My daughter turned 18. We took her to the rotating restaurant at Mövenpick for dinner—part metaphor, part celebration. Eighteen is movement. Turning. Ascending. She wore a long silky black dress, the kind that suggests she knows things now. Her hair fell to her back. Beautiful girl. Exceptional genes.
Not one to betray great emotion, I asked her what she thought once we were seated. She looked around, scanned the skyline, and said, “It’s really nice.” Which, in 2026, translates to: Instagrammable.
