⛩️ Popup #27 | Seeking Serendipity

📍 Maria Hernandez Park
🕐 1.14.24 / Sunday / 11am - 4pm
🌥️ 42°, sunny → snowy → sunny, windy

I was in need of some serendipity. The past week had been dull, dim, and full of doubts of many shapes and sizes. While I try to avoid seeking serendipity — a surefire way to prevent its arrival — it had been a rough week, and I was looking for affirmation in regards to The Tea Stand; a signpost telling me to keep going.

If serendipity is to be reliably found anywhere, it’s in Maria Hernandez Park. The sheer diversity of personalities, activities, and energies found in the park is the perfect recipe for something to happen. All you have to do is be there, be still, and be curious.

And so I was: in Maria Hernandez Park, sitting behind my table, casually observing whatever came across my field of vision, tea at the ready.

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A young man donning a hefty trench coat and a subtle grin is one of the first visitors of the day.

“Do you have any mushroom tea?” he asks straightaway.

“Unfortunately I do not. But I did get my first mushroom grow kit yesterday!” I reply.

“Oh shit! Were you at Woodbine yesterday too?”

Turns out we both attended yesterday’s mushroom distribution hosted at Woodbine, a community center located in Ridgewood, Queens (which shares a border with Bushwick). Woodbine’s mission revolves around autonomy, resource sharing, and mutual aid – you can often find me at their group meditations and film screenings.

Neither I nor this visitor – his name is Calvin, I learn – have ever grown mushrooms, but we’re both excited to give it a try.

Soon, Calvin is talking about the interconnectedness of all things, and how the society we’ve built is directly at odds with this concept.

“When our towns and cities are so spread out, we’re forced into isolation. When you have to drive everywhere, you’re blocking yourself off from the rest of the world,” he explains.

I nod in agreement, feeling a fresh wave of gratitude for living somewhere where everything, like Woodbine and this very park, is just a walk away.

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When I moved to Bushwick two years ago, I had no idea Woodbine existed. It takes time to discover community hubs and develop relationships with them.

Active curiosity — conversations with strangers, attending events, long walks — is often a catalyst for finding your places and orienting yourself within a community. Yet without stillness — staying in the same neighborhood for more than a few months, walking the same streets, noticing small changes — such discoveries and observations are often shallow, as you lack the capacity to do anything with this knowledge.

This balance of curiosity and stillness is fundamental to The Tea Stand. Curiosity to meet fellow Bushwick residents inspired me to set up The Tea Stand for the first time, and in return, I reward visitors for their curiosity with a free cup of tea. And while many visitors are only still for a minute while I prepare their tea, others sit for hours by my side, leading to memorable, lasting connections.

As Lawrence Yeo writes, “strangers will root for you when you reliably show up.”

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And so they come.

A mustached man with a beret does a double take as he passes the tea stand.

“Wait, is this the free tea stand from that BK Reader article?”

“Yes! Can I serve you a cup?” I let him know he’s the first visitor to have mentioned the article, which came out at the beginning of the month. He’s mildly enthused by this.

We chat for a moment longer and he’s on his way, roasted green tea in tow.

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Moments later, a couple approaches.

“Is this the tea stand?” the woman asks. I confirm and ask how she heard about it.

“I saw you’re hosting an event with Brooklyn Film Camera and so I checked out your Instagram and saw today’s popup,” she explains. They had come all the way from the Upper East Side!

I serve them each the herbal tea of the day (“mint rose dream” from Tweefontein Herb Farm), we chat some, and they’re off.

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A group of three men, two of which hold sagging black garbage bags, pass by The Tea Stand.

“Hey there, we’re all good on tea, but can I give you this to read later on?” one of the men asks me, holding out some kind of religious pamphlet.

“Oh, sure,” I say, caught off guard.

“Do you want a sandwich?” his colleague chimes in, pulling out a turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic from the unmarked garbage bag.

“Uhh, yeah, that’d be great, thank you,” I grab the pamphlet with one hand, the turkey sandwich with the other, and they forge ahead.

“God bless you,” they say as they depart.

I take a look at the sandwich — basic, unlabeled, and free. I’m skeptical, then catch myself in my apparent hypocrisy: how is this free sandwich any different than my free tea? I put the internal debate on pause, stow away the sandwich and pamphlet, and smile.

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“Wait, are you serving free tea?” asks a woman. She’s come to a sudden standstill, seemingly in shock.

“Yeah! Can I get you some?” I reply.

“This is insane. I was literally just talking about how nice it’d be if there was someone serving tea in this park,” she says, looking over to her friend to validate. He nods, confirming her story.

“No way, that’s the very thought which led me to start this!” I exclaim before taking her order.

I’m floored, having never witnessed the joy of someone who, from their perspective, manifested my existence with a few spoken words. I hand her a warm, free cup of green tea with a smidge of agave.

“I can’t believe this. I was just complaining about the fact that I always need to buy something just to warm up when I’m out on a walk, and all I really want is a hot cup of tea. And there you were!”

With each cup I serve, the doubts I entered the day with ebb away.

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The next visitor isn’t a stranger, but was one before The Tea Stand brought us together a few months ago: Friend Tim pulls in on his bike, a familiar sight. We’ve seen each other frequently enough for me to recognize his winter coat is new, and for him to know that one of my favorite desserts happens to be his very specialty: iced lemon pound cake. And he’s brought some to share!

I trade him a cup of green tea for a slice of the delectable cake. As we catch up, fast-moving clouds obscure the sun, the wind picks up, and soon the mild winter day turns into a brisk afternoon. Before we can lament, a silver lining: snow! The flurries fall all around us, dissolving upon contact with the ground.

In the midst of the snowfall, Friend Laura makes her arrival. She sets her bike alongside Tim’s and takes a seat on the available cushion next to him. Just like Tim, I met Laura while hosting a performance in Herbert Von King Park last year. And Laura, too, has brought food to share: a homemade, hearty bean soup. I’m cold and hungry — nothing sounds better than soup — but I hold off, recognizing I’m not even halfway through the day. Plus, there’s more tea to be served!

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The snow slowly comes to a halt and the wind picks up. Tim’s hour-long visit comes to an end. My body shakes and my fingers are rendered nearly useless; I can barely press the button to turn on my camping stove. I wish for the sun’s return.

Just then, Friend Jayshawn appears, looking like the sun in human form: bright yellow overcoat, bold orange pants, and a broad smile. I welcome Jayshawn with a hug and introduce him to Laura. I hop in and out of their conversation as visitors come and go.

As we share upcoming plans and slices of a delicious orange brought by Laura, Jayshawn mentions he’ll be reading poetry at the reopening of Poets House, a poetry library in Lower Manhattan which has been temporarily closed for three years.

“It’s crazy because Poets House presented me with my first ever poetry award back in 2018, and now I get to be a part of their reopening. It’s one of those full-circle moments.” Our smiles grow as the significance of this moment settles in. Here’s more info about the reopening event!

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Around 2:30pm, Jayshawn departs. Laura, who’s been by my side for almost two hours now, is in no rush to leave. Steadfast and emanating warmth despite the cold, I’m grateful for her company and slightly envious of her ability to withstand our winter reality, especially given her southern upbringing and lack of long johns.

“Do you need to use the bathroom or anything? I could watch over things,” Laura offers.

“That would be… amazing,” I reply, always delighted by an opportunity to use a restroom and warm up for a moment.

My expedition takes more time than expected and I hurry back, worried I’ve kept Laura waiting for too long. Like the falling snow, these fears quickly dissolve as I re-enter Maria Hernandez Park: I see Laura chatting away with a small group of visitors, simultaneously pouring tea with perfect form. I approach with a massive grin.

“Ah, and here he is!” Laura gestures toward me.

I wave and introduce myself, though they already know my name.

“Hey Miles! So you’ve been doing this for over a year?” asks Bob, the sole member of the group who wanted a cup of tea.

“That’s right, yeah! It started off as a passion project and I recently turned it into a nonprofit,” I explain.

I ask for all of their names, and as Bob introduces himself, one of his friends interjects:

“He’s picture man Bob! He’s famous!”

With humility, Bob explains his moniker: he’s a photographer, and he frequently sets up a camera from the 1940s in McCarren Park, offering to take photos of passersby (and they're instant photos, meaning subjects can take the physical photograph home with them).

“I plan to be in McCarren as much as I can once the weather gets warmer. I want to create a community space; an art hub. Very similar to what you’ve got going here, I imagine.”

I nod vigorously and make a note to follow up. Laura serves him a hot cup of tea, I return to my seat, and Bob snaps a photo of me with a camera from another era.

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I thank Laura thoroughly — for her stewardship, her soup, and her company — and she gently thanks me in return; she’s thrilled following her short-lived service. And just when I think our time together has reached its limit, a familiar face enters my view. He saunters my way and squats in front of the table, his skin glowing.

“Remind me your name?” I ask after we exchange excited hellos.

“Langston,” he replies nonchalantly. “And remind me yours?”

“Miles. It’s great to see you again.”

“I love it here because every time I come, there’s always someone sitting next to you,” Langston says in a poised, kind manner. “Of all days, today is the day to be out here serving free tea. The people need this today. Tea is liquid love, you know. You just need to sip it.”

The conversation continues in this way — delicate, profound — for a little while longer. Simply sharing the space with Langston is a joy; being on the receiving end of his eloquent observations is an honor.

As we talk, the wind becomes gustier and mightier; the tablecloth threatens to fly away with all that rests atop it. Langston and Laura accept the wind’s wishes — go on, follow me! — and leave me alone for the first time in hours.

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Alone, the cold becomes my partner in conversation; my tingling toes and numb finger plea for warmth to the indifference of the cold. The wind offers distraction: as it blows stronger still, items from The Tea Stand are sent into the air, sending me on rescue missions every few minutes. And when I stand to chase something down, my chair takes flight, creating an endless loop. I strategically reallocate my paperweights only to expose a new vulnerability. The tea I had presented on the cha ze (photo below), which miraculously had remained in place to this point, makes its escape. I consider it a sacrifice to the wind.

I’m so caught up in my frenzy of retrievals that I don’t even notice the woman who has come up to my side.

“What are you doing?” She’s bewildered, maybe even outraged by my presence. “I can’t believe you’re out here. Are you not freezing?”

Before I can properly respond, she glances over at the seating area to my side — a blanket and two cushions, and asks, “Is this for homeless people?” I take a closer look at the setup and acknowledge its unkempt appearance, thanks to the wind.

“Uh, well it’s for whoever wants to sit…” I start to explain.

“Wait, are you unhoused?” she peeks behind the table, taking inventory of my equipment — camping stove, water jug, etc.

“No, I’m not,” I reply gently.

“Oh okay, I was worried I might’ve offended you, cause it looks like you could be,” she says. “Are you not freezing? How many layers are you wearing?”

I smile and tell her that I’m doing all right. I reveal my five layers of clothing, placating her for the moment.

“Okay, that’s good, but you really need a neck gaiter or a scarf. All the cold air is getting in through there!”

“Yeah, a neck gaiter is a good idea,” I admit.

“You should go to California. Everyone is doing this in California,” she states plainly.

A minute into the interaction, I still haven’t quite found my footing. Her name is Teagan, and though her questions come on strong, I detect some playfulness and curiosity. Plus, she’s not wrong about the neck gaiter.

Two passersby come up to The Tea Stand, giving me a reprieve from Teagan’s interrogation. I’ve met one of them before at a volume of Steeped in Sound many months back, his name is Hunter. We chat and Teagan chips in here and there (”agave comes from a cactus!”), much to the confusion of Hunter and his friend — they seem unsure what to make of her commentary. They take their two cups of green tea to-go, leaving Teagan and I alone again.

“Oh I see, you’re doing this for the connections,” she postulates.

Before I can respond, a group of five stop at The Tea Stand, only one of which wants tea. As I prepare their cup, I overhear one of their friends describing the plot of Monk & Robot, the book series which is a major source of inspiration for The Tea Stand.

“Look, this is Robot, like in the book!” I direct their attention to the little ceramic robot head which serves as the mascot of the tea stand; they’re thrilled.

We share praise for Becky Chambers’ world-building abilities and Teagan jumps in with a few more comments (”I’m trying to get him to move to California!”). Shortly, the group ventures on.

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It’s just Teagan and me. She goes first:

“Okay two things. First, I’m so used to seeing the vapid versions of this, I’m realizing I misinterpreted what’s happening here. You’re doing this for your community! And two, I have a story to share.”

The wind blusters us and The Tea Stand, sending items soaring just as she’s ready to share her story. We run to recover the goods, Teagan tracking down a high-velocity cup while I struggle to seize the lid to my camping stove. We succeed and the story begins.

“I used to live in Appalachia. Fifteen years ago, while on a hike in the area, I came across a man who looked like he had been traveling for many years. He was radiating compassionate, peaceful energy, it was palpable. We talked for a while and I ended up hosting him for the night. Over dinner, he tells me about his life: he drives across the US in a DIY camper minibus, serving free tea wherever he went.”

“Holy shit, that’s the Free Tea Party guy!” I shout in my surprise.

(The Free Tea Party, led by a man named Guisepi, is the ultimate source of inspiration for The Tea Stand, though I didn’t know of its existence it until a couple months ago. I have yet to reach out to Giusepi due to an overwhelm of admiration, but plan to soon.)

“Oh, you know of him? Well, I guess you must, this is your world. But yes, him! At the time we met, it felt like he was peaking in life. Things are going really well for him and there’s so much joy in the air. It was incredible to meet him,” Teagan says, nostalgia entering her voice.

“I’d forgotten all about it, until now. The energy of the past ten minutes, since I first came here, brought me back to this memory. It’s the same energy that I felt when I was with him. These are your people. This is your place. This is a spiritual journey for you.”

And so I sobbed. I had come into the day feeling doubtful and dispirited, as Teagan had been when she first approached The Tea Stand. But after a long day of reciprocity, affirmations, and reaping the fruits of my past year of work — and after a mere ten minutes for Teagan — we had come to see The Tea Stand in its true light, as we had each experienced before.

“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” I ask once I regain my composure. I look down and see the wind has knocked over my almighty 64oz thermos, spilling the only remaining water I had left.

“I’m sure, thank you. It was great to meet you, thank you for doing this. And get yourself a neck gaiter!”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving me stunned and full of hope. I check the time and it’s 4pm, time to pack up. It doesn’t take long for the cold to reenter my awareness, but I wish to stay a moment longer to savor the serendipity. I remember Laura’s soup — a mason jar of sustenance and snugness — and fire up my camping stove once last time. I sip spoonfuls of the soup slowly, my body relaxing as if stepping into a sauna.

Later, once home, I find the mysterious turkey sandwich I was given earlier in the day. I unwrap it and eat it, an ode to trust.

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