.

This week, pay attention to the words you use for people whose politics scare or upset you. Ask yourself what the word shows, what it hides, and what it lets you ignore.

Then try to speak more precisely. Name the action. Name the harm. Name the history. Protect the person in danger. Oppose what must be opposed…

But do not let yourself be taken over by hatred for the enemy.

We are in this together,

Cameron

Places Like Fairhope Alabama Could Put Pharmaceutical Companies Out of Business!

 

Good Morning from Fairhope, Alabama!

Well, this is my second to last Sunday here in Fairhope. I'm already sad to be leaving. But, a bit surprisingly, I'll be happy to return home. Not to Pennsylvania, per se, but to see my family. And also to be home, where every object has its designated place, meaning my brain has more space to allow room for writing.

One lesson I've learned on this 7 week journey…my brain still works! Mostly. Traveling days — going to unknown places, unpacking for a week, sightseeing, trying to write, chatting to strangers, parallel parking (of which I'm horrible at, but oddly, have gotten pretty good at down South), having anxiety whenever I have to use a roundabout (also, have gotten pretty good at down here), repacking only to do it all over again…causes my brain to feel like a circuit breaker tripped from overload, leaving me dang well exhausted.

Since landing in town in Fairhope, not a morning walk goes by without meeting people who are only happy to offer advice on things to do, places to eat, and events to attend.

I've met Chad and Amy, Jim Waters and Gus, and Dr. Izzy.

I stopped off at the Tiki Bar at the American Legion so I could watch the sunset from their beach, and I was going to put my Diet Coke on my credit card, when a lady behind me told the bartender to put it on her tab. I believe her name was Courtney, but I may be wrong (like I said, my brain is crowded right now!) but I do know she is a great karaoke singer, as is the bartender at the tiki bar, because they were lauding each other's excellent singing chops.

And then, of course, the awesome women (and men!) from the yoga studio immediately invited me out for coffee and gave me more advice: "Get a massage from Kristen Kelly at the Lotus" (and so I did, and it was the most relaxed I've been since…I can't remember!).

I also think I've lost about 10 pounds with all the walking (and let's be honest, sweating (or, as they call it in the South, glistening!)) and all the clothes I brought with me are baggy and far too roomy.

Oh, I also met Chris. It's his 77th birthday today! I was taking photos of the lovely yellow flowers decorating his mailbox, and he came out to talk to me. Which led to an invite to sit on his porch, where he told me all about the Jubilee here in Fairhope (more on that later!) and how he became a respiratory therapist, and how his company sent him to Fairhope (he had requested Alaska!) but he's so glad it worked out the way it did, since Fairhope is…well, Fairhope!

And that's the thing about Fairhope. I go out for a walk, and it becomes a Dr. Seuss book, "Oh The People You Meet!"

I suppose if more places were like Fairhope, the pharmaceutical companies would be out of business. My sleep is better. My mental health hasn't felt this good since…honestly can't remember! It's community. It's nature. It's exercise. It's the pelicans. It's the flowers. It's the kindness. It's the bay and the beach. It's the jumping fish (mullets).

I'm so sad to be leaving, but I'll be taking the lessons about small town living with me. If I can't be in Fairhope, I can bring the spirit of Fairhope with me wherever I go.

The Truth About Belonging

We say we love truth tellers. We don't. Not really.

We love the movie version — the whistleblower who wins in the end, vindicated, applauded, everyone suddenly pretending they were on her side all along. But the real truth tellers? The ones who spoke up and lost friends, lost jobs, lost their place at the table? We look away. Not because we don’t believe them, but because the media or the people who are “in charge” do not want the real truth out there. The truth tellers are painted as difficult. A little crazy. A tinge unhinged.  

I know this story. I've been living it since I was a freshman in a very small Midwestern Catholic school. My best friend was having an affair with a teacher — a married man with children, a family friend of their family. When her parents found the letters, they came to me. They already knew. They just needed me to say it out loud. So I did. They cried. I cried. 

Mr. Zick was made to resign. Quietly. He moved not too far away and became a basketball coach and teacher at another school. No charges. No consequences. Just a fresh start down the road. I told the truth and the whole institution turned on me. Not so much my best friend, because she did not squeal on him, I did. Students were mad at me. The gym teacher/football coach was mad at me, and even called me into his office to tell me that she wasn’t his first affair and named girls I knew who had graduated. 

The lesson was clear: belonging has a price, and the price is silence. 

And here's the thing…I want to belong. Most of us do. Belonging isn't weakness. It's human. It's wired into us from the days when being cast out of the tribe meant you didn't survive. We want to be liked. We want to fit in. We want someone to save us a seat.

But what happens when fitting in means shutting up? When belonging has a price tag and the price is your silence?

I've wrestled with that my whole life. The truth-teller part of me — the part I think I was just born with — keeps opening my mouth. And the belonging part of me tells me to be silent. 

Up North — and I say this having lived in Bucks County, Pennsylvania since the 1900’s (haha, late 1900’s) — people want to figure you out immediately. What's your politics? What's your stance? Which team are you on? They sniff around for your tribal affiliation before they decide whether to let you in. It's exhausting. It's cold. If you don’t check this box, and this box, and the people claiming to be the most tolerant were the least.

Then I came on this seeking Southern Charm book tour. 

Down here, something different happens. People have manners. They take pride in themselves — not in a fussy way, but in a "I'm going to change out of my pajamas into real clothes before I  leave the house" way. They look you in the eye. They smile. They say hello. They ask how you’re day is going, and they wait for an answer. 

And they don't lead with politics. They don't open with ideology. The old adage still holds in the places

I've visited — you don't talk politics, sex, or religion at the dinner table. Not because people don't have opinions. Because hospitality comes first. Because making someone feel welcome matters more than winning an argument.

Sure, they might ask what church you go to. But as it was explained to me by a gentleman in the Book Cellar in Fairhope (which is a little bar attached to the Page and Palette bookstore) it's not about judging you. It's about making you comfortable. It's about saying, "If church is your thing, here's a good one nearby. We want you to feel at home."

And if you say your church is the moon and the stars, the Pelicans and the sea or if you say you're still figuring it out? They don't flinch. They don't recoil. They open their arms anyway.

That's the difference. That's what my life in Pennsylvania didn't give me and one month in visiting the South did. 

On history tours in Charleston and Beaufort, I was reminded of the history I’d learned but have forgotten…especially in the divisiveness of modern day; the Founders who signed the Declaration of Independence— they lost everything. Their wealth. Their friends. Their safety. They weren't celebrated. They were called traitors. And they signed anyway.

Aristotle said virtue isn't a single brave moment. It's a habit. A lifelong practice. It's never easy. No journey worth taking ever is.

But here's what I'm learning, slowly, in the southern heat and humidity and beauty of Fairhope, Alabama; maybe you don't have to choose between telling the truth and belonging. Maybe you just haven't found your people yet. Maybe they're down here, on a porch somewhere, saving you a seat. Not asking you to be quiet. Not demanding you pick a team. Just glad you showed up.

I'm still on the road. Still telling the truth. Still figuring out where I belong. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I have to apologize for either one.

Yours from the porch,  

Birdie Jane Lane

Seeking Southern Charm: Why I Left Pennsylvania With No Books, No Plan, and No Winter Left in Me

How you can help and/or follow: For a photo journey: Follow me on Instagram @BirdieJaneLane If you enjoy reading, please consider buying my published books if they appeal to you! To follow my Southern Journey thru stories, please visit BirdieJaneLane.com.  And please sign up to be notified for when Sorry Bob! is released. Thank you so much!!! 

I left home on Monday, July 6th. No books in my trunk. Just a bumper sticker that says SorryBob.com, a car full of everything I own for the next 7 weeks, and a bet on myself that I'm honestly too scared to say out loud most days. I've been dreaming about the South for so long, and the time was never right. And then when it finally was, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, our dog Rocky passed suddenly (he was 14, still, we were not expecting it) and that was after our wonderful chocolate lab, Jack, passed 8 months prior. It didn't feel right to leave then. Even though my husband said, "Go! I'll be fine!" (and honestly, he probably wanted the silence!). But, still, I stayed. And then my husband got the 'all clear' this Spring, and so, the dream was back on again, with much less savings and more fear. 

I was a military brat and moved around much of my life. Even when my dad left the Air Force, if he had the itch to leave a place, he would. But, in all those moves, I'd never been in the South. 

I watched Steel Magnoli
as in 1989, a new wife, about to be a new mother, and something about those women on that porch felt more like home than home did. I subscribed to Southern Living for years after that and just... dreamed. I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — Berendt's book came out in January 1994 — and something in me went quiet and paid attention. The South is full of fascinating characters. What a rich, unhinged, fascinating story. Of course there was also Pat Conroy, and one of my favorite Southern authors, Michael Lee West. 

These places kept popping up in my daydreams: Beaufort. Charleston. Savannah. Fairhope.

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores. Bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! (It's very dangerous though, all these bookstores because it's so hard to leave without adding more books to my collection! I am on a tight budget that's already dwindling!)

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores — bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! I walk in and I stand there a minute, the way you do in a place you love. I run my fingers along the spines like I'm looking for something specific, though I'm not. And for just a second, I let myself imagine my own name on one of those shelves.  That's reason enough to go, even before anything else gets decided. I'm waiting to hear from an agent, and if that doesn't come through, I don't know what I go home to — except that I already know I can't survive another Pennsylvania winter, so "home" might not even be the word anymore.

I keep waiting for something to go wrong. That's an old habit of mine — when things go right for too long, I brace for the other shoe. Car trouble. Or Worse.

But after spending three morning's on Sullivan's Island watching the sun rise (sorry to my family for all the sunrise videos and photos!) here's what I keep landing on instead: even if the agent never calls, even if I end up figuring out the rest of this from the front seat of my car — this was still worth it. 

More from the road soon — Beaufort's next, then Savannah!

PS: Every Sunday, you'd find me at the Horsham library farmer's market, elbow-deep in the discount book bin like it's a garage sale at The Lilly Pulitzer. That's where I met Caroline- a volunteer at the library.  She took one look at my Spartina 449 bag and recognized it right away. Unheard of in Yankee Pennsylvania!  She too, felt a calling to the South. She too, felt that calling after reading Goodnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! (I did not, however, mention that I was about to pack up my car and go find out if my Southern soul had a return address- I should have and regretted it immediately after leaving).  Caroline, if you're reading this: we are officially Southern Soul Sisters, and this journey is as much for you as it is for me!

Day Four - Charleston and Sullivans Island!

 Will be back to properly do a write up but for now, I'm going to give you some pictures! For only pictures, please follow me on my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane  !

This was headed to the water taxi that will take us over to Charleston from Mt. Pleasant. Thanks to my airbnb hostess for giving me this tip. So grateful!!!

Love this! Give us your Trash, Gurl! I'm thinking a woman owns the company. Lord knows women can take out the trash better than anyone!!!

The cutest park on Sullivans Island! 

Sunrise on Sullivans Island. 

Harrisonburg VA: A Stars Hollow Glow Up

 

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Day Two on the road, and I think I've found a little slice of heaven in Virginia.

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The Airbnb & Gwen's Southern Hospitality

Let me back up to where it all started: Gwen.

Gwen was my Airbnb host, and she is the very definition of Southern hospitality. On day one, I landed in a place that felt like exactly what I'd been seeking — and I'm discovering it's more the norm than the exception around here. Southern hospitality is actually a real thing, y'all.

The Airbnb itself was absolutely adorable. If you ever need that recommendation, drop me a line and I'll happily share the info. It was charming, cozy, and perfectly set the tone for everything that followed.

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The Magpie Diner — Hallmark Could Never

This morning I went to the Magpie Diner, and let me tell you: Hallmark couldn't even come close to this place.

All the feels. Beautiful, bright, wide-open space. Extremely nice staff. I sat at the counter and ordered biscuits and gravy, and I think I can never make it again at home — because this was hands-down the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in my life. I'm ruined for all other biscuits and gravy now.

Then I asked the server what she recommended from the bakery. She said everybody — including her — loves the vanilla braid. And the gentleman sitting to my right at the counter nodded his head vigorously. Yes. Get the vanilla braid.

So I got the vanilla braid.

And I am here to tell you: it is magnificent. Vanilla-sweet, yet flaky. It's like a croissant, but not as layered as a croissant — yet it has that crispness of a croissant. Oh my goodness. Just trust me on this one.

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Lost Credit Card, Zero Panic

Here's the thing: I left my credit card at the diner.

I didn't realize it until I was browsing the thrift store across town (found some wonderful treasures, by the way — and the people there were so nice too). When I went to pay, it hit me: Oh no. I think I left my card at Magpie.

But here's the beautiful part — I didn't freak out. You know why? Because I knew it would probably be there when I got back.

I drove the four minutes across town in zero traffic (amazing), walked back into the diner, and sure enough — the lady handed me my card immediately. Her name is Kaitlyn, and I love the name Kaitlyn (because family name!) and its one of the best names out there. She told me she tried to run after me but only made it as far as the stop sign before I was gone.

That's Harrisonburg for you. 

The Morning Walk

After breakfast, I took a walk around the neighborhood. Adorable doesn't even cover it. Harrisonburg reminds me of Stars Hollow — but with a glow up. People were out walking, waving, saying good morning. It was garbage day and even the guys on the truck were wearing nice uniforms and were genuinely friendly, calling out good morning as they passed! 

I love that. I love that.

Final Verdict

If I were an influencer, people would be mad at me for broadcasting how wonderful this town is. But since I'm not an influencer, nobody's gonna listen to me — so for the few people who might:

Harrisonburg is probably one of the best towns I have ever been in.

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Oh wait — I forgot to tell y'all about Buccees too. You know what? I'll save Buccees for tomorrow.

I'm currently in North Carolina at a cute little cabin, and I'll post the rest of Day Two along with Day Three when I get to my next stop. Stay tuned!

For photos and videos check out my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane