It’s the first cold day in New York, and I’m outside.

It’s freezing out, the kind of cold that almost burns your throat when you inhale, and there’s a lightness to the air that wasn’t around yesterday, or the day before. It was certainly absent during the torpid months of summer.

Winter is (almost) here.

And I’m outside. Freezing, because I did not bother to Google the temperature (yes, that’s what happens these days. Who has time to go outside, turn around, and put on another jacket or scarf?) and sweating, because my jacket is simultaneously too warm and not warm enough.

See, I’m trying to find soup. My destination? Springbone Kitchen, close to Washington Square Park, a cozy place with a white and blue aesthetic, churning out some of the most flavorful bone broths I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking. Liquid gold? You bet.

There is only one problem – it’s closed. The cheerful sign smirks and mocks in my direction, a sorry-not-sorry condolence that makes me want to kick myself in the shins.

It’s dark and scary out (because the sun sets at an unacceptable 4:30PM, thank you Daylight Savings Time) and I’ve walked a mile out of my way to buy some fancy and exorbitant soup from a place that, for all practical purposes, currently does not exist.

I swear aloud, attracting a glare from a nearby elderly couple. (What? I’m in New York for crying out loud. You can hear worse things in my high school hallways.)

The journey is more important than the destination.

Yeah, right, my snarky consciousness snarls at the poor part of my brain currently choosing to be logical and encouraging. Just because Miley Cyrus can sing about it when she takes off her Hannah Montana wig doesn’t make it true.

Still freezing and now utterly frustrated (although admittedly, being frustrated has warmed me up somewhat), I turn back around, resigned and ready to begin the fairly long walk home.

So it goes, I’m maybe a quarter of the way back, when I decide to make an unusual turn. There are Christmas lights encircling the trees on this little street, and while it’s more obsolete than the main road, it somehow seems safer. (Don’t try that at home, kids…lights or no lights, walk where the other people are.)

And there I see it – a small grocery store. Not a Gristedes, or a Gourmet Garage, but rather some relatively unknown, locals-only (that’s relative when you live in Manhattan; is a local someone who lives within a seven block radius?) store that, if the sign on the door was to be believed, has a deli.

Never one to say no to grocery shopping, I walk in. Immediately, I smell hot food. And lemon-lime floor cleaner. And apples?

That’s always a good sign.

Cautiously making my way to the back of the store, I see one of those buffet tables and am hoping and praying that there might possibly be soup at the very end of that buffet table and – aha! They have soup!

Granted, it looks sketchy as hell and probably has more cross contaminants than a peanut-processing facility, but hey, soup is soup. Plan B has officially materialized. At about half the price of Plan A.

Not too shabby, I think to myself as I roam the aisles.

Last minute, impulse buys include various jams and jellies for my mother and grandma, along with gluten-free everything crackers that are on sale (two for $6!) and look awesome. (Yeah, I totally judge gluten-free crackers by the aesthetic value of the packaging. No shame.)

The best part? Walking home with my groceries finally warms me up. A little too well, as I’m sweating bullets by the time I return, it’s not a work out unless you sweat a little, right?

So, yeah, Plan A failed abysmally. And Plan B only happened because Plan A failed. And Plan B was so great that I’ll probably go back to that grocery store (whose locals-only feeling is so strong I can’t even remember its name) and buy some chocolate-hazelnut spread.

It’s made in Italy and has real vanilla extract, so that’s nifty. And it’s two dollars cheaper than Nutella.

My cynical, overwhelmed brain wanted to believe that the search for soup was going to be the worst part of my night. A failure, in the cold and scary darkness of the first real cold day in Manhattan.

Even cynics, though, can experience little pockets of happiness from singularly unexpected sources, whether it be a rented bike with the chain still attached, to a tiny grocery store who gives you extra crackers with your chicken noodle soup.

So, Miley Cyrus, maybe there’s something to be said about the climb, after all.