⛩️ Popup #16

📍 Maria Hernandez Park
📆 9.28.23 / Thursday / 12-5pm
🌥️ 65°, cloudy, light rain

It’s quiet in Maria Hernandez Park. I had assumed that yesterday’s sunshine — which broke a streak of four straight days of rain — was here to stay, but the grey skies have already resumed their reign over the first days of fall. I’m just glad it’s not raining.

It’s been exactly a month since my last popup in Maria Hernandez Park, and I welcome the familiarity. I finish unpacking, record a couple videos to share on Instagram, and settle into my camping chair for the next five hours. As I do a final inspection of my setup, I see Friend Julie with her dog Max and give them a wave.

🍵

A group of five middle-aged men shuffle to a stop in front of my sign.

“Té gratis?” I overhear one ask out loud.

I look over, wave, and confirm: “Sí, té gratis.”

They walk over to the tea stand nonchalantly, likely dubious.

“Tengo té verde y té de hierbas,” I say once they reach the table. “Cuál quiere?”

“Hierbas,” three say at once, confidently, as if answering a question with a right answer.“Solo uno?” I ask.“Sí, sí,” the oldest of the group replies.

As I get to work, two of the men inspect the QR code on my table, one pulls out his phone to film me, and the other two watch my process intently.

“Aquí, amigo,” I hold the tea out in their direction, unsure exactly who it’s for.

Three reach out to accept the cup simultaneously.

“Quiere más?” I ask in response, looking at the man who confirmed just one tea would be enough.

“Sí, sí,” he nods.

“Verde o hierbas?”

“Hierbas, la única,” he says with a grin.

I repeat the phrase to myself — la única — as I crank out three more herbal teas, feeling like a brew master as the aroma of calendula fills the air. Place the cup in the holder mug, place the tea in the cup, pour the hot water in, squeeze in some agave, stir it up, put the lid on, stamp it, serve it, repeat.

“Eres de Estados Unidos?” one asks me as I prepare the final cup.

“Sí, de Nueva York. Y usted?”

“Venezuela,” he says with a hint of pride.

“Ah, Venezuela.” I look around to the rest. “Y todos?”

“Todos nosotros somos de Venezuela.”

“Caracas?” I ask.

“Sí, Caracas, Caracas,” they affirm in unison, all grinning.

I want to ask more, but I hesitate, and as soon as those who wanted tea — all except the youngest of the group — have it in hand, they’re off with some dignified adioses.

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A man in a hoodie, who’d been walking laps around the park earlier in the afternoon, plants his feet in front of the tea stand.

“I saw you here earlier but I had to grab groceries. I figured I’d stop by this time,” he says as he pulls out his earbuds.

“Oh, yeah, I recognize you,” I say, then offer him the day’s teas.

“I get green all the time, I’ll try the calendula,” he replies after a moment’s deliberation.

His name is Mike, and his tendency to opt for the unknown is something he’s actively working on.

“I went to college at a small liberal arts college in Mass. It was nice, but when I visited a friend living here, I knew I had to make a change. It’s great to be surrounded by so many creatives. I make music, and since being here I’ve already started making connections — I’ve got a show around here next weekend,” he says with a gentle, natural smile. “I’m trying to be open to everything, especially here. I mean, like this right now, this is great.”

“That’s the way, man,” I reply, “the city rewards you for that kind of mindset.”

Just then, another passerby strolls straight up to the tea stand and stops my Mike’s side. I notice she already has a beverage in hand, an unmarked paper cup like the ones I use.

“Whatcha got in there?” I ask after we exchange greetings.

“A sad chai latte,” she replies with a frown.

“Aw man, why’s it sad?” I ask.

“Look at it.” She takes off the lid and angles it toward me, revealing a pale brown liquid. “It’s mostly milk.”

I share her indignation, take her order, and hope that my tea will be a satisfactory alternative.

I get her name — Rose — and repeat my tea stand explanation, this time mentioning Steeped in Sound so as not to bore Mike, who’s already heard my spiel.

“Oh! My friend Sophia follows you,” says Rose, having pulled up the tea stand’s Instagram.

“Which Sophia?”

“Catwatercow.”

“No way! She visited the tea stand in McCarren Park last winter, I remember her well,” I recall. Sophia came to popup #2 and told me she had had the same idea of serving free tea in the park.

“I just went to a show of her’s at Bar Sundown, it was so good!”

Rose departs, hopefully with a better drink than she began with, and Mike and I continue our conversation for a bit longer until he, too, says farewell. I’m left with an inner warmth following our wholesome chat, and a minute later, the sun breaks through the clouds, the warmth now emanating in both directions.

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By 2pm, my urge to pee is inhibiting my ability to enjoy the stillness of the tea stand, and without a Friend in sight, I make the executive decision to ask some strangers to watch my stuff. I see two friendly-looking young folks, about my age, laying down on the turf and head in their direction.

“Hey excuse me, would you mind watching my things for two minutes?” I ask.

“Oh yeah, of course!” They immediately rise to their feet, seemingly eager for the responsibility.

“Oh, you can stay laying down,” I quickly add out of guilt.

“No, no! We got you. We’ll go over there and keep an eye on things,” one states with a tone of reassurance.

“Thanks so much. I’m giving out free tea, I’ll serve you some when I get back!” I say as I make my way to the bathroom, praying it’s not locked (as it sometimes, randomly, is).

Once relieved, I move with purpose back toward the tea stand. When it’s within sight, I slow to a standstill, shocked at the situation in front of me.

One of the two temporary tea stand protectors is seated in my chair, the other on a cushion. But it’s the third, unknown, person that’s the source of perplexity: a man with a camera is squatting down, in a classic photographer’s stance, snapping pics of the new tea stand occupants.

“Okay, let’s do a serious one now, no smiling,” he says.

Not wanting to interrupt what feels like a professional photoshoot, I remain a spectator, held in a state of disbelief. After a few more clicks of the shutter (yes, that’s perfect, he mutters to himself), he shows his subjects the photos and they exchange information. The photographer departs and I take his place, excited to hear exactly what has transpired during my bathroom break.

“Well, he was so excited to take our photos, and we didn’t feel like explaining the fact that it wasn’t really our thing,” Reese, who’s sitting in the chair, explains simply.

“I love it,” I say, grinning. “Now, can I get you both some tea?”

“Oh, I actually helped myself,” says Reese, holding up her cup.

I reason that Reese, clearly a tea stand natural, should remain in the chair, so I sit beside Cam on a cushion.

While we’re introducing ourselves, another passerby stops for some tea. His name is Kurt, and once I let him know that the tea requires five minutes of steeping, he decides to take a knee and join in on the conversation.

“I love your earrings,” Kurt says to Reese, who has slices of limes dangling from her ears. “Think about how little cost is involved in making those.”

Kurt’s comment makes more sense once he reveals his creative work to us: in addition to his full-time role as a landscape architect, he makes collages from miscellaneous materials: street litter, scrap paper, anything that’s been neglected.

“I’m also working on some chalk art in front of Yo, the all-vegan snack shop right here on Knickerbocker,” he adds, turning to me. “You should setup your tea stand in front of the shop, the owner would love it,” he says. I give him my word that I’ll follow up with the owner.

“So, how long have you all lived in the neighborhood?” asks Kurt, making another swift turn in conversation.

“I just flew in this morning!” exclaims Reese. “I’m here visiting for a month, but I bought a one-way ticket, so we’ll see. I put in my two weeks at my job back in Boulder, so I’m really open to whatever might be next,” she says, her blue eyes beaming with hope.

“Reese and I are cousins,” Cam adds for context, “I used to babysit her, but as we grew older, we became best friends. It’s been a special relationship. I’m really excited that she’s here.”

We let the purity of the moment breathe, cherishing change, and then Kurt rises to leave, his five minute steep time having elapsed.

Shortly after, Friend Naqiya fills Kurt’s void, taking a seat to make a group of four once more. We chat about Boston (one of Naqiya’s favorite topics), koi fish tattoos (Reese has one, Naqiya plans to get one soon), and Red Rocks.

Cam and Reese, who served as tea stand protectors, models for a photoshoot, and are officially the first ever guest book contributors, make their exit with a sincere goodbye.

🍵

With Naqiya still by my side, Friends Bender and Billie are next to join, followed soon after by Friends Kristen and Adin. And thus the tea stand becomes an impromptu picnic between friends, everyone sipping and smiling. Kristen tells us about the two finger tap in Chinese tea culture: a silent expression of gratitude, stemming from a legend involving a Qing dynasty emperor.

A man our age, skateboard in tow, approaches the tea stand with a smile.

“Hey, you have free tea? Can I join?” he asks. “Wait, do you all know each other?”

“Yes, please join us! And yes, we all know each other,” I respond with a chuckle, hoping this fact doesn’t intimidate.

“Sweet, I’ll be the one outsider,” he says, setting his stuff down and finding an empty spot on the blanket. “I’m Bergen, by the way.”

Bergen is looking for a job in film.

“The problem is that I’m interested in every aspect of film, so I can’t decide what I wanna do. I studied creative writing and really liked that, but I also wanna direct, and I love editing,” he explains to all of us. “Anyways, what do you all do for work?”

We take turns giving brief explanations of our current life situations — realizing that the majority of us are also unemployed — before the conversation fragments into several. There’s talk of the upcoming disc golf course at Highland Park (a project led by Friend Bender), book recommendations, and video editing software preferences.

Twenty minutes or so from his arrival, Bergen says his goodbyes, successfully reciting everyone’s name as he does so.

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The picnic continues without any new visitors until a group of school kids, still in uniform, make their entry.

“Can we join you?” the apparent leader asks.

“Sure, do you want some tea?” I respond.

“No, my mom says tea is bad for you,” she says with a shrug, taking a seat directly in front of the tea stand and removing her backpack.

“I’d have some, but I’m full,” chimes in one of the younger-looking girls.

“What’d you eat?” asks Friend Adin.

“Takis and donuts,” she states plainly.

The “leader” then pulls out a hefty stack of colored construction paper, much to the excitement of the three other girls in the group.

“We want to make fortune tellers,” she explains, making the hand motions of what I know as a cootie catcher.

Evidently, none of them know how to do so: all four of them grab a piece of paper and begin making random folds, perhaps thinking the form will reveal itself with enough effort.

“Actually, I’m gonna make a paper plane,” the younger girl declares.

A few minutes later, the first plane prototype is ready, and the creator has earned the attention of the entire picnic crew. She takes a few steps away from the tea stand, holds her arm at a right angle, and lets it fly. But it doesn’t — it immediately nosedives into the ground.

“Oh, I can help you all make paper planes,” calls out Bender from the blanket. “Gather round!”

The girls race over, squeezing onto the already full blanket, paper at the ready. The rain picks up; Billie holds the umbrella high above head to keep the paper and the girls protected. And thus begins the paper plane workshop. Bender doles out instructions one fold at a time, the girls follow along, and the other Friends provide guidance as needed.

After a couple minutes, several brand new paper planes are ready to fly, and the girls are beside themselves. They step out from underneath the umbrella into the rain, which further amplifies their exhilaration.

“DADDY-O!” one yells as she runs with her plane in hand, jumping of joy.

One by one, the planes are launched, some skying into the rainfall, others circling like a boomerang, a few crashing into the pavement. It’s pandemonium: colored planes flying amongst the raindrops, shrieks of success and failure, bodies dashing back and forth in retrieval. I join in, picking up an abandoned crashed plane, tossing it several times, hopping up and down in delight as it falls and flies.

The rain comes down harder; the planes grow heavy and the people take shelter under a nearby pine. The kids are still running amok, though they too are soon slowed by the rainfall. As they start packing up their things, we give them a hand in collecting their soaking wet planes.

“We were in a Disney show together,” one of the older girls says to me abruptly.

“Oh, that’s cool. What show?” I ask.

“Play With Grace,” she says. (Perhaps my memory fails me, for this yields no results on Google.)

She rambles for a minute or two about the experience while we become increasingly drenched by the rain.

“Okay, it’s time to say bye-bye,” says the girl who made this interaction happen in the first place. “Bye-bye,” she says to me, and waves goodbye to all the Friends still underneath the pine tree.

“Bye-bye,” I say back. And off they go.

🍵

With the girls gone, it’s just five of us Friends standing underneath the pine tree, the time approaching 5pm.

“Well, I guess that’s it for today,” I announce. “Y’all wanna give me a hand packing up?”

The blanket is wrung out, the chair and table are folded away, and the remaining items are shoved into the pannier bags, knowing that they will come right back out to dry.

I thank everyone for their help and long visits and say farewell, once more trudging off toward home with a bike-load of soggy tea possessions.

🍵