It was mid-way through the conga line when I realized that, after hours of dancing, no one had tried to grope me.
In fact, no one had made me feel uncomfortable at all. I’d waited at the bar without having to wiggle my way out of a conversation I didn’t want to be a part of. I'd navigated my way through the crowd without an errant hand brushing my lower back to “guide me” or an unwelcome torso pressing itself against my side. I’d left my glass of wine unattended and didn’t worry about it being spiked. I’d been comfortable in my own skin, and let my guard drop in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to since I was a teenager.
I was at the “Wet Gala,” an under the sea–themed prom night and the closing party of Camp No Man’s Land, the second annual getaway in the Adirondacks hosted by women-focused member’s club and co-working space The Wing. Simply put, there were no men in the room.
Now in its second year, Camp No Man’s Land is a two-day summer camp for grown ups that’s an extension of the community building that happens within The Wing’s brick-and-mortar locations. Taking its members (who mainly identify as women or non-binary) upstate for an activity-packed weekend in the mountains makes sense for multiple reasons. The outdoors is a space traditionally occupied by white cis men, and The Wing wants to help everyone else not only reclaim that space, but feel comfortable in it, too. But it was also an opportunity to take members out of their daily routines and reclaim other facets of life—from childhood memories through activities like bracelet-making, tie-dying, and prom; to our current self, through affirmation, astrology, and meditation sessions. All things we want to do on a daily basis, but often need an excuse like travel—that is, removing ourselves from the everyday—to actually make reality.
I arrived on a Friday afternoon in late August alongside 500 or so “Winglets” who had been shuttled upstate from Manhattan by bus. Given the location, most were members of The Wing’s three (soon to be five) New York locations, but there were others from Boston and D.C., and a few had flown in from Los Angeles and San Francisco for the experience. Some traveled with friends they’d met through their local Wing space, and in one case, two sisters flew in from different cities to spend the weekend together. But there were many who told me they booked the $425 weekend to form new friendships—something that can be notoriously difficult once you hit your thirties, which felt like the most prominent age demographic of camp goers. In all, the geographic scope of attendees was a testament to both the strength of The Wing’s brand and the urgent need for more things like it.
In my first few hours there, I was unsure of how much of an authentic sense of community I would find. After all, this was not your traditional summer camp: Walking around felt like moving through a kaleidoscope of targeted Instagram ads. I was directed to a Puma stand to collect my complimentary pair of sneakers—customizable with hand-painted, emoji-inspired artwork. Staffers were always on hand, zipping around in Land Rover–branded golf carts. There was a Daily Harvest–hosted happy hour with alcoholic twists on their smoothies, and a face mask session with Fresh. And whether I was planning to tie-dye t-shirts with J. Crew or sculpt my core with Puma, I would never have to worry about going thirsty: bins of ice-cold Smartwater were everywhere.
The carefully curated environment extended beyond the brand partnerships. It was a sort of living, breathing mood board for millennial women like myself. Speakers placed throughout the camp blasted Maggie Rogers and Lizzo, and the snack area was continuously replenished with protein bars and chilled bottles of kombucha. The communal area—dubbed “The Gathering Grove”—looked like something you might find on Apartment Therapy. Plus, everything was paid for in advance; the only thing you needed to get your wallet out for was the highly coveted Wing merchandise. By the second day, sweatshirts with the slogan “League of Outdoorsy Women” had already sold out.
But once I scratched beneath the sponsored surface, I found that community and inclusivity really has remained The Wing’s beating heart, even as it continues to expand across the U.S. and abroad (a London location is due to open in September). On Saturday morning, I ate breakfast with a woman in her twenties who worked for a law firm representing victims of sexual assault. She was writing a memoir in her spare time, she told me, and had joined one of The Wing’s writing circles to get support and feedback—and while she’d arrived solo, she knew some of the other writers from her circle were there, too, and had already connected with them through The Wing’s app.
Later in the day, I stopped by a live taping of On She Goes, a travel podcast for women of color. After the hosts shared their own stories with the audience, they passed the mic around so women could share their own travel experiences—both positive and negative. The room was quiet and respectful, with each story receiving the same level of encouragement and attentiveness. No one was ever interrupted or talked over.
It was that openness that gave me the courage to take part in activities that I may have otherwise overlooked. I joined 70 or so women at a dance class—described by the teacher as a “you do you” session—and spent 45 minutes bouncing up and down in synchrony to Diana Ross, writhing to Britney Spears, and twerking to Missy Elliot. Outside of those campgrounds, I would have recoiled at the very idea of it. But when we were told to “let all the negative shit out” by sashaying across the room, to my surprise, I found that I did.
At the “Wellness Spring,” I had my astrology chart read by a woman who seemed more excited about my birth than my own mother. She told me all the things I wanted to hear (and maybe a couple of things I needed to) and, invigorated by my new desire to be my best self after the dance class, I found myself actually taking notes. I left the session ready to fully give in to the weekend—in part because the activities gave me license to behave like an adolescent and temporarily cast my real world problems and anxieties to the side. I made bracelets and decorated sunglasses with pastel-colored beads, and sat on the lawn in the sunshine tying knots with Girl Scouts. Travel gives you the opportunity to be a different version of yourself, and for one weekend, I got to be 13 again.
Prom was a symbol of that carefreeness—something that women are forced to leave behind far earlier than men. There was a red carpet for guests to flaunt their costumes (a lobster, a fisherman, and a jellyfish were all in attendance) and an ocean-themed backdrop for photos. The DJ, Jasmine Solano, operated out of a pearl-colored clam shell raised into the air, playing Cardi B, Mariah Carey, and the Spice Girls. Women formed dance circles, did the splits, moonwalked, and lifted each other up in ways that were both figurative and literal. Everyone moved freely and openly, not only because being in a room with an absence of men gave us permission to do so without judgement, but because it felt safe. You could be yourself without hesitation, and claim the space that felt right for you. It wasn’t a reflection of the real world by any means, but it was a glimpse of what could be. And that felt like a community worth buying into.
