There’s something about seeing your best friend in her college town that makes you feel famous. Not red carpet famous. The better kind. You know everything about each other, every microdetail. In her conversations with new friends and strangers alike, you are the mysterious hero. You are the hit song playing in the background of all her memories.
Last weekend, I flew to New York to see Miranda for Halloween. For 13 years, she was a drive down the street. Now she’s a flight across the country. You’d think packing lifetimes into three days would feel impossible. It didn’t. The whole weekend flowed like air, and not once did I need a reminder of how valuable the time was. It walked in my heart with every breath. That’s the power of presence that true friendship practically shakes out of you.
The first night, we bent every minute. Within two hours of landing, we had witnessed a bat fight in a convenience store, caught up on every major detail of both our lives, and had a full laughing attack trying to buy face paint, only to walk out with waterproof eyeliner Miranda had to paint her face with. We also left with one of those girls’ trip euphemisms that lasts forever, courtesy of the guy helping us, who said “you get what you” and literally couldn’t finish it. He felt so much pity. Then we were out the door to Oscar Wilde, a Victorian bar, to meet Charlotte and Samantha.
Within three hours, I had my three best friends hugging me. One from sixth grade, one from Barcelona, one from college. Three people who each know a different chapter of me, all dancing in one Halloween-coated room to the best DJ I have ever encountered. It was the perfect amount of Lady Gaga until we realized the four of us had spent last Halloween together too, in Dallas. You can’t plan that kind of fate.
The best laugh of all came when our Uber driver, whose beard reached down to the floor, practically stopped the car after hearing I didn’t bring my dick to New York. (I wore a penis hat to a Halloween party the week before. Context matters.) A close second: crying happy tears as a kid dressed as Gandhi climbed a tree in front of the bar, declared that he had a dream, and then quickly corrected his historical inaccuracy. A closer third: when Charlotte asked a guy if he was a Chipmunk, only to discover he came without a costume.
The night ended with passionfruit juice, empanadas, and a pact: every Halloween together, no matter what or where.
The next day, we woke up at the ripe hour of 11 am and still fit four days into one. Bagels from Wu & Nussbaum. Our favorite coffee from Mama’s, where last December I met my fairy godfather, Tinker Bell, aka my mom’s coworker who gets me like no other. The Met Cloisters, where we walked through another world in sheer presence. Then Hell’s Kitchen, which I learned did not originate with Gordon Ramsay, for sushi with Samantha and free lychee martinis that had us smiling those smiles you lust for. We never made it to our Brooklyn Halloween party. We slipped into The Nightmare Before Christmas instead, and perfection was really perfectioning.
The next morning, on the way to dance at Steps, we watched the marathon. Hundreds of runners passed us with every step, and we just gawked. The sheer power of humanity, running right past us. Not a famous face in the bunch, and I couldn’t look away. Every single one of them willing to run 26.2 miles toward a sign held only by the most important people who know their name.
We stopped to get a bra and met a star, a woman with a personality of sheer gold who had escaped the evil of money as an executive assistant to a Mr. Big. I told her I have a friend who escaped too. She said she was proud of her. A stranger, proud of someone she had never met.
Minutes later, Miranda and I were sitting in a park sharing AirPods, listening to “Sleeping In” while I waited for ballet class. We were talking about the tough reality of being famous. How much life people lose, and how attractive it can still be anyway. And I couldn’t help but wonder: do we actually want to be famous, or do we just want to be known?
Then I got a text.
So, that friend who escaped? She’s a friend of a friend I met in Barcelona and got to see one more time in Dallas. The text was from her.
“Hey Hudson! I got your number, and I just wanted to say I was reading some of your articles, and there is nothing I’ve related to more. I know we only talked briefly about us both navigating international long-distance, but it’s so nice knowing someone is navigating the career/love-life aspect. Anyways, just wanted to say I appreciate what you are doing. You are such a light.”
Then she quoted my own words back to me.
I told her it made me want to cry, and that I had literally just been talking about her. She wrote back, “Crazy that you have people rooting for you when you don’t even know.”
She was right. I had been playing in the background of someone’s life without knowing it. I looked over at Miranda and told her this is the exact kind of influence I want. Knowing exactly who and how I’m reaching someone will forever outweigh anything else. It’s why I do this.
Then I walked into ballet class and saw a woman who looked so familiar. How is that possible? I’m in New York. But the ballet world is small. Small enough that I found the courage to turn around and ask, “Do I know you from somewhere?”
She said, “I could ask you the same thing. I’ve been looking at you, assuming you’re a famous dancer, and that’s why I know you.”
I wanted to bask in the compliment, but I’m pretty sure she only said it because she hadn’t seen me do a pirouette yet.
We soon figured out we both dance at Westside, and next thing you know, I’m chatting with her after class in a Spanish-English mix, learning that her cousin is the lead singer of U2, my favorite band, and that her brother was asked to work on Lemonade, the only album in my Apple Music library for two years.
Maybe I’m not famous famous. But boy, did I enjoy being famous to her, and letting her be famous to me.
We always think we need millions of people to witness who we are. I’m talking to myself here as much as I’m talking to you. But this weekend, fame looked like a best friend who knows every microdetail. Three women who made a pact. A star in a bra shop, proud of someone she’d never met. A text calling me a light. A dancer who thought she knew me, and by the end of class, did. A crowd recognizing you will never beat a few motherfuckers truly knowing you.
You don’t need to be on the radio. You just need to be the song playing in the background of someone’s memories.