The New Yorker:

By Rachel Syme
Syme, a staff writer, has been covering culture for The New Yorker since 2012.

Summer in New York City is a time of great indulgences: double cherry-dipped cones from Mister Softee, mid-afternoon beers at Citi Field, naps on the Great Lawn, honeyed walks through the Botanical Garden (whose new show, “Van Gogh’s Flowers,” is a real beauty), impulsive spending on silly items like jelly sandals and whipped sunscreen mousse (yes, it exists, and it smells fantastic), and languid hours happily lost lolling around in chilled museums (Pedro Pascal narrates a new space show at the Hayden Planetarium, if you are looking for a trippy, air-conditioned escape). But perhaps my favorite seasonal extravagance—though it only comes around every few years—is watching Sarah Jessica Parker play Carrie Bradshaw.

“Sex and the City” first premièred on HBO on June 6, 1998, and quickly became a summer staple—as much a sign of the solstice as slushies and tanning oil. Bradshaw and her girl gang traipsed through Manhattan in what seemed like perpetual July; the sun was always shining, the strappy heels were always high, and nobody ever wore a puffer coat (at least until Part Two of the sixth and final season, in 2004, which dared to depict a gloomy New York winter). Two “Sex and the City” movies came and went, and then, for more than a decade, the franchise fell into dormancy. That is until the show’s former showrunner Michael Patrick King, who resists the word “reboot,” decided to kick off a “new chapter.”

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