Long lines pull me in. Like sirens and revenge and corsets and fame and perfume, promising something worth the wait. I see it stretching down the block, curling around corners, and I feel an itch to join it. A guttural drive, a profound and ancient yearning to stand there, shoulder to shoulder sometimes, crotch to butt more often, with strangers, shuffling forward inch by inch toward whatever waits for us just beyond the front of the line.

It goes back to college, I think. Freshman and sophomore year, we all lined up, excited for the parties at the community centers, school gyms, fenced-in parks, frat houses, and clubs that allowed 18-year-olds. The lines were long, chaotic, full of promise and girls in Wet Seal and Charlotte Russe dresses, barely shivering in a Florida winter. The boys were business casual with soft toe sneakers. Then, something happened the summer before junior year. They sent us all home for break, and too many of us came back different.

Suddenly, folks were too good for lines. They said, loud enough to be heard by whoever was nosey, “Oh, I don’t wait in line,” like it was a matter of principle, like they had somewhere better to be. “You know damn well I’m not going if the line’s long,” they’d say, as if the party inside wasn’t already overflowing into the street. I’d stand there, listening to these self-important declarations, shaking my head, wondering which of the promoters wanted to see them naked.

Because I’ve always loved the line. The way it’s not just a wait but a whole preamble to the thing itself. In line, you meet people. You make jokes. You size up the ones who look like they’re thinking about cutting and unite with strangers to keep the order. This is where you build anticipation. It’s where your appetite grows, whether for the night ahead or the food at the end of the queue. By the time you make it to the front, you’re ready – really ready – to take it all in.

And nothing’s changed. Not really.

In Bangkok not long ago, I stood in a line for three and a half hours, waiting for one of Jay Fai’s legendary omelets with really big lumps of crab meat. There were only 15 people ahead of me, but when you’re waiting for something from someone who pours what tastes like their entire soul into oil in a wok, time bends. And still, I didn’t mind. The line became its own little world and thanks to Spotify, Jalen Ngonda kept me company. And when I finally sat and bit into the first piece of crab, it felt like vindication.

In Tokyo, I did the same for a bowl of ramen. In LA, it was for cronuts and tacos and an elevator to see James Vincent McMorrow on a rooftop. Brooklyn had haircuts and the Bronx had bodega salads, and Taiwan had boba, blood cakes, and crawfish. I’ve stood in lines without even knowing what was at the other end, trusting only that the crowd knew something I didn’t.

And honestly, sometimes the line itself is the adventure. There was this one time in Hollywood, outside of an industry party at the Mondrian. Before me and Tonja got halfway to the door, we’d turned a stranger into a friend and we all left the line together and ended up in bar then a late-night diner, swapping stories about André Leon Tally and the millions of other things that trickle down from there over pancakes or greasy fries or whatever we pigged out on. We never made it to the party, but that wasn’t the point. The line gave us what we needed: connection, spontaneity, and a story to tell.

That’s the thing about lines – they’re not just a wait. They’re a space where you believe in what’s ahead, in the work and care someone’s putting into the thing you’re waiting for. Whether it’s a crab omelet, a bowl of ramen, or the promise of a night you could never ever talk about with Christians, the line teaches you patience. It teaches you faith in the payoff.

So, let’s get back to standing in line. Let’s see where it leads us.