Slope Fiend
A favorite statistic that Ned often cites is that Park Slope contains the highest concentration of writers of any neighborhood in the country. Those of us not fortunate enough to have Jonathan Safran Foer-esque book deals (and their ensuing bank accounts) and persist in slumming it down in Midwoodsingtonbushmas Park, as I do, may well understand better than Park Slopeians themselves what attracts writers to it, especially after a Saturday night like the one I just had.
You'll see what you mean when you take a walk around the residential streets of the Slope some summer night when it's warm but not too warm and late but not too late. Take in the neat rows of trees and the old, stately limestones brimming with character, and then try to tell me you aren't just itching to grab a notebook and hunker down on the nearest stoop or park bench. The place has dignified, brainy charm coming out of its pores. Perhaps it's residual writer mojo from all of the wordsmiths who call the place home, but I come back from every visit to the Slope feeling rejuvenated and creatively charged.
To be fair, my own neighborhood isn't without its charm, even if it's not necessarily a literary stronghold. My affection for it tends to ebb and flow. I liken the difference between where I live and where I hang out to the difference between family and friends - I love the neighborhood where my apartment is because I'm stuck living with it. Sometimes it is a royal pain in the ass, like those evenings when my pals want to hang out somewhere near the F train and I have to backtrack it up to 34th to catch the Q at 1 a.m. Sometimes I love it because I know I have to, but I don't necessarily like it all that much. And other times it surprises me with something wonderful, like a cheap movie theater or an ethnic food market with an entire aisle devoted to halvah, and I'm proud to be attached to it.
And then, much as your closest friends become your adopted family, I have my adopted neighborhood. Bridging the two is the mighty B68 bus, a relatively recent discovery to this Brooklynite. I lived here four years before I attempted to take a Brooklyn bus. This was a mistake. Not only does it open doors as far as the territory between my apartment and Coney Island (the cheap movie theater is now just minutes away!), it scoops me up mere blocks from my home and deposits me in the thick of my favorite part of the Slope. From my friend Sharon's front door near the southwest entrance to the park to my front door is 25 minutes via the B68 - I spend that much time just walking from her house to the Q train. Also on that path is a good long stretch of beautiful park views and a phenomenal ice cream joint with an outdoor patio. I can't decide if my adopted neighborhood or my actual neighborhood should get the credit for this discovery, so like any good familial authority figure, I'm letting them share it equally.
The added bonus of the bus, as opposed to the subway, is the fact that you can see where you're going, especially on evenings like tonight when the weather is suitable for outdoor revelry. Sure, Coney Island Avenue is not particularly remarkable, but riding on top of the streets rather than underneath them gives you a better sense of geography, and of your place in the universe. I know how far I am from the storied, stately Park Slopeian brownstones and the neighborhood pubs just begging to have a writer or two popping open a laptop or notebook in a quiet corner, both literally and metaphorically. They're close enough to reach out and touch them. Not at all inaccessible.
Therefore, I have a feeling this is a route I ought to travel often this summer - it will be good for me to hole up in one of the aforementioned bars to plug into the creative energy and have a comfortable place to make some real headway on the book. If I finished it before the weather becomes too cold and nasty for riding the B68 between here and there to be fun, I'd be the happiest little Brooklyn girl on earth.
You'll see what you mean when you take a walk around the residential streets of the Slope some summer night when it's warm but not too warm and late but not too late. Take in the neat rows of trees and the old, stately limestones brimming with character, and then try to tell me you aren't just itching to grab a notebook and hunker down on the nearest stoop or park bench. The place has dignified, brainy charm coming out of its pores. Perhaps it's residual writer mojo from all of the wordsmiths who call the place home, but I come back from every visit to the Slope feeling rejuvenated and creatively charged.
To be fair, my own neighborhood isn't without its charm, even if it's not necessarily a literary stronghold. My affection for it tends to ebb and flow. I liken the difference between where I live and where I hang out to the difference between family and friends - I love the neighborhood where my apartment is because I'm stuck living with it. Sometimes it is a royal pain in the ass, like those evenings when my pals want to hang out somewhere near the F train and I have to backtrack it up to 34th to catch the Q at 1 a.m. Sometimes I love it because I know I have to, but I don't necessarily like it all that much. And other times it surprises me with something wonderful, like a cheap movie theater or an ethnic food market with an entire aisle devoted to halvah, and I'm proud to be attached to it.
And then, much as your closest friends become your adopted family, I have my adopted neighborhood. Bridging the two is the mighty B68 bus, a relatively recent discovery to this Brooklynite. I lived here four years before I attempted to take a Brooklyn bus. This was a mistake. Not only does it open doors as far as the territory between my apartment and Coney Island (the cheap movie theater is now just minutes away!), it scoops me up mere blocks from my home and deposits me in the thick of my favorite part of the Slope. From my friend Sharon's front door near the southwest entrance to the park to my front door is 25 minutes via the B68 - I spend that much time just walking from her house to the Q train. Also on that path is a good long stretch of beautiful park views and a phenomenal ice cream joint with an outdoor patio. I can't decide if my adopted neighborhood or my actual neighborhood should get the credit for this discovery, so like any good familial authority figure, I'm letting them share it equally.
The added bonus of the bus, as opposed to the subway, is the fact that you can see where you're going, especially on evenings like tonight when the weather is suitable for outdoor revelry. Sure, Coney Island Avenue is not particularly remarkable, but riding on top of the streets rather than underneath them gives you a better sense of geography, and of your place in the universe. I know how far I am from the storied, stately Park Slopeian brownstones and the neighborhood pubs just begging to have a writer or two popping open a laptop or notebook in a quiet corner, both literally and metaphorically. They're close enough to reach out and touch them. Not at all inaccessible.
Therefore, I have a feeling this is a route I ought to travel often this summer - it will be good for me to hole up in one of the aforementioned bars to plug into the creative energy and have a comfortable place to make some real headway on the book. If I finished it before the weather becomes too cold and nasty for riding the B68 between here and there to be fun, I'd be the happiest little Brooklyn girl on earth.
2 Comments:
Hey, this is way better than your Livejournal! Keep the good stuff coming!
- Daryl
This post has been removed by a blog administrator.
Post a Comment
<< Home