Song of Charlottesville.

I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to collect my thoughts on visiting Charlottesville, Virginia over the weekend. I see first the wide delta between the Jen who lived there in college and the Jen who presently taps here at her computer, but also find myself more deeply endeared and connected to the place than I did on my last visit five years ago, when I was pregnant with my son, and experiencing the routine dislocations and heart-swells of expecting a second child. Worrying about whether I would still be able to show my firstborn as much love and attention when the baby arrived exacerbated my experience of outsidership as I watched college students in blithe postures of youth wind their way along the Corner that no longer belonged to me. Everything was changing, and changed. How was it possible that I had called Mr. Magpie “baby” for the first time at The Biltmore, feeling my way through the early days of our relationship, and now I was lumbering my way past it, carrying his second child? My worries felt inapt for the venue. The angles were all wrong.

This visit, I saw still the long kite string between Jen of college years and Jen of now, but in a pleasant way, as though I had occasion to visit with an old friend, and look indulgently on her preferences and peculiarities. When I stood in front of Bryan Hall, where I took most of my classes as an English Major, I felt a benign kind of vertigo. How many hundreds of times had I walked this exact route, carrying problems and preoccupations of now-minuscule scale? Rushing to class, fretting over the final paragraph of papers, dodging rain storms, trying to avoid being seen, and also, principally, sinking into whatever I was studying. I stood there on a March morning in 2024 and a micro-canon’s contents exploded: Fin de Siecle — Charles Baudelaire — maladie — flaneur — spleen — Bathsheba — A Rebours — Wilde — Dorian Gray — aesthetes. That particular class on Fin de Siecle literature and culture had transformed me; I learned to read in it. When I was in high school, I wanted desperately to have the kind of discernment my smart friends seemed to carry around with ease: movies they liked, books they hated, all couched in adroit reviews. I, on the other hand, had a difficult time knowing what to think. Wasn’t everything good in some way? In that FDS class, I began to listen, and grab a hold of tiny strands of opinion, modeling myself after my brilliant professor. I stood at the balustrade that overlooks the Amphitheatre (currently under construction) and felt grateful for that class: one of my many comings of age. I sometimes look back at earlier versions of myself in shades of condescension, but the truth is: that Jen raised this one. I owe a lot to her strivings. And I bore fresh witness to many of the ones I’d forgotten about this past weekend.

Standing by Bryan Hall, I also thought about the strange boomeranging quality of life: how desperately I wanted to have opinions, to speak intelligently and critically about things of weight at the age of nineteen, and how now I find myself running in the other direction: how might I unstrap myself from judgment, from pre-formed opinions, and look at the world with green eyes? (And so which version of Jen had it better? The one learning or un-learning?)

There is also the magic of Charlottesville, the way it always feels like Saturday morning there. The air is still and clear, and people move about as though possessed by pleasant thought rather than urgency. Cars will stall a good hundred feet away so that you can cross the street without sprinting; cashiers will send you on your way with a warm “y’all have a good day.” Even if you aren’t the type, you feel as though you’d probably throw some bikes into the back of a station wagon on a weekend morning, or sit on the Downtown Mall with your dog, chatting with a friend, in the languid unfolding of an afternoon. And the topography! I am pre-conditioned to love it as a born-and-bred Mid-Atlantic girl, but there is nothing like the hills of Virginia, their lushness and easy slope, the way they seem to hold gently their fields and trees. Everything moves with grace, even the slow three-syllable trickle of its name, and its quieting opening digraph: Charlottesville. Hard to abbreviate anything down there. Hard to want to. It’s a place that spreads out and around you, and you think to yourself: just sit still.

Post-Scripts.

+Another great class I took at UVA.

+What was your first big rejection?

+Midsummers at UVA is a special time.

Shopping Break.

This post may contain affiliate links. If you make a purchase through the links below, I may receive compensation.

+If you’ve never dabbled, can I implore you to try one of J. Crew’s swimsuits for the season ahead? I own two that I reach for any time I need to not worry about what my swimsuit is doing — ha. (Think: chasing young children, water sports, etc.). I’m obsessed with this gingham one! Good amount of coverage and great silhouettes. I usually go up one size in their swimwear.

+This floral lace midi is spectacular, and under $160. I love the idea of dressing it down with a denim jacket.

+I keep hearing rave reviews about OSEA’s products, especially its body butter and marine cleanser. Is anyone here an evangelist? What should I start with? Leaning towards the body butter. I really love my Hanni products, but sometimes also want the experience of applying a thick cream after an “everything shower.” (Have you heard about that trend?)

+But speaking of Hanni: this cute gift set is 50% off!

+Patio chair covers you never knew you always needed. Along the same lines: a chic way to hide an ugly hose.

+And speaking of small outdoor improvements: I really want to get a birdfeeder this summer. I love birdsong, and my SIL introduced me to the magic of “birding” two summers ago. I have my heart set on this one.

+Longchamp’s mesh bags continue to allure — I picked up one of the ultra tiny sized ones last summer and found it woefully impractical (the moment you place anything in it, it looks bulgy and misshapen), but I have to say the larger sized ones intrigue. They’re more like a true accessory (think a scarf or a belt added for texture/color/contrast) than a functioning solution for corralling miscellaneous items you like to keep on your person. If you’re more practical, consider their beautiful Epure line. Absolutely beautiful bags!

+A great Target score — under $40 and a perfect date night look.

+Doen just launched their second spring collection, full of springy Liberty florals, silky beauties, and ethereal white.

+Currently obsessed with this Lizzie Fortunato necklace.

+Dries Van Noten’s FW2024 collection just waltzed down the runway last week, and you can already preorder from it on Moda Operandi. Does that not astound you?! I have never owned anything from DVN but I think the shapes, especially of its outerwear, are predictive of what we’ll see in the fall: coats that riff on the opera jacket silhouette in rich fabrics and colors (ahem!), skirts and tops with artful draping. (I feel like we’re seeing similar styles already with canary Khaite — c.f. this top, this dress.) COS is a great retailer for capturing these trends early for a fraction of the price: this swingy, opera-esque trench is perfect!

+I saw this dress and thought: that is what I want to wear for my 40th birthday this summer. Just beautiful. In reality, I’ll probably do something more like this (more reasonable!), which looks like Johanna Ortiz, but maybe 1/3 or 1/4 the price.