-- brighton beach memoirs --

My love affair with the neighborhood in which I now live, began slowly,
over time, much like with a obscure recording artist, or an exotic food.

The first night I took the train home, I was beginning to doubt my choice
in coming here -- the all-but-empty Q train lumbers out of Sheepshead
Bay station, and as it slowly charts its course across the bridge that spans
the Belt Parkway, you begin to realize just how far removed you are from
the heart of the city.

But what you don’t immediately recognize is that in those few moments, as
you stare down at traffic, streams of red and white lights moving at varying
speeds to points further beyond, you are making a transition into a world
like no other.

You have left American life as we know it behind. Welcome to Brighton
Beach – Little Odessa, where the air is clean, and the streets, God
love ‘em, ain’t.

When I said I wanted to live near water, I wasn’t thinking here. I wasn’t
thinking now either – more like, Lake Superior, when I turn 50. Or
something like that.

But I didn’t have much choice when moving day arrived, and I’d not yet
found a suitable arrangement in which to settle. I tried Hell’s Kitchen.
That was back in July, when I was still optimistic. I tried East Harlem,
back when I was particularly daring. I tried Carroll Gardens, until I saw
the rents. Fort Greene, until I saw what my money would get me. Clinton
Hill, until they told me that the other name for Myrtle (Avenue) was Murder.

And then, in a fit of schizophrenia, I even tried Jersey. Nothing. Nix. Nyet.

So, through the kindness of a friend, I have a home here, out on the
ocean, where the fog hangs heavy in the evening air, and the sea breezes
waft in and out of the window of my little corner room, here in our
bungalow.

And we’re making the best of it.

The neighborhood itself is a strange and mysterious place. Fruit stands,
butcher shops and fish counters dot the grimy avenue, cafés and dance
clubs bring a certain party atmosphere, but it’s not these influences
alone – our neighbor, Coney Island, lends well it’s seedy carny vibe,
in garish storefronts, cheap jewelry and clothing stores, fried chicken
joints, and sidewalk kiddie rides.

But it is not your typical resort destination, no – the signs of distress hang
everywhere, in the ill kept yards, cars on their last legs, broken glass,
graffiti-marked fences and buildings.

Yet somehow, it is a vibrant and engrossing place, that draws me in
each morning, as I round the corner of the street, where a party has
begun, even at 8am in the morning. There are lines at the fruit stand,
the bakery, the coffee shop, a vendor has set up tables of paperback
books imported from Eastern Europe, the newsstand hawks it’s
plethora of foreign language newspapers. (If you’re lucky, you can find
a copy of the Post.)

This is all in the first thirty seconds from the last turn of the double lock
on my front door.

A walk down from underneath the gritty covering of the elevated reveals
a more cheerful sector, cleaner and more inspired. Who needs Zabar’s,
when you have The Golden Key, with it’s mouthwatering selection of
sausages, salads and cheeses, where the salesgirls address me in their
native tongue.

I guess I could pass for a Vladimir, in a pinch.

Soon, it will be a dear memory, another chapter in my too-fast-moving-life.
But for now, I simply observe, stopping early, stopping often, to enjoy
the wealth of good food, partake of the free-flowing chilled vodka, and
enjoy the company of Manhattan friends, who suddenly want to
visit every weekend.

Free-flowing vodka. The company of good friends. Who’s complaining?

Email: dj140@hotmail.com

Next Update: 15 November

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