New York, you gorgeous little heartbreaker, you’ve done it again.
There’s something about this city on a Sunday morning that feels just… cinematic. And not in a moody, noir, ex-boyfriend-drives-by kind of way. No. Today was a Nora Ephron kind of day. The air was soft and warm, the streets smelled vaguely like bagels and fresh coffee, and my hair? Was cooperating. A rare combination, honestly.
So let me walk you through today. Because, oh my God, today honestly felt like the kind of day I’ll still be smiling about when I’m 80 and still trying to figure out which angles are best for selfies.
🥂 Brunch with the Girls (and the Brûléed Grapefruit)
Stopped by “Sadelle’s” in SoHo, which, yes I know—everyone goes there—but everyone goes there for a reason, okay? I met up with Monica and Phoebe (Monica may or may not have brought a color-coded Google Doc of brunch options—she’s doing great, thank you for asking), and we tucked into bagels that taste like literal sunshine and smoked salmon.
Here's what we ordered, for those of you who like to steal brunch ideas (hi, me too):
- Brûléed Grapefruit (trust me, it's a vibe)
- Everything bagels (because of course)
- Salmon, scallion cream cheese, red onions, and capers
- A tower of mini pastries even though we all said “let’s be good today” five minutes earlier
- I had a mimosa, but Monica just stirred her lemon water and judged me silently
We sat there gabbing for two hours about life, bad dates, great shoes, and that weird dream Phoebe had where she married a falafel cart. Honestly, sounds stable.
💐 Bodega Flowers Are Self Care
After brunch, I found myself wandering alone (cue the whimsical French-accent soundtrack in your head) along West Broadway. That’s when I saw them. A woman was stocking huge metallic buckets of flowers on the sidewalk outside a corner bodega, and it stopped me in my vintage Manolos.
Sunflowers. Tulips. Peonies so fluffy they looked like whipped cream for your soul.
So, obviously, I bought peonies.
A note to anyone who needs it today:
"Never underestimate the power of buying your own flowers and pretending you’re in a Vogue editorial."
🌳 The Park, the Book, and the Meet-Cute
Okay. This is the part that still feels unreal.
Peonies in hand, I made my way up toward Central Park — you know, to accidentally wander through the Literary Walk where all the cute people with tote bags hang out reading Sally Rooney because, same.
I found a quiet spot on a bench near Bethesda Fountain, sat down, and cracked open a paperback copy of “The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.” (Just say it: I’m basic. I accept this.)
Anyway. A guy jogs by (shirt a little too tight, in a very “you’re welcome” kinda way), and next thing I know, his dog breaks away, runs up to me, and sits. Full-on sits, like I’m her mother or snack provider or soulmate.
And then Mr. Tight T-Shirt returns, all apologies and dimples. He says (get this):
“Wow. She usually only does that with people she’s really into. You must have a kind soul.”
HOW IS THAT EVEN A LINE?
We talked for like twenty minutes. About dogs, favorite books, the best pizza in Brooklyn, and how we both still haven’t watched the last season of “Succession” because we don't want it to end. His name is James. He lives in the West Village. And his dog’s name? Olive.
Olive. I mean?? Stop it.
He asked for my number in a way that was both confident and weirdly respectful and I swear I heard some inner narrator say: “And just like that, Rachel’s afternoon turned into page one of a new chapter.”
Am I being dramatic? Yes. Am I mad about it? Never.
🎀 The Sweetest Endnote
Now I’m home, peonies in a vase, my favorite Diptyque candle burning (it’s Baies, obviously), and there’s this little smile that won’t leave my face. Not because of James (okay, maybe a little), but because I let myself have a day that was soft and full of joy. No overthinking. Just lipstick, laughter, and letting the city flirt with me a little.
So here’s to Sundays that feel like serendipity.
Here’s to wearable dresses that don’t ride up when you walk—and to good coffee, good friends, and dogs named Olive.
And maybe—just maybe—a second date in the West Village. 😏
Love,
Rach 💋
P.S. If you know where I can find a good faux-peony candle that doesn’t smell syrupy and fake, please message me. I’m on a floral kick and I won’t apologize for it.
