Though I’ve been to New York several times over the past few years, I don’t think I’ve returned to Greenwich Village since my first visit. That is — until this past weekend. And I don’t know if nostalgic is the word, but I was certainly a certain something when I walked past Magnolia Bakery.
My first trip to New York was somewhat lonely, but in a good way: I had gotten a small grant to spend one winter week after finals and before Christmas doing research for a thesis. I spent a lot of down time just wandering the streets, escaping the cold in bookstores and cafes and little bakeries.
On one late winter afternoon I stumbled across Magnolia; I must have gotten there at the right time because there was practically no line. I took my cupcake to the little park across the street and ate it on a bench. Everything about that memory is golden: the cupcake was yellow and everythin was bathed in the glow of magic hour. (I remember that because at the time, I was just starting to get into photography.)
At the time, it was perfectly ordinary, quiet moment. But almost four years have passed since then. This time, when I walked past I was lucky to be with five very dear friends and I felt lucky.
