by Paige Churchman (New York City)

The next morning, Genro and Paco marveled that we hadn’t been chased out, and we set off for breakfast at the St. Francis Mission, more than 50 blocks north. Outside a church on some midtown street, we joined a long line, spreading ourselves out among the real homeless people as Genro and Paco had urged. The streets hadn’t really come alive yet, but a few people in suits scuffed by without seeing us. I wondered what breakfast would be. I pictured a big basement room with tables and bowls of oatmeal. But when the line finally started moving, I found the payoff was a table on the sidewalk where a monk silently handed me two ham and cheese sandwiches in clear wrap. I gave one to another woman who hesitated and then took it with a smile. I saved the other for someone else later. I wondered, if I really were homeless, would I have to eat meat so as not to starve?

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by Kate St. Vincent Vogl (New York City)

Flying by the seat of your pants is more than making things up as you go along. It’s trusting your instincts. I learned how in a Piper Cherokee. Not the first small plane I’d ever been in, but the first time for me in the left seat.

My flight instructor had a comb-over and shoulders hunched from years of folding into impossibly small cockpits. I was so sure I’d earn quicker than most. For years my family had planes—Beechcraft, Cessena, Mitsubishi. I already knew about the walk around, the preflight checklist. I knew to yell “Clear!” before starting the propeller. But, I didn’t know I couldn’t count on the instruments, white numbers dialed in black upon a dusty instrument panel. Read more

by Sima Matthes (New York City)

I am crouched down, my face pressed against the back of my partner. It’s dark, and hot, and I am unable to see past my protective mask. It’s noisy—crackling and creaking all around, the sound of dripping water overhead—and yet strangely quiet. We advance, holding onto the hose, and hoping that we’re going to get to the fire before it gets any larger. I’m terrified and exhilarated. I can’t clear my head, so I scream—a deep, primal scream—and then, suddenly, I know what I’m supposed to be doing again.

We find our way toward the source of the heat, click the switch, and exit the exercise. Outside, I join my class of fellow firefighters, dirty, stinky and dripping with perspiration and condensation from the inside of our masks. We wait to be debriefed, then gear up for the next “evolution.”

This is not for the faint of heart, and I wonder how I got here.

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by Jacqueline Church

You run a department, head a practice, handle the crankiest clients and supervise staff. But throw a dinner party? Who has the time? Where to start? If hosting a dinner party has never been your strong suit, and you don’t want to go the “hired help” route, fear not: you already have all the skills you need by virtue of your success at work. Here then, the simple rules of successful hosting:
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