Sep 3, 2012
A funny thing happened yesterday, at 7am my eyes opened not to a truck horn or a NJ Transit bus, but to quiet, absolute quiet. When I walked out of my apartment, I was no longer a frog trying to get across 9th avenue while dodging cube vans and cabs. I leisurely strolled across Wythe Avenue like it was rush hour in Pyongyang. At the next block, instead of needle exchange boxes, dollar ‘burgers’ and the sneakered masses of tourists, I’m confronted with tattooed arms, earrings with big holes, and very tight, tight-fitting jeans. I am not sure which is worse, hey, at least I don’t smell any urine.
Yes Matilda, like Mandela strolling out of Robben Island, I am finally free of Midtown West! No longer will my life be boxed in by the triangle of sketch known as the Port Authority Bus Terminal, Times Square and the obscenely large Postal Building. Instead, I find myself living the hipster dream on the other side of the East River: Williamsburg. That’s in Brooklyn. As in not Manhattan. Shocking, I know.
No, I do not identify with those in the plaid shirts and skinny jeans, but when I saw an amazing apartment at an equally amazing price, I happily joined the L-train riding set. So here I am, far removed from life on the west side of Manhattan and neck deep in a very strange place. Where are the Duane Reades?! Why do the women have their noses pierced like they were to charge the streets of Pamplona? And why is everybody white?!
Like Chris Hansen on a internet chatroom, I’ll get to the bottom of this and the other mysteries of Brooklyn. I’ll be here for at least a year, so let’s see how much my pant legs shrink in that time.