The Astoria Monday Club poses with Astoria’s favorite waterfowl, the Gotham Goose.
Shore Boulevard, a.k.a “The Strip,” still brings people together.
NICOLAS STERGIOU
Producer, Social Media Manager, labor Organizer, and Unofficial “Astoria Street Spectator.”
I don’t usually make plans on Mondays.
For years, Monday was my recovery day. Working twelve-hour film shoots during the week and social media events on weekends meant Friday and Saturday were usually my busiest and most social nights. By Sunday I was recharging, and by Monday I was already back at work, thinking more about the week ahead than going out again. If someone had asked me a year ago what I was doing on a Monday night, my answer probably would’ve been, “Absolutely nothing.”
Then I came across an Instagram page inviting strangers to play Uno at a coffee shop. On a Monday.
I actually laughed at first because, if I’m being honest, voluntarily going out on a Monday sounded a little much after how I typically spend my weekends. But Astoria Monday Club kept showing up on my feed, and every week it was something different. One week is board games. Another week is karaoke. Then charades in Astoria Park or simply grabbing coffee and learning a new card game. There wasn’t a membership, there wasn’t a networking angle, and nobody seemed to be trying to sell anyone on a startup or side hustle.
It was simply: “We’re meeting Monday. Come if you want.”
As someone who jokingly calls himself a “native transplant,” these meetups caught my attention. I was born in Queens and my family has always been here, but I grew up in California for those formative years that native New Yorkers (no, not the Lenape) consider what counts in being a New Yorker. When I moved back to Astoria at eighteen, I had family, but I didn’t have the lifelong neighborhood friendships people assume come with being from here. Like anyone moving somewhere new, I had to build a social circle from scratch, and I quickly realized making friends as an adult isn’t nearly as easy as it was when school or work naturally threw people together.
I’d tried Reddit Meet-ups, but Monday Club felt different. It wasn’t really about neighborhood online gossip. It was just about Monday.
Curious how something this simple had gained such a following, I reached out to the club’s organizer, Jay Singh. I expected some carefully crafted mission statement about “community building”—the kind I’d heard before from much larger non-profit organizations in Astoria—but his answer was surprisingly simple and relatable.
“The Monday Club was started due to burnout and Sunday scaries,” he told me. “I wished there was a club that did something fun and different every Monday.”
That simplicity is probably exactly why it works.
Jay explained that he intentionally steers conversations away from the question every New Yorker seems programmed to ask: “So, what do you do for work?” Instead, he’d rather people talk about what they actually enjoy outside of work. Every Monday has a different theme—karaoke, trivia, board games, movie nights, coffee, bad art, or simply hanging out somewhere in Astoria. In a city where conversations often feel like networking opportunities in disguise, that was surprisingly refreshing.
Eventually the group held one of its meetups at Karaoke Shout, one of my favorite places in Astoria and somewhere I had previously done social media work. I figured I’d finally stop making excuses and show up.
I expected the usual awkward introductions before everyone drifted back toward the friends they had arrived with. Instead, people mixed naturally, conversations happened on their own, and nobody cared what anyone did for a living. It wasn’t really about karaoke. Karaoke just happened to be what brought everyone together that week.
A few months later the club organized a game of Heads Up in Astoria Park, which is basically my backyard, so I invited a friend and figured we’d play for an hour before heading home. Instead, after the game ended, several of us wandered over to Shore Boulevard and kept talking.
One member unpacked several different teas and began explaining where each one came from and what made them unique. It felt like a wine tasting, except nobody was pretending they could detect hints of oak or blackberry. He was simply sharing something he enjoyed with people who were interested enough to listen.
Then, because this is Queens, a rat sprinted directly through our tea party.
We weren’t doing anything particularly special—but it was. We were just sitting outside together on the strip. It reminded me of being younger, when you’d meet friends somewhere with absolutely no agenda beyond hanging out. Somewhere along the way adulthood convinces us every outing needs a purpose. Dinner becomes networking. Drinks become catching up. Everything has to accomplish something.
This didn’t.
Growing up, I’d always heard older relatives talk about Shore Boulevard before it closed to traffic. Every generation seems to have its own version of what “the Strip” meant. Some remember cruising with muscle cars. Others remember walking with friends on warm summer nights.
Sitting there that evening, I realized Shore Boulevard is still serving the same purpose it always has. It’s a place where people gather. That’s never changed. The purpose is still there.
I’m not saying those older memories weren’t special. They clearly were for some back in the day. But neighborhoods aren’t museums. If Shore Boulevard helped create memories for one generation, maybe we should be happy watching the next generation create theirs too. Whether it’s muscle cars, late-night walks, or strangers drinking tea while trying not to spill it because a fearless Queens rat just crashed the party, people are still coming together.
We spend so much time talking about development, politics, bike lanes, restaurants, and whatever neighborhood debate happens to dominate social media that we sometimes overlook what actually creates a community. Not civic engagement—which is something I care deeply about—but regular engagement. Neighbors sitting together, talking, laughing, and making room for someone new.
The Astoria Monday Club isn’t trying to become the biggest organization in Queens, nor is it pretending to solve loneliness. It’s simply one person who decided Mondays didn’t have to be boring and invited strangers to join him. It seems to be working. The friend I invited to play Charades ended up going back the following Monday without me. That’s probably the biggest compliment you can give any social club.
I enjoy talking to people who’ve just moved to Astoria because, as a proud Greek Astorian, welcoming newcomers has always felt like part of our culture. My family came here once too. These days I find myself recommending bagel spots, explaining neighborhood traditions, or sharing little pieces of Astoria history they might not know. For example, Astoria was originally called Hallett’s Cove before local developers renamed it after wealthy fur merchant John Jacob Astor, hoping he’d heavily invest in the neighborhood. He did not. Then someone who’s only been here a few months will tell me about a café, bookstore, or weekly meetup I’d somehow never discovered myself. It goes both ways. The people who’ve been here longer help preserve a neighborhood’s history, while the people who’ve just arrived remind us that its story is still being written.
As I approach forty, I sometimes catch myself thinking I’ve probably already met everyone I’m supposed to meet. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe there are still a few Mondays left.
If you’ve recently moved to Astoria, if your social circle has quietly gotten smaller over the years, or if you’ve ever found yourself staring at your phone on a Monday wondering what to do, I’d encourage you to check out @astoriamondayclub on Instagram.
There’s no membership, no pressure, and no expectation beyond showing up.
Sometimes that’s all a neighborhood really needs: regular engagement at the start of the week.
