So about three years ago I announced, with much fanfare, an idea for this blog that sort of fizzled. I think I should revive it a bit.
I actually was checking out some various places in the city during that time; I just wasn’t writing about them. So here, real fast-like, are some impressions from some of the places I have visited.
This is actually a park; it’s the traditional border between tony Brooklyn Heights and more proletariat Downtown Brooklyn. However, this also puts it right bang in the middle of a major business district in Brooklyn, so very few people use it as a park; it’s mostly populated by people in business attire walking purposefully on their way to meetings or sitting on benches grabbling lunch and talking urgently on cell phones, with the occasional nanny with a couple kids. I got to walk through each day myself during the two weeks that my new job was a walking distance from my house, and passed a big statue of Henry Ward Beecher each way.
The aforementioned Downtown Brooklyn has been a major shopping drag since I moved in; the courthouses for Brooklyn are all here, but so are three solid blocks of clothing stores, shoe stores, jewelry stores, and such all stretching down Fulton Street. Brooklyn’s own Macy’s sits down the block from an H&M and an Old Navy and a Nordstroms, and etc., etc., etc. Right on the edge is a new sort of mall-type building that I have to admit I’ve been to a lot (it has a Target, a Flying Tiger outpost, New York’s only Alamo Drafthouse theater, and a food court in the basement with the only Trader Joe’s I’ve seen in the city where there is no line).
But there are other little surprises tucked in – get past the shops and you see some smaller historic buildings tucked in, like the city’s main meeting house for the Society of Friends (Quakers) and the main transit museum.
Otherwise known as “the buildings most people walk past to get to Brooklyn Bridge Park”. Most tourists either line up 50-deep to get to Grimaldi’s pizza, or give up and head to the new Shake Shack that just opened up a couple blocks away. However, I favor the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, a little ice cream shop in an old fireboat house perched right under the Brooklyn Bridge. The ice cream is nice and simple, and the scooper staff all fresh-faced high-school kids; I always get a major flashback to the little ice cream shops you can find up and down Cape Cod in the summers.
An old boyfriend once owned the building right next to Grimaldi’s, but had to sell it during a divorce settlement. Whenever we went wandering in the city, if we passed by it, it would send him into a bit of a funk for the rest of the day. I sort of don’t blame him.
Another big shopping area, with boutiques and fancy shops along Smith and Court Streets, with some tinier cafes tucked into the rowhouses further from Smith.
I ventured down here most recently. The city has dramatically expanded its ferry service in the East River; instead of a single line serving three stops in Manhattan, two spots in Williamsburg and one in Astoria, there are now two more lines hopping along the Brooklyn Waterfront and the East Village, with another line heading all the way to Rockaway Beach. Another line for Queens is coming, and there’s even supposed to be a ferry up to spots in the Bronx.
Right now the Rockaway line and the line for South Brooklyn are the only two new ones open, to encourage the development of the industrial park in Sunset Park; it also tries to give commuters from Bay Ridge, Red Hook and Sunset Park a bit of a hand getting to Manhattan. I rode it the opposite way, though, from the Brooklyn Bridge down to Bay Ridge.
It’s pretty clear where the upscale part of Bay Ridge is; it’s the houses on the bluffs overlooking the river. The ferry lets you off on a pier just at the head of a shoreline jogging path, with steep cliffs overlooking the water looming over you. It’s a steep climb from the pier to the next block, and then another one to the block beyond that – so steep, in fact, that at some places the cross streets simply stop at the base of the cliff, resuming one block later at a higher altitude. Pedestrians can walk it, though – there are stairs.
I fell in love with house after house in the little side streets I walked through; mostly the smaller, cottage-y looking places with tiny lawns and front porches, and probably just a single bedroom in the second floor. Most of them sported flags and kitschy lawn ornaments, the occasional political sign, faded wreaths or Christian slogans. But then I really fell hard for “The Gingerbread House”, an Arts-and-Crafts style house with six bedrooms built a hundred years ago and now an architectural landmark.
I desperately wished I could get in, wished that there was some kind of house tour. No such luck, so I just lingered at the fence and peered through hedges, wishing I could peep inside windows. ….I have since discovered that the house has been for sale since 2009, and the asking price is making this now one of my aspirations for if I ever win the lottery.
A couple more blocks east was 3rd Avenue, the more commercial drag; storefronts and smaller apartment buildings instead of the stately houses. I stopped in at another landmark that pre-dates the Gingerbread House – Anopoli Family Restaurant, an old family diner that boasted a small ice cream parlor. I went in, planning to get something to go; I ordered a small dish of peach ice cream, and the man at the counter was training a teenager, clearly there on a summer job, and showed him how to dish my ice cream up and how much it cost. But when I held up my debit card to pay for it, their faces fell. “Only cash, sweetheart,” they said.
“Oh. Uh…is there an ATM?”
“You could go to the pizza place next door.”
“Okay. Uh…I’ll leave this here, then,” I said, pushing the ice cream back towards them, “and I’ll just go get it.”
“What? No.” The man scoffed. “Stay here, eat your ice cream, then you can go get the money.” I hesitated, thinking about the ferry I wanted to catch. “G’wan,” he chided me. “Sit down. Relax.”
“….Okay, I probably should,” I said, meekly taking the only open seat at the counter, next to a woman with bleached-blond hair eating a plate of fried shrimp. Almost the second I sat down another older man I hadn’t even seen put a glass of ice water in front of me as well. I was a little worried he was going to try to chat with me – I wasn’t really in the mood for conversation – but instead, he left me alone, and I instead just listened to the patter as he teased the woman with the fried shrimp, or occasionally lectured the teenager about how to serve up pre-packed ice cream or sundaes. He raced through all his lectures, and I wasn’t sure the kid would be able to remember it all; but when I finally got my money and paid for my ice cream, it was the kid who rang me up, and he was spot-on.