\n<\/p>\n
I was biting into a flaky croissant when Chloe Malle called, asking if I wanted to spearhead this year\u2019s \u201cI Tried to Go to Every Met Gala Afterparty<\/a>\u201d story. I blurted out \u201cyes\u201d before she could finish her sentence. Covered in crumbs and looking more like a fledgling Andy Sachs in the first Devil Wears Prada<\/em> than a future Met Gala attendee, I accepted the challenge. It felt less like work and more like a dare.<\/p>\n I boarded a flight from LAX with a light pink Rimowa suitcase whose contents suggested I had grand plans. Packed inside was a 1980s Saint Laurent black tulle bubble-skirt dress and a pair of six-inch Brian Atwood patent pumps. Clothes meant to convince me I belonged in the rooms I\u2019d be reporting from, and heels that promised an elevated perspective.<\/p>\n I was returning to the city where I\u2019d spent over a decade of my life, this time as a professional interloper. Two of my closest friends\u2014artist Anna Weyant, a member of this year\u2019s host committee, and actor Lily-Rose Depp\u2014would be inside the actual gala. I would be circling it, like a moth, attempting to hit every afterparty and see what happens after the world\u2019s most photographed dinner lets out.<\/p>\n At 9:30 p.m., my Blacklane driver picks me up in a blacked-out Escalade from the Bowery Hotel, where I\u2019ve spent the last two hours watching YouTube tutorials on perfecting a smoky eye. The gala itself wraps around this time, and most attendees drift back to their hotels to change into something a bit more comfortable or daring, before heading to the after-parties.<\/p>\n My original plan was to stop at The Mark Hotel, the unofficial Met Gala<\/a> headquarters a few blocks from the steps, where many guests and brands get ready for the night. But as I head uptown, I make a last-minute decision to skip The Mark and go straight to The Carlyle instead.<\/p>\n I arrive at the Carlyle at 10 p.m. sharp. The entire block is barricaded, so I\u2019m forced to do a humiliating, highly public lap in six-inch heels, wobbling like a newborn deer. At one point, I consider scaling the barricade and becoming a headline.<\/p>\nStop 1: The Carlyle<\/h2>\n