Walking to the Bottom of Brooklyn

Hey y’all. Sorry to be a day late on this. I think I’ll be better about sending stuff on time in the future because yesterday was my last improv class. Plus, this is super long. Oh also, my improv class show will be Sunday at 1 p.m. at UCB’s theater on 2nd and 14th. Here’s more info and tix. It will be short and strange. Not sure if we will be funny just know I will be laughing. We’ll probably get drinks nearby after if you wanna come. I want a ton of people to pull up, mostly because I think that would be funny for a weirdly timed Improv 101 class show. Let me know if you wanna come.

Mosquitos really are some of my biggest opps. I usually get a bite and it will itch on and off for six days, with a big itch drop-off starting day 5. They are big, red bumps that take multiple shapes and shades. I cannot express how limiting these can be. I never had bites this often and painful until I moved to New York, and it’s one of two visible signs that I’m not welcome here, second only to the old man telling me to Get out of the way, girl! while scootering on the sidewalk today (when there’s actually a bike lane a few feet away).

I had a lovely Tuesday evening spent in the backyard of a wine bar, but it yielded 6 bites around my ankles, rendering it impossible to wear socks or normal shoes without irritating the bites. I’ve been in such a strong walking mood, though, and thought I could maybe get away with wearing my Crocs or Birks instead. Although the bites didn’t get angry, I developed some blisters, especially one gnarly one on my big toe knuckle. I still had some nice walks through lower Manhattan, Williamsburg, and Bushwick (respectively) this week, but I was waiting on the bites to chill so I could wear socks/sneakers and keep a band-aid in place on the toe knuck.

I really packed my Friday and Saturday in order to keep Sunday completely empty. This would line up with my itch cycle so I could confidently take an extra-long walk. I wanted to walk over to Sunset Park, a neighborhood in Brooklyn that I still hadn’t been to, which feels wrong. It also has a park of the same name boasting gorgeous views of the Manhattan skyline.

Sunset Park was my goal, but I ended up having the energy to walk even further. I ended up walking through to the bottom of Brooklyn in Bay Ridge — and then some. In all, I walked over 14 miles and 27,000 steps. This was longer than my Christmas Eve Manhattan Top-to-Bottom but shorter than my Father’s Day one. It was not very intentional and probably my favorite of the three. It also felt the best physically, both during the walk and after. I think this is because I timed my breaks well and stayed more hydrated than I usually do.

Now first, what is a Brooklyn Top-to-Bottom walk? Well, a quick Google search reveals nothing…so we can definite it however we want. It’s a lot more open ended — literally — than a Manhattan Tip-to-Tail because Brooklyn is much wider on each end. If I could pick a true tip of Brooklyn, it would be underneath the Pulaski Bridge as it departs Greenpoint. Although I live a few avenues away from Queens, I factored in the time it would have taken to get from Greenpoint to the bottom of Bay Ridge, which was shorter than what my whole walk ended up being. So since there’s no rules, I’m calling it a Top-to-Bottom. I’m so vers!

Something that I think made this walk so much easier was getting to start it immediately instead of having to take a formidable train journey to the inception point. I’m famously on the border of Bushwick and East Williamsburg. I live close to a bunch of factories, including some ultra-long blocks consisting of few people and many warehouses. If I want to get to East Williamsburg civilization, I have to walk through these for around 20 minutes. I start around 11 and get through the bright blocks while unintentionally following a guy wearing a Venezuelan flag tied like a cape.

The neighborhoods in this journey start with the most familiar and end with places I’ve never been or seen before. I’m in East Williamsburg all the time, so I just wanted to get through the first chunk of the walk as quickly and as mindless as possible. To do this, I put on a podcast I’ve mentioned here before, Slow Burn from Slate. I’m still listening to their 8-part series on the LA riots because I’m a slow listener.

I tore through a few episodes until I got to Park Slope. I realized that I listen to music when I want to soak in my surroundings and a podcast when I want to ignore them. Learning about history from the 90s is wild because it either happened before I was alive or before I was conscious. Most history classes didn’t teach us very much about the 90s since it was so recent. I wonder if kids in school today know more about that decade than I do.

As I write this newsletter, I only have one episode left. It’s just crazy to see how so many parts of the judicial system are built to allow those in power and/or regular white people so many chances to sway outcomes in their favor. The Rodney King trial against the four cops that beat him was rigged from start to finish. Learning about the racial dynamics in LA at the time and how they manifested in the riots was pretty wild. Anyway, this is definitely worth a listen, especially as our nation untangles a new case of horrifying police brutality on video with Sonya Massey’s killing.

It’s hot out, but I’m wearing biker shorts and a sports bra. I’m wearing a bit of a hiker’s backpack, filled with water, a shirt, valuables, and anything that can make my feet feel better if need be (Crocs, shorter socks, lidocaine, band-aids…the works). I barely thought of my outfit the whole time aside from the extra stares I got from people who act like they have never seen cleavage before.

I basically stay in a straight line the whole time, passing by businesses I frequent and apartments I often stare at. I walk under the scaffolding on Boerum Street like I do every time I walk towards the southern part of Williamsburg so I can feel a whole block of shade in a sometimes treeless neighborhood. Although East Williamsburg has gentrified, it feels less obvious than Bushwick. There’s still a neighborhoody feel with families and old dudes sitting on stoops.

I hear the M train’s roar as I approach Broadway, the true neighborhood divider. The above-ground train overwhelms. The sky always feels a bit more orange here, the heat beating a bit harder. I always feel a twinge of nervousness, knowing that the other side will feel like an entirely different country.

I remember walking through this neighborhood for the first time last year and feeling deeply uncomfortable. This is where all of the Hasidic Jews live, and the whole neighborhood is a self-sufficient society separate from the tech bros and Puerto Ricans on the other sides of Williamsburg.

Hasidic Jews aren’t scary, but when you’re a more secular Jew, you feel a strange mix of feelings. When I meet someone Jewish, I immediately feel kinship with them even if we might have nothing else in common. At the same time, fundamentalism of any kind makes me uncomfortable, even if we believe some of the same stuff. When they see me walking down the street, can they see my Jewishness through my dyed hair and exposed skin? Do they see me as anything like them? Do they notice me at all? Do I want them to?

I’ve walked through the neighborhood plenty of times at this point, and this shakiness deteriorates more and more each time as these questions matter less and less. I tend to walk around on hot weekends where the streets are usually pretty barren. This makes every person you pass by more and more memorable. I’ve been fascinated with ultra-religious sects of Judaism for most of my life. Did you know that a lot of them were founded after Reform Judaism (the secular denomination I belong to as well as most of your friends and favorite Jewish celebrities)?

On weekends, I don’t see too many people out. Usually a few dudes, sometimes in duos, and usually on their dumb phones. Sometimes I see women together or wrangling kiddos. I am usually dodging kids scootering or biking on the sidewalk while they live the kind of carefree, minimally supervised childhood outside that our parents lived. It’s so interesting to see it in New York, living in a neighborhood as communal as one that kids can safely play on the streets without adults running after them.

The only non-Hasids I see are either people driving through the neighborhood or dudes that speak Spanish working in construction or as delivery peeps. I am often the only non-Hasid on my path that doesn’t have a purpose. But this time, I saw an elderly white, secular couple walking through the neighborhood looking confused. Looks like they weren’t at the part of Bedford Avenue they thought they’d be at.

On weekends, this is usually the quietest neighborhood I walk through. It’s much livelier on weeknights, even at late hours. There’s still lots of great things to see, from the Hebrew signs that make you question what’s happening inside to the architectural styles you don’t see in other neighborhoods. New York is such a Jewish place, and it’s interesting to go somewhere like South Williamsburg after traversing secular Jewish spots like the Upper West Side. They don’t need Jewish Community Centers down here — everywhere is a JCC!

I always walk past this specific self-storage facility and know that I’m about to exit the neighborhood. I turn the corner onto Flushing with a suddenly substantial stream of cars and am back to secular New York. It’s always a bit of an exhale. I’ve walked through this nether region quite a few times, these industrial, barren streets between Williamsburg, Clinton Hill, and the Navy Yard.

The heat is incessant. I cross under the BQE and the industrial wasteland ceases in place of adorable apartments and lots and lots of trees! The shade is so necessary at this point of the journey. I’m usually getting weary by the time I get to these neighborhoods on walks, able to admire them through my exhaustion and looking for a respite in the corner cafes or plentiful parks.

I honestly don’t remember this part too much. I talk to a lot of friends over text or voice memo to interrupt my podcast listening, crossing streets countless times to get to the shadier sides, which always seems to be on the opposite side of where I am.

At this point, I was texting with my friend Ryan, who lives nearby in Park Slope. I’ve written about Ryan and these idyllic neighborhoods before in an entry on Pretty Brooklyn. I was planning on doing this whole walk alone, but, if I were to be social with anyone, he would be the best person to be around. I found myself sweating on a bench in a park called Cuyler Gore (what does that mean) watching kids run through misters while I schemed with Ryan on where to meet.

Like I do on most long walks, I was craving a bagel. I decided to try Bagel Pub, which I know has a Manhattan iteration, as well. I walked the remaining 20 minutes to the 7th Avenue location and marveled at how the only thing I’ve consumed today was water. I was ready for a break, and the tree-lined streets and bustling sidewalks were encouraging me to hit the checkpoint.

I’m in line for a bagel, which is one of the only lines I’ll gladly wait in. I wanted an everything bagel (toasted) with some sort of shmear. I looked at the various piles of cream cheeses with the same awe I feel while picking a gelato flavor. Suddenly, I see a cream cheese variety I’ve never seen: za’atar cream cheese. I ordered it, adding it to my shmear Pokedex. I also grabbed one of those big Poland Spring bottles with a sippy lid.

Ryan would get to the shop a bit later than me, but I was ravenous. I sat at a counter facing the window and gorged on my gorgeous bagel. It was exactly what I needed: big, bready, and tearable. The za’atar cream cheese was basically regular CC with hints of za’atar, which was the perfect accent to an otherwise boring meal. I loved my frenzied food.

Ryan arrived as I was eating, and he ended up getting an everything bagel (toasted) with scallion cream cheese, plus a black and white cookie for us to share (perfect). We sat and ate and tried talking but failed half of the time, him adjusting to leaving the house for the first time that day after a big Saturday and me realizing how worn out I was pre-bagel. I walked to Park Slope, for crying out loud! This is a long enough walk to wow myself and others, but I had bigger plans.

Park Slope is a long rectangle, and I’ve been down the entirety of a few of its avenues, which are pretty commercial. Ryan took us down Sixth Avenue, which I realized I hadn’t spent any time on. It’s a quieter boulevard, somehow even prettier and tree-ee-er than the others. As we trudged through the heat, I saw a formidable willow tree beckoning us from down the street. It happened to be the centerpiece of a community garden with benches and chairs that we sat in for a while.

I could probably write a weird, erotic story based on this willow tree. Ryan and I sat on benches under its shade, its long leaves blowing around us. Sometimes, the leaves would touch me and startle me, hitting my shoulders or the small of my back. Sometimes they would caress my face. Ryan seemed unfazed, but I was very aware of the tree’s presence, bringing comfort through shelter and discomfort through its grazing.

We sat for a while exchanging stories of our weekend and swatting away bugs. I got some new mosquito bites while I listened to Ryan and watched the scenes playing out in the community garden, some old ladies planting, a family lounging, and an old man reading like I assume he does every day.

After getting bit enough, we emerge from the park and continue down into South Slope. The heat is present, only to get worse for the next portion of our walk.

I’m not one to hang out at cemeteries. The only one I really hung out in was the cemetery in Pittsburgh where Andy Warhol is buried. I should give cemeteries another hangout chance at Greenwood Cemetery. Our road became a dead end once we hit it, and once we turned, the Statue of Liberty was in perfect view in front of me.

Awestruck, we continued along the gate of the seemingly endless cemetery. I saw pretty buildings, rolling hills, and even a little pond as I walked past, which somehow alleviated the heavy sadness most cemeteries possess. Ryan told me a lot of famous people are buried there, and he once went to find the grave of his great-great-great grandfather (he did!). I’ll have to come back and actually go in.

The other side of the street felt like a completely different town with some odd businesses and haphazard apartments, including a loud radio blasting commercials from a residence. We were a few avenues from the water and really felt like it, with almost a Jersey Shore brand of aimlessness by the sea you get from the residential enclaves near tourist attractions. The heat was difficult to deal with, but it felt a lot better having Ryan to talk to.

We pass the cemetery, and the neighborhood gets livelier. We see people waiting for buses and hear Spanish music blasting from cars. We start passing businesses, almost all of them serving food from across Latin America. I didn’t know much about Sunset Park, but I knew it had a big Asian population, so I was surprised to be in an area that sounded and smelled a lot like Bushwick.

The heat is unbearable at this point, and Ryan steers me to a grocery store. We pick out beverages and he also grabs a new kind of M&M, some variety with crunchy cookie insides. It’s cold in the store, and little kids run around us in line as I stare at pictures in front of the register of other little kids. I felt inclined to buy two beverages, an Arizona lemonade/iced tea as well as a Mint Yerba Mate. I chugged part of the Arizona then sipped my Yerb, saving the rest of the Arizona for later.

We’re a few blocks away from the namesake park. It’s basically one big hill. We start up the hill, Ryan’s long legs effortlessly speeding faster than mine. I’m grateful that he’s slowed his pace down for me most of this walk. We end up at the top of the hill and I turn around, only to see one of the best — if not the best — views of the city. You can see skylines of Brooklyn, Manhattan, Staten Island, and even New Jersey. It’s breathtaking. It reminded me of a better version of Pittsburgh’s Schenley Park.

The two of us sat under a tree on dried grass and continued gabbing. Ryan is one of the easiest people to talk to, but maybe that’s just because we’ve been talking for over a decade and met when we were four. We watched people of all ages photosynthesizing or hiding in the shade, plus a woman struggling to push her snack cart around due to the front wheel getting stuck after the grass confused it. I got more mosquito bites here, somehow.

After enough basking, we got up and used the park bathrooms (perfectly timed) before continuing on. I had hit my goal of getting to Sunset Park, but I had this sneaking thought the whole day: what if I walked to the end of Brooklyn in Bay Ridge? I kept flirting with the idea enough to tell Ryan about it. When I said it out loud, it felt much more possible.

Ryan said the N and R trains were not running past Sunset Park and I would have to use shuttles to get back. He used this as a cue to take a train from one of the last stops and get back home. I was surprised he stayed with me long enough here, but good conversation and a solid walk can make an adventure out of even the sleepiest Sunday mornings.

At this point, it was around 3:30 p.m. We walked through the rest of the neighborhood, eventually crossing over to the 8th Avenue N station. Before then, we walked down Sixth Ave, which was a healthy mix of apartments and small shops. The demographics changed almost completely to the predominantly East Asian neighborhood I assumed I was going to walk through in the first place. We saw little kids on bikes and old ladies meandering as Ryan divvied up the M&Ms (which were yummy).

Once we turned to walk towards 8th Ave, the area got less homey and more industrial. I bid Ryan farewell at the station as I looked out at a Popeyes with two signs, one written out in English and the other in what I think is Mandarin. Ryan asked me how much longer I would go, and I had no idea. I originally wanted my journey to be all alone, but I was really grateful to have this significant Ryan portion.

Now, it was time to put my earbuds back in. Since everything around me was new, I played my normal mega-playlist instead of returning to my podcast. I walked next to a few busier roads that felt more like the ones I know in less car-centric cities. At least these still had great sidewalks.

I crossed a bridge above the Gowanus Expressway and made it to my third long rectangle of a neighborhood in a row, Bay Ridge. I associate South Brooklyn with Eastern European immigrants or their assimilated, turbo-racist grandchildren, but I really didn’t expect much at all. I assumed I would be somewhere more residential. I walked along a necklace of a park Google tells me is called Leif Ericson Park, which felt familiar and suburban.

When trying to pick which Avenue to tread down, I felt drawn to Fifth Avenue, which even had streetlamp signs signaling its importance. Every time I see signs like that for a street or neighborhood, it’s either because it’s awesome or they want it to become awesome.

Fifth Ave in Bay Ridge, I can confidently say, is awesome. I’ve had no idea where all of the Middle Eastern people are in this town, but it turns out a lot of them are here. But I have passed through some ethnic enclaves today — Hasids in Williamsburg, Latinos in Sunset Park, East Asians in Sunset Park — and Bay Ridge is a true melting pot. Palestinian pastry shops, Turkish markets, Chinese takeout (well, duh) with signs in multiple languages within each block. As diverse as it is, Middle Eastern cultures are most represented here. I most enjoyed walking by the modest Muslim clothing shops and gaudy jewelry stores.

I walked past many ages and cultures, but everything felt alive. It felt like a true neighborhood that felt both distinctly New York and somehow could be Anytown USA. There were enough trees and store awnings to keep the sweat away, plus many public benches so I could take breathers when I needed to. I never eat very well on these walks and should have stopped for something exciting here, but I didn’t want to deter my journey. I’ll have to go back again for the food.

Fifth Ave curves and merges into Fourth Ave, and the neighborhood gets a bit less fun. I start to remember how close I am to the water as I see the Verrazzano Bridge peeking over the buildings. I stop on a bench to massage what felt like a tiny but potent splinter out of my big toe, which felt weird to bring my naked foot out into the world. I was nervous that this pain would persist and yield an end to my journey. Thankfully, the sting dissipated. The balls of my feet were starting to ache, though.

The street starts curving downhill. Now, all of the restaurants and business names sound Italian. I pass by churches and senior apartments. I feel a sadness creep up on me, almost as if I’m inching towards a slow death. The bridge takes center stage, with one of its towers taking over the center of my view. I’m not sure what I’m walking to, but I know it’s the end. There are more R train shuttle buses than people milling about at this point, as I’m now passing the final stop of that train line. I feel somehow so far from the cuteness of Fifth Ave and feeling very unmoored. I text my friends I had tentative movie night plans with that I would be bailing.

Tourists and New Yorkers alike are well aware of DUMBO, the Brooklyn neighborhood that stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I’m calling the next area of my journey DUVBO to signal the area Down Under the Verrazzano Bridge Overpass.

My phone had been on airplane mode for a part of my Bay Ridge trot since it got under 35%, but I knew the maps path to what I used as my anchor, John Jay Park. The park has a small-ish war monument obelisk next to a cannon with cannonballs. I sat on a bench and tried getting signal so I could figure out where to go next. I did not feel done yet, but I wasn’t getting any signal. As if I’m not in the biggest city ever in the world ever. Whatever.

I sat on a bench for a few minutes and decided to walk down a road taking me closer to the water. It opened a pedestrian path down to another park, and I happened upon the Bay Ridge Promenade. Wow. What a breathtaking view! In front of me, Staten Island looked a bit mythical. Above me (and a little to the side) was the Verrazzano Bridge connecting Staten Island to Brooklyn. The promenade hosted some greenery, benches, food trucks, and plenty of outdoor recreators.

Looking out at the water just barely below me, I leaned on the gate and felt like crying. I felt the desire to cry but no tears came. It was comical. I felt like mourning something. I had a lot of changes coming my way, job stuff to work on (IYKYK), and family vibes to sus out. This was the first long walk in a while that felt like I had hit the top of a mountain, feeling at connected to the world around me while drowning in loneliness.

I was having a conversation with one of my friends recently about God, something I don’t really care enough to have a strong belief in or not, and she talked about seeing something godly through nature. I agree with this, but I also see something godlike all the time in urban feats. Big bridges, towering skyscrapers, all of these things may feel so far from something religious, but I think humankind’s desire to make big and tall things is innate; it’s a natural desire to innovate. There’s something beautiful about all of the care and labor it takes to make big stuff. At the same time, this has usually been a burden for our city’s most vulnerable populations to erect, so maybe it’s pretty godless. Maybe the sacred size but unethical construction is all just a metaphor for how hypocritical religion can be. Actually, whatever.

All I know is that I love cities, and I really love this one. As Gentrifier Olympics as I can be, I’m not seeing TikTokers and transplants pulling up in full force over to Bay Ridge, so my experience felt singularly special. I felt a confidence below my sadness, some pragmatism beneath my amazement. I felt exactly where I needed to be and exactly how old I am. New York can be a real fountain of youth, but I realized that I’m not just here to escape aging, be a baby forever, and do the antithesis of people that settle down young. Instead, New York allows me to grow at the pace I feel comfortable, to feel as old as the occasion allows, to feel ready for each stage of life. But then again, that’s something a swaddled baby would say if they could talk.

I had enough phone signal here to figure out my next move. I could just turn around and take an R shuttle bus, a suitable end to an already formidable walk, but I still had energy. Maybe I had more now. I texted Ryan asking if the D train was running normally. I could take an hour walk to the 18th Ave stop at the onset of Bensonhurst, another neighborhood I haven’t really been to.

There’s a paved path with a wall along the water that seems to go on forever. Around half of my walk to the D would take place here. I didn’t see many people walking, mostly bikes zipping by or fishermen standing with their rods. Fishing around New York City has always seemed like the equivalent of bringing a surfboard to a public pool and hoping to catch waves, but maybe they actually find stuff.

I walk by tons of trash, both on the path and in the water. The path is just barely separated from the multi-lane Belt Parkway, but I don’t really feel like I’m walking by the side of the highway when I have water so close. The most poetic vision was seeing a Target shopping cart half-submerged in the sea with waves crashing around it. I could see a Target far into the distance. Did they scoot it all the way here?

I love living in Brooklyn but haven’t had many tangible moments of Brooklyn Pride, usually just pride for specific neighborhoods here or the city as a whole. Walking this path gave me Brooklyn pride. All ages, all demos using the path. My faves were a young family of four biking on one of those four-person bikes you only see in beach towns. Everyone looked so happy. I passed by highway signs for those entering and leaving Brooklyn: the entry sign reading Welcome to Brooklyn - How Sweet It Is! and the exit saying Leaving Brooklyn - Fuhgeddaboutit.

Eventually, the path split, and I could walk up a hill to cross a bridge back into civilization. I took it and walked into the tree-lined street.

I know very little about Bath Beach. It looked familiarly suburban. My entrance into the neighborhood was surrounded by big parks and tennis courts that had a few openings. This could be anywhere in the country.

My phone was in the low 20% mark, so I stayed on airplane mode but screenshotted the directions for my route to the train. I passed lots of houses and alleyways leading to driveways. One of the houses had little flags in their yards, one said USA, two were Trump themed (including one of the shooting picture reading LEGENDS NEVER DIE!), and the last reads as such: In this house, we do autism. We do meltdowns & avoiding. We do tears and (not an ampersand) frustration. We worry and stress. We also hope for a better day. We persevere and we pray because in this house, we don’t go down without a fight. So much to unpack here. Do they want to “cure” their autistic child? Are they proud of their kid’s autism? But then they also love a guy who mocks people with disabilities. Sure.

The houses start giving way to more industrial, barren blocks. The sun beats down again. I arrive at an intersection with grocery stores on three sides: a bodega, a bigger store, and an Arab grocery store. I chose the bodega and decided on another Poland Spring with a sippy lid. This is my antidote while traveling through the desert.

The sky is grayer, but the sun feels omnipresent. The streets are quieter. Signs are in Arabic, Russian, and Mandarin. Tons of car dealerships. Few people on the sidewalks, and everyone looks grumpy. I am grumpy. This neighborhood is a bit depressing. There’s just a weight you want to shake off.

My body is starting to ache a bit, and my thighs are rubbing hard enough together that I worry about a bug bite or something in my pants. I enter Bensonhurst and see the above-ground D train. I cross a busy intersection with tons of people either waiting for buses or getting off of them. I thought about maybe walking further along the D, but it’s around 6 p.m. and time to go home.

I climb up the stairs to the train platform and feel my feet scream. It’s definitely time to go home. I have an hour commute ahead, and my phone is going to die soon. I get on the train and pick up where I left off in Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. The main character’s cousin who is in love with him and also trying to kill him just met his mother for the first time. Most of the train seats are full, but I find ways to stretch out my legs and feet.

I transfer to the R at Barclays, which arrives right across from the D as it pulls into the station. More reading. It’s cold in here now. I realized I got a tan (and quite a few bug bites). I read a bit more until it’s time for my L transfer at Union Square. The L is packed, as always, and I hold onto a handle, unintentionally separating a preexisting conversation. Of my various years of city living, I’ll never be stable enough on a train to not need to hold onto something.

I get home and text Meera what fast food she definitely isn’t craving. She was gone for the weekend and came back Monday morning. I ended up ordering Five Guys, which I haven’t had for quite some time. In the interim, I showered, did some dishes, cleaned a bit, and prepared my snacks. I stretched and foam rolled, listening to my podcast during the whole process. I spent the rest of the night on the couch until it was time to go to bed. A perfect day.