It's like the shirt that you love the second you're about give it to Goodwill. You suddenly remember the high school football game you wore it to, and your mind thinks of the perfect outfit in which this particular shirt, the one you haven't worn in five years, will truly shine. (I know plenty about this metaphor as I've been trying to downsize for a couple months now.)
My departure is coming quickly. In a little over a month, I'll be leaving New York for presumably forever. I've slowly been falling in love with my neighborhood. It's taken twenty months, but now, it's become
my neighborhood. I know the cars on the street. I know when I get woken up by a car that just won't crank, it's the boy with the Bronco across the street. I know that when I get off the subway and walk up those stairs, without fail, someone is going to open the emergency exit door, setting off the alarm as they exit calmly, with a herd of people right behind them. I like that when I get groceries, the man who works in the bike shop next door, that calls himself
Tony Montana, will help me carry them even if it's only for a block. I like that if I'm short a dollar at the store next door, they'll spot me until the next time I come in, which would most likely be the next day. I like that I can almost always guess which stop any particular person will get off of the train. I look down streets and remember the drunken night of wayward bike riding, with two on my bike and crashing into the parking meter. Laughing for hours. Or when we rode around and pretended to be a bike gang, riding all day, having so much fun that we didn't realize how exhausted we were until we got home. Sore for days. I love walking down Robling and remembering last Christmas when we walked our Christmas tree home in the snow. When we'd get tired we'd slam it into the packed snow, securing it there and proceeding to sing Christmas carols until we had regained our energy to carry it the rest of the way. I like that almost every corner brings back a memory.
I feel like this neighborhood is too safe to be scary. And too scary to be safe. For those who don't know Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it is filled with old warehouses. Williamsburg is right on the water and used to be full of factories and warehouses with a few neighborhoods sprinkled in between. Then the L train happened. A train that connects directly to Manhattan in less than ten minutes and boom, the young people started pouring in. There are now basically two types of people that live here. Older people and families who have lived here long before the L train came, and post-graduate artistic types who are often called
"Hipsters". With all of the new people coming here in the 90s, lots of restuarants and bars and clothing stores came that were geared towards this new age of residents. It seems like it's a scary place, and especially at night, it looks scary. Sometimes it is. You're walking down a residential street and all the sudden, you're surrounded by big scary warehouses. Deserted warehouses. It's ugly and unsettling. But when you're walking around, there's young people everywhere. Around every corner, hanging outside of some bar in a warehouse you never knew was there. You are surrounded by people just like you, and I love it. Sure it's as dangerous as any other place,
and it'll keep you on your toes, but it's outward apperance can be misleading. I like that though. I like that you don't recognize the good restuarants by their flashy advertising. I like having to be in "the know" for a lot of the best places in this neighborhood.
And all of this came to me last night when I was walking home. I was thinking about how I was leaving so soon, moving away, moving across the country, and I started to look around at the familiar streets. A Jack Osbourne look alike passed me by, and looking inside windows I could see lofts in warehouses with huge portraits on the wall and 20 foot ceilings. There were two police officers looking into a subway trap door on the street with flashlights. They were yelling, "Hello!" as I passed by. One of them cursed loudly, and I assumed it was because the bad guy had gotten away in a police chase made for the movies. One where the bad guy lifted the safety door and jumped onto the tracks, running through
the tunnels for freedom. I watched the police officer pull his hand back towards him and turn his palm over. It was covered in grease and he was looking at it as if it were the most disgusting thing he's ever witnessed. (Those NYPD are tough!) If my scenario were correct, they were not going in after said subject, and were much more concerned with the grease on Number two's hand. If they aren't worried, I shouldn't be, right?
I'm going to miss this place. In the least creepy way possible, I like looking into windows as I pass by. Looking at the homes people have made themselves. I like being surrounded by tons of people who are just like me. I like watching people on the street, wondering their professions. I like laying in my bed and watching people on the street below fighting, or kissing, or singing, kicking trashcans, or just walking around aimlessly. I hate that I could never feel at home here. I love that this is my neighborhood, I just wish it were my home.
I'm going to miss this place.
-Great Saturday night with hatches, strangers, dance party extraordinaires, twins, sombreros (see left), missed connections, calling a complete stranger a fashion victim to his face (Yikes!), AND nachos!
ps: Anyone else know that Kiefer Sutherland's real name is Kiefer William Frederick Dempsey George Rufus Sutherland? (I did that from memory, but here's your proof.) Yeah!
