People have a lot to say about my generation. They say we don’t know how to party. That we don’t read the news. That we don’t know how to approach people of the opposite sex. That we don’t drink, don’t know how to have fun, don’t even know how to properly order a drink.

Don’t tell that to the more than 300 Free Pressers who gathered in New York and Washington, D.C., earlier this week for our first ever under-30 parties.

In New York, the crowd flowed from the party into the street. (And somehow we found the only bar in the city that still lets you smoke inside.) I watched hedge funders talking tech with Bernie stans; a psychology student and a bass player making plans for a date next week; Catholics and Jews debating. . . everything.

People flew in from Canada and took trains and buses from Boston and Delaware to New York and D.C. We danced to Chappel Roan and Usher, toasted with overfilled martinis, and flirted with our future husbands, wives, and ex-boyfriends. The night ended the way all good parties do: with a noise complaint.

As I said when I got into work the next day: It was the best night of my life. The Boomers in the newsroom laughed with not a small amount of pity that neither my prom nor college graduation held a candle. But the night was proof of what I’ve known to be true since my first day at The Free Press: I’ve found my people.

So to the Gen Z doomers, I say: You’ve never been to a Free Press party.

And to the Gen Z optimists: We’ll see you next time.