You know those days when you wake up, craving something random and slightly ridiculous like a gluten-free, hand-rolled, cinnamon-maple bagel made by a third-generation baker who studied in Paris but found herself through meditation in Bushwick? Just me? Okay.
So. Here’s what happened.
It All Started With a Bagel
I saw this TikTok of a bagel pop-up in Central Park—because obviously, that’s just what we’re doing now in New York, unapologetically romanticizing carbs in the middle of public spaces. The account claimed it was “the best bagel north of Houston Street.” I was skeptical, but also I hadn’t had breakfast. And I had on this really cute vintage Ralph Lauren trench I thrifted in Williamsburg that desperately needed to be seen.
Bagel motivation > common sense, always.
The pop-up was supposed to be at “The Ramble, near the 77th entrance—just follow the jazz music.” Which honestly sounds whimsical until you realize: Central Park is 843 acres of “what the hell is going on,” especially if you have no sense of direction and once got mildly lost trying to find The Met.
Spoiler: I absolutely did not find the bagel. But I found something way better.
When You Think You're Lost, You're Probably Just Where You're Supposed to Be
Twenty minutes in, no jazz music, no bagels. My phone had 6% battery, and I had just passed the same squirrel three times (he was judging me—I'm sure of it). And then… I stopped walking.
There was this tiny hill with the most insane view of the city peeking through a tangle of still-bare branches, and for literally the first time in forever, Central Park didn’t feel like this chaotic blur of runners, dogs who get more attention than I do, and tourists asking, “Where do they film Law & Order SVU?”
It felt… peaceful?
I sat down. I ignored my to-do list. I watched a couple argue over what looked like wedding save-the-dates, which felt weirdly poetic somehow. Then a group of kids ran through blowing bubbles as if they were getting paid in joy.
And somewhere between a pigeon trying to share my almond croissant (Plan B breakfast) and a saxophone playing “Don’t Stop Believin’” in the distance, I just felt it:
“I’m okay. I’m happy. I have no idea where I am. And I like it.”
Things I Learned While Not Finding a Bagel
- If you let go of the schedule, the city gives you magic.
- It’s okay not to achieve anything for an afternoon. That includes bagels.
- You don’t need to be going somewhere to be going somewhere.
- Pack a backup croissant. Always.
- Getting lost in a place you live makes you fall in love with it all over again.
A Love Letter to the City That Never Lets You Stay the Same
I’ve lived in New York for years now. And I know how easy it is to rush. To check off places and restaurants and pop-ups like it’s a scavenger hunt for personality. But sometimes the moments that stick with you aren’t posted on Stories. Sometimes they’re quiet. Unexpected. Carb-deficient.
That hour I spent sitting alone in my probably-a-little-too-expensive trench coat, watching this city swirl unapologetically around me, reminded me why I came here in the first place: to find myself. To lose myself. And maybe, to rediscover the joy of not knowing where the hell I’m going.
As for the bagel? I heard the pop-up was actually at Sheep Meadow. I might try again this weekend.
But I’m taking a picnic blanket and zero expectations.
Rach 🤍
“In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of…”
You were right, Alicia. Even without the carbs.
