That Coffee Shop In Brooklyn

A parade, street markets, protests; it was end of summer in New York City. “Oy, I can’t deal with crowds, today,” said I. Naturally, I fueled up my private jet and set off for a trip to Palm Springs. This scenario happened in my head. Here’s what really happened.

Randomly, I hopped on the subway to escape the crowds gathered for a parade on my street. I planned on eating Chinese at my favorite mom n’ pop’s restaurant in the Village. The need for escapism persisted, while riding on that downtown train. “I need a day trip to an exotic land, I just don’t spend enough time in,” said I.

“This is a Brooklyn bound 3 train,” announced the train conductor. “That’s it, I am going to Brooklyn. It may not be Palm Springs, but by George, it’s certainly a different island,” said I. Excitedly, the train traveled underneath the very depth of the East River. “Hello, island getaway,” I proclaimed.

After a long voyage, I felt slightly jet lagged (hold the time zone change) and emerged from the subway. “Boom, hello crowds. Shit, it’s another street festival. I thought I was going to escape this,” said I. Frustration turned into euphoria. I starred at the signs, which dazzled my eyes. “Oh, it’s the Brooklyn Book Festival,” said I, with eyes open wide with joy.

I excitedly wandered around the tents, browsing the titles. Poetry, LGBT literature, classics, obscure short stories, there was something for everyone’s literary palate. I was dazzled. This was my kind of day trip. For a moment, I pushed the delete button on my jaded self. After immersing myself in the world of literary candy, I decided to get lost.

The humidity levels rose. I complained. “Oy, I can’t. It’s like I am taking shower in my own sweat,” said I, while schvitzing up a storm. Then I found an adorable coffee shop in Cobble Hill. The breeze of a well-fused air conditioner beckoned my heat sensitive senses. I bought an ice latte and pulled out my notebook. Finally, I was able to relax. It was heavenly and had the benefits of a proper trip to Palm Springs.

I took one more trip around the book festival. Shedding a tear, I returned to Manhattan. “Oh Brooklyn, you may have more baby strollers and hipsters than the average borough, but you still now how to charm a Manhattanite,” said I. Returning to Harlem, the noise and crowds welcomed me from a long voyage.

The beating drums of the parade shook my apartment building. However, I was oblivious to its effects. Instead, I reveled in my unexpected day of literary and caffeinated delights. “New York, I still love you, even with your endless street festivals and fondness of parades,” proclaimed I.

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Chocolate Chip Cookies For the Soul

The fireplace roared. A winter fairy sprinkled icy dust on Seventh Avenue, transforming the gritty pavement into an inviting painting. Inside a spacious apartment, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies illuminate in the oven. The magical treats scent the Uptown dwelling with sweet perfume.

In a California king sized bed, sits an adorable gay couple. Both are quite witty and sip on matching coffee mugs. They watch Father of the Bridge (1991 Steve Martin version). “Oh honey, this will be like us one day, sans the neurotic father character, said one gay to the other.

That’s right, we don’t know any neurotic people do we? asked the other gay. They giggle and take a sip of their hot chocolate. The 90’s romantic comedy laughs continue.

This folks is another edition of “just gag me, but I secretly wish this was my life, sometimes.” As I always say, my ideal husband is out there. He’s just hiding under a rock. Now back to our regularly scheduled program, “Thirty, single & living in a New York City walk-up.”

“Damn, I feel guilty, having Chinese food delivered to my apt in this weather. Poor delivery guy,” I declared. I slurped on my Wonton soup, while sitting in the dark with my lap top glowing, I sang the “I feel guilty song.” It’s a little melody I came up with, while attending Catholic school for six years.

I then traded my guilty melody for something on the classic side. “Come on knock on our door. We’ve been waiting for you,” the Three’s Company theme song played. Naturally, I laughed at the antics of Jack, Chrissy, Janet and the Ropers. I uttered the infamous words, “wow, this is my life in a blizzard, old sitcom re-runs and Chinese delivery.

I glared at my window with the flashing lights of the deli across the street. I live in New York and can’t hibernate for the whole winter, like a bear. I long for a day of culture.

The next day was a particularly grey Saturday. “I don’t have a boyfriend, but it doesn’t mean I can’t go out on wonderful dates, by myself (that is),” said I. With my coat keeping perfectly roasty toasty, I set off for an exotic voyage. It would require me to pass a body of water. Naturally, I was jet setting to Brooklyn. Specifically, I was going for the Jean Paul Gaultier costume exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum.

Watching his outrageous Paris fashion shows on television was always a treat. Especially as a Catholic schoolboy, I loved his sense of rebellion and artistery. When I stepped out of the subway and finally reached the Brooklyn, excitement filled my eyes. “My day of culture begins, I am so excited. I just can’t hide it. Wow, I really have to stop quoting the Pointer Sisters,” said I.

I bought my ticket and waited for the exhibit to open. In contrast to the kitschy Gaultier exhibit, I roamed around the war exhibit, which was depressing, but interesting. Then the main event, anticipation built. My eyes were first met with flashy outfits worn by pop stars in the 90’s. I roamed around more. I saw Madonna’s legendary cone bras, avant-garde outfits worn by Bjrok and many 80’s punk inspired outfits inspired by London street fashion.

Surprisingly, it brought me back to my teenage years. It was a time where I yearned for self-expression. Throughout my Catholic school years, I wore a uniform and didn’t fit in with the other boys. Hence, fashion magazines, literature and music provided an exodus from the grim reality.

“The teenage me, would have loved this exhibit, I declared with a cheesy French soundtrack playing in the background. “Just by spending the day at a museum, I feel so accomplished and a bit more worldly. I love New York and all of its cultural opportunities,” said I. Mission accomplished, I declared. I had my day of culture and didn’t spend my day off, cooped up in my apartment, watching re-runs.

One thing would make the day sweeter. “Yum, yum, a chocolate chip cookies from the Levain Bakery. Wow, I can’t get over the taste and all those delicious chocolate chips,” said I. That’s right, I rewarded myself with cookie for soaking up a day of culture. I may not have a tasty cookie recipe, but luckily the Levain Bakery is just a walk away.

 

 

Wandering Brooklyn

One magical Saturday afternoon, the humidity levels dwindled. My brain, which was in a constant state of ” I am schvitzing. Somebody get me an iced latte from Dunkin Donuts,” suddenly awoke. As I peered into the graceful skies above Manhattan, wanderlust ran rampant.

Although, I couldn’t go play on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro, drink a beer at a London pub or enjoy a fashion show in Tokyo, I went for the next best thing. “Today, I am going to have a day trip/staycation in Brooklyn.” I waited in the excruciating heat of the F train station and was excited. Brooklyn has always provided me with many wonderful adventures. However, I rarely leave the city. The idea of going out to explore the familiar captivated my imagination.

Excitement grew, as the train arrived at the York Street station in Dumbo. Walking into the intense grey of Brooklyn was more charming than a box of cannolis on a winter’s day. I started my adventure. There was the industrial steel, so beloved by New Yorkers of all ages. The apartments of the wealthy and hip stood out like a country music album in a sea of hip-hops 45s. Although, there was the bourgeoisie factor, creative energy still dominated the plateau.

I longed to enjoy a day by the water at Brooklyn Bridge Park. Strolling along the cobbled stone streets, the most cinematic picture in New York dominated the sky. The overlapping of the Manhattan Bridge with the Brooklyn Bridge (in the distance) underneath grey skies was simply inspirational. In the distance, Manhattan with its skyscrapers, red brick project buildings and the FDR (highway). I played tourist in my backyard, snapping away with my camera phone.

I continued my stroll around Brooklyn Bridge Park. The tiny waves of the East River hit against a cluster of grey rock formations. Pebbles and lush green trees with hints of red hanging like ornaments, was indicative of a jolly holiday. “Who needs to take a train to some beach, when there’s such a deep sense of urbane serenity here,” were my thoughts. I sat on a bench and pumped up my iPOD.

A soundtrack of Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Bjork, Green Day, Cornershop & the Cranberries played as I took in the romanticized (and surprisingly filled) salt-water breezes. I felt creative and re-energized, just through a couple hours of peace & quiet. My Brooklyn adventures continued.

After Dumbo, I headed to Carroll Gardens & Brooklyn Heights, where I took in all the lovely brownstones, outdoor cafes and vintage shops. I returned to my apartment in Manhattan. It felt like I had taken a relaxing holiday and I didn’t even leave New York City.