By necessity these days, travel of any kind is verboten. (And if you are traveling, you better have a good reason or I’m coming after you.) In New York City, there was a tradition of old where millennials with disposable income would rent cars and drive two hours due north from their cramped apartments to stay in well-stocked and aspirationally designed houses, with dishwashers and ceramic mugs and generic but vaguely cool art on the walls. This well-worn custom was a form of dress-up in itself—trying on the life of richer couples who could afford to have not one KitchenAid in their homes but a second one in their rentals—but also a sense of escapist relief. Doing mushrooms on a velvet cloud couch in a house that costs ten times your yearly salary was one way to forget about the expensive claustrophobia of urban living even for a weekend.
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