Preston Avenue

The line is long, but steady. It stretches past the door, curling toward the parking lot, but it moves with a rhythm that feels almost meditative.

Around you, locals and students mingle in quiet bagel solidarity. The couple ahead debates whether they should try the lox for the first time. Behind you, a grad student explains their dissertation on Jefferson’s architecture — badly — but somehow it doesn’t bother you. A toddler in a UVA onesie clutches a sesame bagel like a trophy.

Everyone is here for the same reason. The murmur of conversation, the clatter of trays, the smell of bagels fresh from the oven — it all feels like a shared civic ritual.

You inch forward, hope rising with each step. For once in Charlottesville, you are not competing for parking or survival. You are simply waiting your turn, a pilgrim among pilgrims.

You feel… hopeful.

Do you:

• Order confidently: Egg, sausage, cheddar on everything 

• Freeze up and panic-order “uhhh plain with butter?”