There was a moment at last year’s Nantucket Book Festival when it started to rain. The audience was gathered inside an old church, the kind of New England venue that already makes you feel like something important is about to happen, and poet and essayist Ocean Vuong was reading a newer work, “Theology,” before a packed holy house. (“Fitting,” Vuong noted at the start.) Something about the moment indeed felt celestial. Nobody moved. Nobody wanted to. “You could hear a pin drop,” says Tim Ehrenberg, president of the event, recalling the scene. “No one wanted to even move, because they were just so mesmerized by him reading his poetry. And you just can’t get that on your screen, on your phone, when you’re scrolling in bed—you don’t get that same human connection and experience. And that happens 32 times in our festival.”

That’s the case the Nantucket Book Festival has been quietly making for 15 years: that a room full of people listening to a writer they love is not only worth getting on a boat for, but worth making a special trip to savor. Next week, from June 11 through 14, the island event marks its crystal anniversary, and for anyone who’s never made the crossing—or who’s filed Nantucket away under “not for me”—the spectacular lineup of bold names (Norah O’Donnell, Richard Russo, Jenna Bush Hager) and cost (most events are free) makes a reasonable case for reconsideration.

The festival’s founding philosophy was never to go big. “Since we’re an island 30 miles to sea, we really want to host a small collection of authors, all different voices, all different genres, and give them their moment,” Ehrenberg says. “So each one has an event that’s pretty much just focused on their book. And then we host them—we have dinners, we have gatherings.” The result is something that feels more like a restorative retreat than a conference. As Ehrenberg notes, “you’ll see your favorite author, and then you’ll see them at the coffee shop.” That kind of casual proximity—the Pulitzer winner ordering a scone, the television anchor browsing shelves—is not something public events usually can deliver.

This year’s roster reflects what Ehrenberg describes as “the full spectrum of the human experience.” Best-selling author Ann Patchett arrives with her brand-new novel Whistler, and sits down with Patrick Ryan, whose novel Buckeye (a “Read with Jenna” selection) became one of the quieter literary pleasures of 2025. The two are pals, and Ehrenberg is looking forward to that Saturday afternoon conversation. “If anyone ever wondered, ‘Do authors have friends; do they go to coffee and talk about their writing life?’ I think this is going to be an event where you see two writers just talking about the love of books and the love of their craft.” Elsewhere on the schedule: Tayari Jones, recently named one of Time’s 100 Most Influential People, discussing her novel Kin; Richard Russo, “a GOAT in the fiction world” as Ehrenberg puts it, in conversation about Empire Falls, which turns 25 this year; Jenna Bush Hager, whose book club has done as much as anyone’s in recent memory to keep literary culture alive on network television; and CBS News senior correspondent Norah O’Donnell, who’ll be in conversation with Linda Henry, co-owner and CEO or Boston Globe Media (which, full disclosure, also owns Boston magazine). And there’s also Belle Burden, whose controversial (and wildly popular) memoir Strangers has lately taken over group chats and will be in conversation with Elin Hilderbrand—a pairing that is, for anyone who knows how deeply Hilderbrand’s novels are woven into the fabric of Nantucket life, an event unto itself.

For the adventurous festivalgoer, Ehrenberg recommends a different strategy altogether: pick a name you don’t recognize and show up anyway. He points to Dr. Joshua Bennett, whose new poetry collection We (The People of the United States) carries particular resonance in 2026, and Massachusetts-raised writer Isaac Fitzgerald, whose American Rambler traces the trail of Johnny Appleseed. “Go to an event where you look at our schedule and you’re like, ‘I’ve never heard of that author,'” Ehrenberg says. “Just try it, and you will leave saying, ‘I just met my new favorite author.'”

One more thing worth knowing, if you assume the festival requires an overnight stay: it doesn’t. Early morning boats from Hyannis arrive in plenty of time for the first sessions, and the last ferry departs after the final event. The logistics are more forgiving than Nantucket’s reputation suggests. And the price of admission, for nearly everything on the schedule, is nothing—a detail that Ehrenberg notes with evident satisfaction. “If you know Nantucket,” he says, “you know ‘free’ is not usually a word you correspond with it.”

By Sunday afternoon, when the weekend winds down at Cisco Brewers, something tends to happen to the people who came. “You leave the weekend going, ‘I learned so much,'” Ehrenberg says. “I just feel a little lighter, and a little bit more that we’re gonna be okay. A little bit more hopeful.” He pauses. “And that is not a political statement: I just think everyone says a little bit right now, ‘Oh, what is the world today?’ And after the weekend, you feel a little bit better about it.”

Yes, please.

Nantucket Book Festival takes place from Thursday, June 11 through Sunday, June, 14. Methodist Church and surrounding venues, downtown Nantucket. Most events free; nantucketbookfestival.org.

The complete author roster:

Before Rosie DiMare was a Real Housewife of Rhode Island, she was a hard-news reporter, which is to say she has been asking people uncomfortable questions for a living for some time now. These days, she asks them of her castmates—which is roughly how she ended up known as Nosy Rosie. Poking, prodding, and saying what nobody wants said is, as she puts it, “just kind of in my nature.” Whether that makes her the troublemaker or the only one paying attention is up for debate. She grew up in Massachusetts, went to Boston University, and interned at Kiss 108, where she also met her husband, Rich. With RHORI’s finale airing this month, we talked to her about Del’s lemonade, lip filler, and (hopefully) becoming best friends with Andy Cohen. —Jonathan Soroff

Five years ago, you were a Providence news anchor waking up at 2 a.m. What would you have said if I’d told you you’d be on Real Housewives?
I would have thought you were a crazy person. Not only that, I’d be like, “What do you mean? I’m in a news contract. There’s no way I’m gonna be on a show like that.” Keep in mind that five years ago, I was living in my apartment in Providence. I was single, and I was getting up at 2 o’clock in the morning to go to work every day on the news. In my mind, as a 30-year-old, I had totally made it. I was paying all my bills by myself. I had bought myself a condo. I was driving my dream car, which was my Jeep Wrangler. I was going out in Boston with my friends from BU, doing stuff in Providence, doing the news. I was one of the main faces of the number-one station in Rhode Island. How could it get any better than that? So I definitely didn’t see this coming.

Were you a Housewives fan before this?
I was a Kathy Hilton fan, so I would watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills a little bit here and there. I just think she’s so funny. But I was getting up in the middle of the night for most of my career, going to work at 3 a.m., and I wasn’t able to tune in at 8 or 9 p.m. I was not not a fan, but I wasn’t an avid viewer.

Did your years as a hard-news reporter change the way you operated on the show?
One million percent. You also have to remember that I’m 35. I’ve been out of the news for 2.5 years, but I spent all of my twenties as a hard-news reporter. I didn’t start doing traffic or lifestyle until I was 30. Before that, I was going to crime scenes, interviewing politicians, asking hard questions, noticing inconsistencies, saying, “That doesn’t make sense. Explain this to me.” I’d be very blunt. I am very blunt. I’m also very logical, and a little bit too literal sometimes. Rich makes fun of me for it. But when you’re used to asking important politicians who are 60 years old very uncomfortable questions, sitting down with a group of girls is not uncomfortable.

Did you go in to filming RHORI with a plan?
No. I wish I had. I didn’t realize that I needed to do that, which is very naive. I thought you just go on the show, and you just be yourself, and everyone will like you, and everyone will get to know you, and everyone will want to hear what you have to say, and you’ll just all be friends. By about Episode 4 or 5, I learned that was not the case. And I know other people went into it with a plan or with a pact or whatever. Next year, maybe I’ll go in with a plan.

How real is it, really?
I think it’s very real.

Do the producers push the drama, or do you all do that on your own?
I don’t think they encourage anything. It’s just: This is a show, and they’re watching your real life, and you know, we need drama for it to make sense.

Who was the peacekeeper?
Hmm. I think Alicia [Carmody] was trying her best to be neutral, but I don’t necessarily know if there was anyone who was a peacekeeper.

Who was the shit-stirrer?
They’ll tell you it was me. And I agree that sometimes it was, because I would ask questions they didn’t want asked or point out things that they didn’t want pointed out. I wasn’t ever doing it maliciously. It’s just kind of in my nature. But I think that as the show goes on, you see who’s actually just out there causing problems for no reason. You’ll see.

So you deny being the bad guy?
Maybe I’m the villain. Maybe I really am. Who knows?

Worst part of having cameras on you 24/7?
I actually didn’t mind the cameras. I didn’t always want the girls around, but I had no problem with the cameras. [Laughs.]

Anything you’d do differently?
I really just tried to be myself, and I think my only regret is that I should have fought back a lot sooner than I did. I’m not proud of the fact that I cried a lot. I would come home, and Rich would say, “We’ve been together for five years, and I’ve seen you cry like once, and this summer you’ve cried every day.” It was very overwhelming, and I was just trying to understand what was going on a lot of the time. I would say things, or point things out, or ask questions, and then I’d get beat up for it. And now [on RHORI], suddenly I’m thrown into a dynamic where there’s a secret language I don’t understand because I didn’t grow up with these people, and nothing I do is right. I also learned the hard way that you are not allowed to ask questions here. And instead of what I would normally do, which is fight back a little harder, I would kind of back down. So I would say my biggest regret was being a little soft.

You have been the subject of some wild rumors. In Episode 4, a castmate suggested you left NBC 10 because you were having an affair with a higher-up, but in that same Episode you clarified that you left because you had colitis.
They can accuse me of a bunch of things, but you will see—either on the show or in the [upcoming RHORI] reunion—that, like, corporate America has paper trails. They want to say I didn’t leave on medical leave, but why would I admit to having colitis? You can say whatever you want, but if it’s factually incorrect? I’ve only ever been on TV and told the truth, and so seeing that you can just say whatever you want was mind-boggling to me. Like, honestly, having an affair with someone that I worked with would have been far less embarrassing than admitting that I was bleeding out of my butt and wearing diapers.

What has the show gotten right about you, and what has it missed?
I do hope people get to know me more. I think what you see in Episode 5, of me talking about how much I love gay men, and how silly I’m being with my dog, Clemmy, in the confessionals. I say, “Don’t look at her cooch” or whatever, which was crazy. Why did I say that? But that stuff really does represent who I am. People don’t really know about my personal life or my marriage. They don’t really know what I do for work, other than what’s been made fun of on the show so far. So I think there’s a lot still to come. As for showing that I have a little bit of a messy side, and that I kind of clock everything that’s going on pretty quickly and will blurt out what is not supposed to be said, that’s also true. I’m somewhat socially awkward. I don’t always understand what’s going on in the group dynamic. They’re not my favorite qualities about myself, but they’re real.

Favorite memory from doing the show?
On Episode 6 or 7, Ashley [Iaconetti] and I have the most fun on a waterslide. It was the best time. I also loved another scene, with Alicia and Alicia’s daughter in my Jeep. I had fun with the bouncy shoes. I tried my best to show that I’m just this silly girl who loves the Disney Channel and doesn’t take life too seriously. I’m so lucky to have Alicia and Ashley as my real-life close friends. I would never have met Rulla [Nehme Pontarelli] without this experience, and now we’re becoming really good friends. Even with all the drama and whatever, a lot of it was really fun.

Why do you think the Real Housewives are so popular?
You know, I see these memes and reels, and it’s like there’s something about seeing other people fight and have total chaos that somehow calms their nervous system as a viewer. It doesn’t calm my nervous system, but I think it calms theirs.

Your favorite thing about Rhode Island?
Probably the food, which is such a crazy thing to say, but Rhode Island has such good food, and I feel like the food scene isn’t appreciated enough.

Coffee milk, stuffies, Del’s—which of these are you actually eating?
Gotta love the Del’s lemonade! The production staff was obsessed with it all summer, which I found so odd. Every day after work, they had to get a Del’s lemonade, and I was like, “All right, sure.” I don’t really do coffee milk, but I love a pizza strip or a party pizza. It’s so funny, too, because I grew up in Massachusetts, right near the Rhode Island border, and yet I didn’t learn a lot of these things until I was living here.

Where are you eating when you’re not trying to impress anyone?
There are so many good spots. But right near our house, there’s a place called Safehouse in East Greenwich. It’s not the fanciest restaurant, but it’s probably my favorite because it’s close, like five minutes away. But when I tell you, they have some of the best chicken Parm and the best drinks.

You grew up in Milton, Mass.?
We moved there when I was in middle school or so, but I like Milton. My parents live in Milton. My sister lives in Milton with her husband and their baby. The town square is so cute, right near the Canton border. I love Milton—we’re big Milton people.

The accents on this show are operatic. Anyone laying it on?
No, I think that’s really how they all talk. Alicia’s getting heat for her accent or the things she says. I can tell you with 100 percent certainty: She is 100 percent being herself, and she really does talk that way, and she really does act that way. As one of her close friends, I get voice memos on a daily basis that are so funny. If I put them on the Internet, they’d get a million views and a million likes. We are dealing with someone who’s actually hysterical and can’t help it.

Rhode Island is the smallest state and has the most regional accents. Explain.
It’s like a small little town, though. Everybody knows each other. But there are different sectors, and they all talk a certain way: Johnston, North Providence, Cranston, Newport, South County. But overall, I think of the Rhode Island accent as a mix between Boston and New York. I’ve said that since I started reporting here. Then there’s the added cultural thing, with a big Italian and Portuguese dynamic. And then there are people like me who have no accent because I had to go to speech school for journalism.

Walk me through your beauty regimen.
Hmm. My routine is so extravagant. My whole thing is that I do a lot so that I’m low maintenance in everyday life. I get the Botox. I get the lasers. I get the facials. I get the hair extensions. I get the lip filler. I get all the things so that even though I have to do all these things on different days, I actually wake up looking pretty, and that’s kind of my secret.

Does your husband, Rich, who’s also a performer, sing to you?
He never sings to me. Honestly, he sings to the dog more than he sings to me. But one of the things I love about Rich is that we’ll have sing-alongs in the car, and instead of it just being me being a weirdo, singing at the top of my lungs, he does it, too. Or we’ll go to karaoke, and I make him sing all the boy parts from something like Beauty and the Beast. I’m Belle, and he has to sing the Beast part. But I don’t need him to be singing to me on a daily basis. That would be weird.

You met Rich while you were interning at KISS 108 for Billy Costa. What was it like to start your career at the biggest morning show in Boston?
People don’t get it—this was, like, the biggest deal to me ever. I was 19 years old, like, “I made it, I’m a star now.” I’d listened to KISS 108 my whole life going to high school. We’d listen to “Matty in the Morning.” It was crazy that this was happening to me. I would go in early, stay late, trying to be the best intern ever. I just remember being at BU thinking, “Wow, I did it.” It was such a highlight. I loved working there. After I worked for the morning show for a year, I started working for the promo and production department and learned so much doing that too. It was my dream job and my first job.

For the record, I was not Rich’s intern. I was Billy Costa’s intern, but Rich helped me way more than Billy did. And you can tell Billy I said that. [Laughs.]

Thing you’re proudest of?
Being married to Rich, and being a good dog mom. I’m very proud of the house we’re building, and the fact that we’re doing it ourselves. I’m very proud of myself for my television career that I had for more than 10 years, and how hard I worked to get where I am.

What’s the show actually opened up for you?
I really don’t know. Even though the girls make fun of my little TV show, I’m very happy with my little TV show [Rhode Trippin’]. It’s on ABC 6, every Saturday at 6:30. I have a decent audience, and I get to help some local businesses. Now, it’s becoming a few national businesses, too, and I get to give them shout-outs or do commercial work for them. I don’t think I want to ever go back to being on the news or doing anything like that full time. I like being able to just do my little thing.

How has it changed you?
I’m very happy with my life. I was very happy with the way my life was before. I’m ecstatic to be able to do more DJing. I’m doing WeHo Pride, which would never have happened if it weren’t for the publicity. I’m a big ally to the gay community, and I love that. So it’s exciting to have more opportunities, but if I’m being honest, I’m very happy with the way things are.

Who do you get compared to?
I’ve been getting a lot of Katy Perry/Megan Fox mixtures online, like “She kinda looks like if they had a baby,” which I don’t hate at all. It’s very nice. I’ve been compared to Whitney Rose a lot, which I don’t really understand the comparison, but I’m here for it. That’s fine.

Tell me a secret about Andy Cohen.
I don’t really know Andy Cohen. He seems like a great guy. He went to BU, like me, but not at the same time. I haven’t spent that much time with him. I hope to make him my best friend. And he has great hair.

Additional reporting by Catarina Maia Amal and Camille Dodero.

A version of this article was first published in the print edition of the June 2026 issue, with the headline,“Real Talk with Rosie.”

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Related: New England Finally Has Its Own Real Housewives—and They’re Incredible

It began, as it usually did, as an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not painful, really, but vaguely unpleasant—as though something was moving inside of me that wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m a generally anxious person, neurotic about germs, travel, food, and just about everything else, and I have a dozen rituals to get me through the day—but I knew for this, none of them was going to work. Because the feeling was utterly familiar, one that I had grown used to over a writing career that had now spanned 30 years: literary withdrawal, my own personal version of the DTs. It usually hit about three weeks after I’d finish a book—a sense of desperation that started in the pit of my stomach and, if left unchecked, would eventually turn into true panic.

No doubt, the sensation was left over from the decade at the beginning of my career that I spent struggling to become an overnight success. I was always broke then, and my books were the only thing that kept me afloat. Even after the publication of Bringing Down the House—the story of those six MIT kids who beat Vegas—launched my career in narrative nonfiction, it was a constant, never-ending battle to find that next project before my rent came due. At some point, the constant pressure to be writing, always writing, became internalized. I simply reached a point that if I wasn’t working on a story, if I wasn’t moving forward, chasing something, I began to feel physically ill.

April 2024 was no exception. The previous fall, the movie version of my book Dumb Money had hit theaters, and I’d simultaneously finished writing a different book, The Mistress and the Key, a continuation of a historical thriller that had begun with my project The Midnight Ride. I was locked in my basement office in Newton when that familiar desperation began clawing at me—so I started to Google.

This wasn’t how it usually worked. Ninety percent of the time, my stories came through pitches: random, unsolicited emails or text messages that landed in the middle of the night, sometimes from people I tangentially knew, often from complete strangers. That’s how the project I’m probably most known for, The Social Network, had begun—a 2 a.m. email from a total stranger who happened to be a Harvard senior, writing that his best friend had founded Facebook, and nobody had ever heard of him. That friend turned out to be Eduardo Saverin, whom I met two days later in a bar at the Westin in the Back Bay, where he uttered the fateful words that sent me right to my laptop: “Mark Zuckerberg fucked me.”

Sometimes, the pitches came in from Hollywood; producers, directors, even actors would send me ideas that they hoped to develop, attempting to reverse-engineer their way to IP, because successful IP could push film and TV projects incrementally closer to that magical state of being “greenlit,” which was becoming more and more elusive as the movie business continued to contract.

But once in a while, it started with Google.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what I was searching for, because I didn’t know myself; there isn’t a blueprint for what makes the sort of story that compels me to submerge myself in its weeds for the six months to a year it takes to research and write. But there are things that I’m always looking for. Usually, that includes young geniuses who aren’t good with authority, battling through some sort of Shakespearean, personal drama in the gray area between right and wrong—but also with huge, public implications. Hopefully, there are also exotic locales, tons of money, pretty people, and at least the hint of real, physical danger. Throw in a dinosaur or a billionaire, and I’m on the phone with my agent.

That particular April, I started even simpler: I began scouring Google for stories that involved scams, heists, or cons that hadn’t been widely reported. Sifting through literally hundreds of news articles about things I’d either heard too much about already, or didn’t want to hear any more about, I stumbled on something that pricked at me: not a scam, or a heist, but a cheating scandal. It just so happened to take place in the growing-more-popular-by-the-day arena of chess.

According to my search, in September 2022, Magnus Carlsen, the “Mozart of Chess,” widely regarded as the greatest player in history, who had a 53-game undefeated streak at the time, had been utterly destroyed by a 19-year-old kid at the Sinquefield Cup in St. Louis—beaten, unceremoniously, by a brash, outspoken American named Hans Niemann, who had made a name for himself in a series of bizarre interviews and insane twitch streams. Shortly after, Carlsen accused Niemann of cheating, launching an explosive scandal that involved trashed hotel rooms, the billion-dollar rise of Chess.com, and the possible involvement of anal beads.

I was instantly hooked. There had been a few magazine features and some mainstream news stories, but nothing big and flashy and commercial—no book, movie, or major streaming doc. The question became, How close to the story could I get?

My first stop was Instagram and Hans Niemann’s DMs. The Social Network is a hell of an icebreaker, and although he was wary, he agreed to meet with me. After a few phoners, I was on a train to New York. We met in the dark, empty lounge of his Lower Manhattan apartment building, and he was everything I could hope for: angry as hell about what had happened, and raving about what he saw as a chess mafia aligned against him. He spoke about how evil and cruel Carlsen had been in trying to destroy a “kid in his prime,” about how one day, he would be the world champion and show everyone that he hadn’t needed to cheat in the Sinquefield Cup. He wasn’t always believable, and he was clearly spiraling at points into true paranoia, but I genuinely felt for him. And the truth was, I liked him, as I end up liking most of the people I write about. It’s a flaw critics have pointed out again and again.

Tracking down Carlsen turned out to be much more difficult. Famous people have walls around walls. Working through my movie agency, I got a letter to Carlsen’s agent, which was promptly ignored. I turned my attention to Chess.com, which had risen from a dorm-room idea at Brigham Young University to a billion-dollar behemoth at the center of modern chess. Chess.com was also at the center of the story, because they were in the process of partnering with Carlsen in an $83 million deal when Carlsen made his cheating allegations—and it was Chess.com, headed by Danny Rensch and Erik Allebest, that had launched an investigation into the scandal, publishing a report that alleged that Niemann had likely cheated in more than a hundred games on the site. This, in turn, had led to Niemann suing them, Chess.com, and Carlsen for $100 million.

Luckily, Rensch and Allebest were easier to track down than Carlsen. A mutual friend on Facebook made an introduction, and very quickly, I was spending hours on Zoom with them both. Eventually, that led me to Carlsen and, even more usefully, to his father, Henrik, his always-present sometime-manager—a kind and brilliant Norwegian who seemed utterly befuddled by what had happened.

It had only been a few weeks since I’d stumbled into the story via Google, but now I was ready for what has become the most important part of my career: the Hollywood pitch. I hadn’t written a word of the book, but I had enough research for a treatment—a 15-page proposal that laid out the story as I would write it. This process—attempting to sell the movie (or TV show) before the book was something that had begun with The Social Network, and quite by accident.

At that time, after meeting Saverin in that bar at the Westin, I’d crafted a treatment and sent it to my agents. A day later, it leaked onto the Internet; Gawker had decided it was scandalous enough to put on the front page of its website, and within a few hours, all hell had broken loose. Facebook settled with Saverin to try and stop whatever book I was writing. As part of his settlement agreement, he could never speak to me again. At the same time, screenwriter Aaron Sorkin read my proposal and decided he wanted to write it as his next movie. David Fincher also read the proposal and said he wanted to direct it as his next movie—but only if we did it immediately, because this was 2009, and who knew if Facebook would still be around in a year?

The only problem was, I hadn’t written a book yet. So I locked myself up—back in the Westin Hotel—and wrote the book in 11 weeks. Sorkin joined me next door and wrote the script in the three weeks that followed. The book and movie came out simultaneously, which almost never happens, and I realized then and there that reversing the process—selling the movie before the book—made more sense, as long as I could continue to find stories that read like movies, and I could write them like I was on fire.

The movie treatment for Checkmate went out wide to Hollywood on a Wednesday. By Friday, we had a dozen studios, producers, actors, and directors chasing; the following Monday, it was time to make a hard decision. But after a Zoom call with Emma Stone, Nathan Fielder, and A24, I knew where we had to end up. Fielder and Stone understood the story the same way I did: It wasn’t just about cheating in chess; it was Shakespearean and generational, about a wild upstart facing off against an Old World champion, and about how quickly AI is going to change everything—chess being the canary in the coal mine, because now any 12-year-old with a cell phone can beat Magnus Carlsen.

AI is going to change everything—chess being the canary in the coal mine, because now any 12-year-old with a cell phone can beat Magnus Carlsen.

A day after that, it was time to start writing. And traveling—because though this story had started in St. Louis, it went all over the world, concluding in a rematch in Paris, where Niemann and Carlsen went head-to-head once more at, ironically enough, a Chess.com event. I couldn’t have pitched a better ending on my own: Paris is one of my favorite places, because I’ve always been obsessed with The Sun Also Rises—when I was younger, I used to reread it the first of every month, and when I used to drink (I mean really drink) I went to Paris with my dog-eared copy and tried to hit every place Jake drank in the book. It’s a big part of the reason I don’t drink anymore.

So I packed up my laptop and headed to Paris, my wife, Tonya, in tow because she’s my secret weapon. Not only does she speak French, know Paris like the back of her hand, and help me when my plots have stalled or my dialogue is weak, she’s better than I am at getting people like Niemann, Henrik, Rensch, and even Carlsen to talk to the anxiety-ridden, nebbishy writer in the corner of the room.

A month later, the book was finished, the movie with Fielder and Stone was in development, and I was back in my basement in Newton, hoping, for once, the literary withdrawal would defer; that the feeling in the pit of my stomach would hold off long enough for me to be able to simply relax and enjoy having finished a book—before chasing the next one. I mean, that could happen. Couldn’t it?

Isn’t it pretty to think so?

This article was first published in the print edition of the June 2026 issue, with the headline,“Eye on the Game.”

​​​​This article is from the spring 2026 issue of Boston Home. Sign up here to receive a subscription.

In June, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, will debut a sweeping reinstallation of its 18th-century Art of the Americas galleries—timed to coincide with the nation’s 250th anniversary of independence on July 4. Titled America at 250, the reimagined presentation invites visitors to reconsider how artists, artisans, and objects helped shape the political, cultural, and social ideas of a revolutionary era that continues to resonate today.

Marking the first reinstallation of the first level of the Art of the Americas Wing since its opening in 2010, the project reflects both evolving scholarship and the significant growth of the MFA’s collection over the past 15 years. Long recognized as one of the most comprehensive holdings of American art in the world, the collection has expanded to encompass a broader range of works from across North, Central, and South America, including Indigenous and island nations—allowing for a more expansive and inclusive understanding of the Americas.

Eight newly conceived galleries explore themes of resistance, liberty, labor, identity, home, family, and myth-making through works that range from monumental history paintings to exquisitely crafted furniture, silver, and needlework. Highlights include Thomas Sully’s dramatic The Passage of the Delaware (1819), a focused gallery devoted to John Singleton Copley, and installations that center communities of makers and the global histories behind everyday commodities such as tea, coffee, and chocolate.

The galleries will be unveiled during the MFA’s annual Juneteenth Open House as part of a two-day America at 250 celebration, offering free admission to Massachusetts residents alongside special programming. Together, the reinstallation reframes the 18th century not as a fixed past, but as a living foundation—one that continues to shape conversations about nationhood, power, and belonging today.

First published in the print edition of Boston Home’s Spring 2026 issue, with the headline “Crafting a Nation.” 

Here’s what you already know about the Fourth of July on the Esplanade: You must arrive too early. You sit on a blanket that’s too small. You eat something lukewarm out of a cooler and pretend to enjoy it. You sweat. You hear “The Stars and Stripes Forever” and feel, despite yourself, genuinely moved. And then the Pops pack up, the fireworks start, and you wonder why the orchestra isn’t playing anymore. Every year, the same thing.

This year, finally, Keith Lockhart agrees with you.

“It’s something I have always wanted to do,” says the conductor, now in his 31st year with the Pops, explaining that for the first time, the orchestra will play live during the fireworks—not before them, not adjacent to them, but actually choreographing the explosions in real time. “It’s always felt strange that the celebration finished with us sitting on the back of the Hatch Shell, watching the fireworks with everyone else.” Strange is one word for it. Anticlimactic is another. But not this time.

The rest of the upgrades: The special-guest lineup includes names with real sizzle: country-music star Lainey Wilson, hip-hop artist Chance the Rapper, and trombonist Trombone Shorty. There will be a Revolutionary-themed drone show during Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, as well as two world-premiere works celebrating America’s 250th.

Given all the fanfare, it’s not surprising that the crowd is expected to be 25 percent larger. CNN is broadcasting the Boston spectacular nationally and streaming worldwide, so if you’d rather watch from your couch in air conditioning, no one will judge you.

But if you go—and you should go, at least once, at least this year—you’ll get the Charles, the cannons, the sweat, the lukewarm pasta salad, and a birthday party 250 years in the making. The Pops will finally stick around for the whole thing. It’s about time.

This article was first published in the print edition of the June 2026 issue, with the headline,“Happy 250th.”

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More about America 250

Otis House

This grand Federal-style mansion was designed by renowned architect Charles Bulfinch. Built as the first of three homes for former mayor Harrison Gray Otis in 1796, the house is one of the last remaining structures from what used to be Bowdoin Square. Thanks to Boston’s period of urban renewal in the 1960s, the historical home now straddles Beacon Hill and the West End. Inside, its paint colors and carpet designs are historically accurate—and they’re surprisingly vibrant.

Otis House Museum, 141 Cambridge St., historicnewengland.org.

Nichols House

Beacon Hill’s other Bulfinch-built house museum was once home to suffragist and landscape architect Rose Standish Nichols. Among her many accomplishments, she was a founding member of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom in 1915, which has a mission to unite all women for peace, disarmament, and gender equality.

Nichols inherited the Federal-style home on Mount Vernon Street from her father in the 1930s, and ruled the roost until her death in 1960. She never married, but often hosted salons at the house, gathering intellectuals to discuss and debate progressive ideas over afternoon tea. Nichols intended for the house to be left as a museum after her death, and since then, it’s shown Bostonians what life was like in Beacon Hill at the turn of the century. Tour highlights include furniture handmade by Rose’s sister, Margaret Nichols Shurcliff.

Nichols House Museum, 55 Mount Vernon St., nicholshousemuseum.org.

Gibson House

For a snapshot of life in Victorian Boston, step through the double doors of the Gibson House on Beacon Street. Though you wouldn’t know it from the outside, this brownstone conceals a historical interior that hasn’t been altered since 1954. That’s thanks to Charles Gibson Jr., who in the 1930s decided he should preserve the contents and opulence of his family’s 1860 home. A guided hour tour through the house’s four levels features a one-of-a-kind Victorian ventilator shaft (you have to see it to understand its majesty), “Japanese Leather” wallpaper, a 15-piece bedroom set, and more.

The Gibson House Museum, 137 Beacon St., Boston, thegibsonhouse.org

James Blake House

Built in 1661, the James Blake House is the oldest house in all of Boston. It’s tucked between Upham’s Corner and Columbia Point on a sliver of green space, though it’s about 400 yards from its original location on what is currently Massachusetts Avenue. The home’s original owner, a minister named James Blake, settled in Dorchester in the 1630s. He built the house in the Western English style, now a rare sight in New England. The Dorchester Historical Society only offers tours of the house on the third Sunday of each month, from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.

James Blake House, 735 Columbia Rd., Dorchester, dorchesterhistoricalsociety.org.

Prescott House

This impressive Federal-style construction dreamed up by architect Asher Benjamin flaunts unique rounded bay fronts and white columns. It was built overlooking the Common in 1808 for a merchant named James Smith Colburn, and on land once owned by portrait painter John Singleton Copley to boot. In 1845, historian William Hickling Prescott moved into the house, and about a century later, it was purchased by the National Society of Colonial Dames. The home, also known as the Headquarters House, is now open as a house museum on select Fridays.

William Hickling Prescott House, 55 Beacon St., Boston, nscdama.org.

Shirley-Eustis House

William Shirley, the Royal Governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony until 1756, spent his summers at “Shirley Place,” which he built in 1751. It also served as the summer home of William Eustis, a post-Revolution Massachusetts governor who took office in 1822. Now called the Shirley-Eustis House, the place is one of the last remaining Royal Colonial Governors’ mansions in the country. Tours of the mansion are offered 12 p.m. and 2 p.m. Tuesday through Friday, but the grounds, gardens and orchards are free and open to the public dawn until dusk.

Shirley-Eustis House, 33 Shirley St., Roxbury, shirleyeustishouse.org.

Last updated May 2026, with additional research by McKenna Johnson.

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Real Housewives of Rhode Island has put a very bright spotlight on New England. How does it feel to represent the region in this way?

Liz: I feel extremely proud because I am in love with my hometown of Rhode Island. I’ve moved away several times. There’s a magnetic quality that always drives you back.

Alicia: I am so proud of Rhode Island. I have always loved my state—that’s why I never left. So for me and my girlfriends to land this show for Bravo is wild. And the fact that people like the show is like a dream.

Rosie: I love Rhode Island. I grew up in Massachusetts, but I grew up so close to the border, I literally went there all the time—if there was a concert or I needed to go to the mall, we drove to Providence—and I’m glad that it’s finally getting a spotlight, and I’m glad that people are seeing how entertaining it is here and just how, kind of kooky it is.

How do you think the show has been received locally?

Liz: Rhode Islanders are the most critical of the show. If you read some of our local stuff, they’re like “What an embarrassment, trash! They don’t represent me.” And it’s only the Rhode Islanders saying it. I’m hoping they change that stance, but if they don’t, it’s okay. I am extremely proud of my state, but I don’t represent the entire population of Rhode Island—I can only represent myself: If there’s anything embarrassing that I do, it’s only on me. I don’t think it should affect whomever in Glocester, Rhode Island.

Alicia: At first everyone was like, “I want nothing to do with them”—it was almost shunned upon. But now everyone’s like, “Oh my God, we’re so happy” because they want to see it air, and they want to show the places that we’re going to be seeing.

Ashley, you grew up in Virginia, but your husband Jared is a Warwick [RI] native, which is what drew you both back to his home state. What’s been your experience adjusting to life in New England?

Ashley: I knew Jared loved Rhode Island so much. We were living in L.A. together, and whenever we visited here, I always loved it, so I was like, “I’d totally move here for you.” It’s an hour flight from my family. But what was a hard was when we started having kids: When we had [our eldest son, four-year-old] Dawson, I realized I didn’t feel like I had as much of a community here as I would have had in Los Angeles or in Virginia, because it is a little bit harder to make friends here. Everybody here has been friends since birth, since kindergarten—you don’t really ever have to make friends again because everybody [you grew up with] stays. People were not like that in Virginia.

What sets your cast apart from other Real Housewives franchises?

Alicia: I think that we never tried to be famous. We like being from Rhode Island. I don’t think we ever thought this would happen, so we are very pure about it. And I also feel like we are all friends—we all really do love each other. We might fight and stuff, but at the end of the day, we’re all so connected. We can’t escape each other. If I want to talk shit about someone, I’m going to deal with their family and friends at the supermarket.

Liz: Rhode Island is such a tiny, tight-knit community. We don’t typically stray out of the lines, and shit catches on here like wildfire. I always thought Rhode Island would be a perfect place for a Housewives franchise because of that: How incestuous it can be, the one degree of separation, and also because of our beautiful landscape. We have a lot of hidden gems.

Rosie, having grown up in Massachusetts, what do you see as the biggest differences between Massachusetts and Rhode Island?

Rosie: Massachusetts is so much bigger. Rhode Island is like one small town that just happens to have different towns in it, whereas Massachusetts—there’s the Berkshires, the Cape, the islands, parts near New Hampshire. It’s so different. Obviously the accents are strong. But Rhode Island is very much its own place. [My husband] Rich always says Rhode Island is like Boston’s little cousin.

Liz, you, in particular, have been warmly received by the Bravo fandom. What do you think the audience is connecting to so deeply?

Liz: I think what people are most connecting to with me is maybe what gets me in trouble the most: The fact that I am super blunt and I call out bullshit. You haven’t seen a lot of that yet, but you will.

Rosie, in what ways did your broadcasting background prepare you for being on a Housewives show?

Rosie: It actually did the opposite of what it was supposed to do. When I was in [the] news [industry], it was “Report the facts, get everything triple-checked, follow your script.” I was, like, 24 years old and having to ask politicians crazy things: Why am I asking this? Because the newsroom told me to. So I’ve taken that into my adult life, and maybe I shouldn’t have done that. The last couple years I did a lifestyle show, which was a breeze, and that made me very comfortable being myself on camera—but even then, when you’re ad-libbing, you have an idea of where you’re going. And now [on RHORI], suddenly I’m thrown into a dynamic where there’s a secret language I don’t understand because I didn’t grow up with these people, and nothing I do is right. I also learned the hard way that you are not allowed to ask questions here.

“The beef is real, okay?” —Ashley Iaconetti

What’s been the most surprising thing about this experience?

Ashley: The beef is real—the beef is real, okay? It goes throughout the year. We’re not filming now and it’s happening. It’s getting worse. More intense, perhaps, than I would have assumed. I thought things could be dropped a little bit easier. I’m not saying they’re worthy of dropping—I’m not trying to speak for the others, because I’m not really involved in any of the drama. I’m just a friend of the drama, you know what I mean.

Ashley, you’ve had two separate reality TV franchise experiences: The Bachelor and now RHORI. What’s the biggest difference?

Ashley: Filming this is more… I’m more on edge every time. I’m always worried about a fight breaking out. I was relatively comfortable during the filming of The Bachelor—it was a different kind of nerve. The nerves of The Bachelor are like: “Is he going to like me?”; “Is our date going to go well?”; “Is he going to kiss me?” Those things are obviously very nerve-wracking—probably more nerve wracking, actually—but for some reason it was a more comfortable environment, because you were surrounded by people who weren’t going to pick an argument with you. Here you’re walking on eggshells all the time—I didn’t have to walk on eggshells during The Bachelor. That’s the difference.

Alicia, you’ve been refreshingly vulnerable on the show. What’s been the hardest part about sharing your personal life this way?

Alicia: [During filming] I was speaking from my heart, and after a while, I forgot there were cameras. But now that I have to re-listen to it, I’m like, “Oh my God. That means [her long-term partner] Billy’s mother knows I said that. Everyone at my daughter’s school knows how I feel. I walk in and the teachers know.” I’m literally an open book now. I feel exposed. But I’ve always been an open book, so—whatever.

Liz, you and [The Real Housewives of New Jersey cast member] Dolores Catania are going into business together. Can you tell us about that? And how did Dolores guide you through the filming experience?

Liz: Dolores is truly one of my best friends in life—that’s not contrived. She is like the other half of my heart. We are on the phone together around the clock. I would have loved to have filmed more with her, just because she really understands me. We’re the closest in age—I’m much further along than the rest of my other castmates, so I would have loved to have her here more. 

As far as Dolores guiding us—once we started filming, things went really fast, and sometimes there wasn’t even time to consult with her. What she brought to all of us, and it was real and probably the best advice we could have gotten, was just: Be true to yourself. And in something like this, that is the only advice you need. Was I successful at that 100% all the time? No, like, I kind of let myself down a couple of times.

As for our business: Dolores and I are a year apart and we are going through the exact same stage of life at the exact same time. I take eight million supplements a day, all natural. We thought, how much more serendipitous could it be for the two of us? Everyone says we look alike because I used her plastic surgeon. I’ll send you a photo that before I ever even met him, of the two of us together, I think we looked more alike then. We’re working on something combining things like beetroot, a natural beta blocker, something for heat, and a non-psychoactive cannabis product. It’s an adjunct to other traditional menopause therapies, and we are both so excited for it.

Ashley, we’ve seen you open up this season about the challenges with Jared and the other woman in his life—[South Kingstown, RI café] Audrey’s.

Ashley: Thank God she’s a coffee shop [laughs]. 

How has it been watching those scenes back?

Ashley: It’s pretty reflective of life. I want people to know that Jared is an extremely involved dad. Even though he’s at Audrey’s a lot, if he’s not there, that man is with the kids—throwing them around, reading to them, playing with them. Audrey’s is just a time suck, a money suck—but that is what having a business is, especially in the first five years. You ask any restaurant owner who’s not the owner of a franchise or very well established, and that’s just restaurant life. 

And how are you balancing the filming obligations with family life?

Ashley: It’s a hard, hard time. My calendar is completely full for May. But we don’t film all year round. I could never commit to something like that. So you just kind of count it down until you feel the weight lift off your shoulders. And you get through it with a lot of help—with the nannies, and Jared being here, and teamwork.

 

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Alicia, your aunts have made a few appearances on the show and the Bravo fans seem to really love them. How do they feel about their newfound fame? They even have an Instagram account.

Alicia: My aunts are living their best life. They think they’re like 22 years old again. I don’t even deal with them anymore. I’m in a group chat and I can’t even answer them. They are actually like teenagers right now. It’s wild.

You’ve been dubbed the unofficial comedic relief of the show. How’s that feel?

Alicia: I’ve always been this way, so I guess I always make people laugh. But the fact that people love the way I say “crack-uh” is wild to me. I brought my entire life onto this show, and people want me to say cracker—and I love it, because that’s me. 

But it’s wild that people are appreciating the weird things that I do. Like, [I mentioned on the show that] I ran over a woman, and like, people are like, “I’ve done this!” I’m really enjoying to hear, like, the feedback from people. I love it. I really do. It makes me feel like, “This is probably why I ran over that woman by accident”—but she dove in front of my car, I’ve said this so many times. But certain things like that—like having crackers. There’s so many people that friggin’ like crackers too. And I’m like, “Oh my god, I see you. You see me.”

Has Saltines offered you a spokesperson role yet?

Alicia: I have been talking to a few [companies].

The Real Housewives of Rhode Island airs Sunday nights at 9 p.m. on Bravo. This interview has been lightly edited and compiled from four conversations.

There is no tidy way to describe what Jon Batiste does. He’s an eight-time Grammy winner and a classically trained pianist who grew up in a New Orleans musical dynasty. He spent seven seasons leading The Late Show with Stephen Colbert band on CBS, danced with Mick Jagger at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, and has argued—convincingly—that Beethoven created definitively African music. Now he’s bringing his talents to the Boston Pops from May 12 to 14, for what promises to be the kind of evening that reminds you why live music exists in the first place. We caught him at home on his farm, in a reflective mood, and talked about genius, grief, and what it feels like to play with a full orchestra.

What’s your favorite part about performing with an orchestra?
The sound. You know, the orchestra can be very loud, but what I love about it is that, in order for an orchestra to work and for the sound to really come across, there has to be a real discipline in terms of volume. The trumpets can’t blast because the strings will be covered, and the brass has to be in balance with the strings, and the percussion section plays very melodically, which is also something that I really appreciate. So it creates a lot of nuance in the sound.

You’ve covered pretty much every musical genre there is—which do you most identify with?
I don’t really think about genres more than I think about what I call my music: in lieu of a genre title, it’s social music. But if I had to pick a genre, it’d probably be jazz, because jazz is both a genre and a culture. It’s a tradition, and within that tradition, there’s the blues, there’s folk music, there’s gospel, and it’s really very rooted in New Orleans, where it was invented, where I’m from, so I guess that would probably be the most all-encompassing genre and the one that I most relate to.

What is your favorite part about touring?
Seeing the audience respond in a way where they’ve been transformed by the music and the experience of being together—that feeling, that look in someone’s eye. They don’t have to tell you; you can see it on their face, and the energy that it puts into a room is really revitalizing. It’s one of the oldest traditions in humankind. It’s been around for a reason.

And your least favorite?
Travel is tough. You know, if you imagine you just played a show, and you’re on stage for nearly three hours, and you sweat through all your wardrobe changes, and you gave it all you got, and now you have to get up at 5 a.m. to get on a tour bus or to get on a plane to another city to make it to a 9 a.m. appointment, and you have a full slate that day, and then multiply that times 10.

Is there a performance venue that you absolutely love?
You know, it’s tough to say. It’s the audience that makes the performance. But I do love the feeling at the Greek Theatre in L.A. I love the feeling of the Maple Leaf Bar in New Orleans. I love the feeling of the St. Augustine Amphitheatre in Florida. I really love the big, iconic venues on the East Coast that I’ve played— especially ones where sporting events happen. Like, I love playing at Madison Square Garden and MetLife Stadium. They have an energy just built in. But it’s the audience, ultimately, that makes the thing.

You’ve described Beethoven as very African. How so?
His rhythm. Beethoven’s rhythms are one of the keys to understanding his innovation. We all know and love the melodies, but the rhythm is what drives it to that place of pathos, and it also is what makes it endlessly influential in the classical canon. And there’s this great lore around Beethoven being a person of color. Many claim he was Black or of African descent. And then there’s other lore about him, which is more of a musicological study, actually not even lore, that he would use the influences from these African musical traditions as inspiration, which many of the classical musicians did. Many of them were improvisers as well. There’s a lot of the classical canon that started as improvisation. It’s not thought of in that way, but this is what I do—I study this stuff. I spent my whole life studying this.

Where does improvisation come from? And is that a total high as a performer?
It comes from the divine stream of consciousness. It’s the subconscious. It’s the place where all ideas come from, all creativity comes from. It’s a super consciousness. It is beyond thought. It is where intuition comes from. Improv kind of speaks to the invisible realm.

Do you think music can fix the world?
I think music is a gift given to us that can put a mirror up to who we actually are.

Were you a big Nine Inch Nails fan before working with Trent Reznor on Soul?
I listened to them in high school in passing. Growing up in the MTV era, they were a big presence. I didn’t have a strong inclination that we would ever work together, which is why it made it so cool. It was kind of like some thing that you never would have thought in a million years would happen, right? That’s how I also felt about The Late Show, or many things in my life and career—it’s like you never would have thought that you’d arrive where you did.

People always use other artists to describe someone’s work. Is there a comparison you’re okay with?
Yeah. I mean, the most I’ve heard was maybe Thelonious Monk. I’ve been compared to Duke Ellington, who was a band leader. And both of those happen to be two of my biggest influences. I’ve never called myself this, but people who come to shows and see me play all these instruments and the way I lead the band have compared me to Prince. I had the chance to play with Prince when I was coming up in New York, in my early days after I moved from New Orleans, and he definitely was an influence. So I think that’s really cool. But one of my biggest influences is the trumpeter Roy Hargrove. He passed away recently.

Who is the most musically talented person you’ve ever known?
I grew up around a lot of musically talented people. My sister, who doesn’t play anymore, and now her son, who’s 10 years old—my nephew, Brennan. My sister and I started together, but she was better than I was.

Who is your favorite musician to collaborate with?
My dad.

Okay, tell me a secret about Stephen Colbert.
I don’t know if it’s a secret, but he can really sing.

Where do you keep all of your awards?
Wherever my wife, Suleika, puts them.

Speaking of which—did you two really meet at band camp?
Yeah, we met at band camp in Saratoga Springs in 2002.

And you’ve collaborated with her professionally?
I have. We just did a tour last year on stage together for her book, The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life. And she plays the bass, as well as obviously being a great writer. She is also an incredible visual artist, and she paints. For my album We Are, she actually took the photograph and designed the cover art. So I mean, she’s got many talents, and we put all our talents on stage around the release of this book, and it was an amazing success, and we plan to do more of it.

How did you end up dancing with Mick Jagger at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party?
I’d actually met him before that, but that was our first time really hanging for, you know, more than just seeing each other in passing. The first time I met him was when I played with the Stones at MetLife two years ago. We’ve been around each other, but we spent hours talking about records and history and life and all that. And then, you know, everybody saw that clip of us dancing.

Have you ever been starstruck?
Yes, but it’s mainly these older jazz musicians. Like, I remember the first time that I was around Sonny Rollins. It’s more like I get “these guys really can play” struck. And yeah, I’ve been around people who I’ve grown up watching on TV and feeling like, Oh my goodness. Like I remember the first time I met Will Smith when I was over at The Late Show. I grew up watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Or like, you know, when you have the opportunity to meet your heroes, like I got a chance to meet Carol Burnett. I was one of those kids, when I was 12 and 13 years old, that was watching television programs from the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s. My favorite television shows were I Love Lucy, Taxi, and The Carol Burnett Show. Carol Burnett wrote me a letter telling me that my dressing room in the Ed Sullivan Theater was her dressing room.

What was the last thing that made you cry?
I’m home right now. We have a beautiful farm here, and I guess it was moving to me, the fact that Suleika and I built this life together. And, you know, we didn’t know if she would make it beyond her last [cancer] treatment, the last time we were going through it. It was one of those precarious situations. And then you look around, and you see we had a bunch of friends and family; my mom was here, and her mother was here. And it wasn’t like I was sobbing. I remember feeling like the older I get, the tears just come every now and then, just looking around at life. But I don’t know the last time that I, like, heavy cried, but that was definitely one of the times when I felt like crying.

If you could play for one person, living or dead, who would it be?
Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

And if you weren’t doing any of this—what path does your life take?
I’d probably be a monk or competitive video-game player in Kenner, Louisiana.

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By the Numbers

Special Guests

The Pops are amazing, but who wouldn’t love the help of a VIP like Batiste—or Elmo?

1,600+

Number of guest artists and ensembles who have appeared with Keith Lockhart and the Boston Pops between 1995 and 2025.

40+

Number of unique instruments used by soloist guest performers—including the gamelan, Uilleann pipes, zither, and typewriter.

8

Age of singer Oladunni Oladipo when she sang with the Pops in 2007, one of the youngest performers ever to appear with the orchestra.

7

Number of astronauts, including Buzz Aldrin, who have appeared with Lockhart and the Pops.

6

Number of former or current Massachusetts governors who have appeared as narrators onstage.

4

Number of Muppets—Elmo, Big Bird, Oscar, and Rosita—who were onstage for the Sesame Street “Evening at Pops” in 2000.

When my 13-year-old daughter, Emma, asked me to sign us up for something called puppy yoga, I was skeptical. “Are you sure this is an actual thing?” I asked. Yoga—rooted in mindfulness and serenity—paired with puppies: chaotic, wiggly, distractingly cute? I couldn’t quite see it.

But Emma, who’d first spotted the trend on social media, clearly knew what she was talking about. Puppy yoga is very much a thing. The concept, which has grown in popularity recently across the country, blends a gentle, all-levels yoga class with free-roaming pooches. Part wellness trend, part social experience, it’s designed to deliver both light movement and a dopamine hit. Studios often partner with breeders or rescues, and classes, booked well in advance, routinely sell out—proof that the combination of downward dog and actual dogs has undeniable appeal.

So on a recent Saturday, we headed to Puppies & Yoga near South Station, one of the franchise’s two Boston studios. I was still dubious while we waited outside. Then the doors opened.

Seven puppies—golden retrievers and an adorable black-and-white mixed breed—were already tumbling across the floor as the class filtered in. The puppies bounced from mat to mat, hopping into laps, chasing rubber toys, and eliciting a steady soundtrack of squeals.

It should be noted that this was not a room full of serious yogis. Only three of us were over 40; the rest were teens and twentysomethings who seemed perfectly happy to treat the yoga portion as a warm-up to playtime. The 45-minute class was intentionally basic: gentle stretches and accessible poses designed to accommodate everyone. For the first 15 minutes, the puppies continued their romp before gradually tiring. A few curled up and passed out completely, while others wandered lazily between mats. We were encouraged to pause if a puppy climbed aboard our lap—both for safety and because, realistically, no one was going to ignore that level of cuteness.

After the official practice, we had 30 minutes of dedicated puppy time, at which point a blue-eyed dog climbed into my lap, circled once, and fell asleep—warm and heavy, completely trusting. Next to me, Emma was already on her phone editing photos (because this experience was indeed a social media moment) and plotting lunch. “Mom,” she said with a gentle nudge, clearly ready to go. I opted to stay put a few minutes longer, stroking the soft, sleeping pup.