Coming Home

A Sunday night in Brooklyn could be the worst possible time to scour the streets for an open parking space. I say could only because weekday mornings, just before street cleanings, are pretty dicey as well. After a long weekend away from the hectic everyday stresses of New York City, M. and I were quickly reminded of the reasons for which we'd nipped away in the first place: impatient horn-honkers, suicidal jaywalkers and the no-right-on-red NYC rule. Thirty-five minutes after exiting the BQE, we squeezed the silver four-door between a fire hydrant and a ZipCar. I measured the distance from the hydrant with long strides: yep, fifteen feet. We were good.

We stepped out, stretched and checked the time. (I wish I could say we checked our watches but, no, we checked our cell phones like the rest of the digital generation.) It was 10.40. We hadn't yet eaten and we hadn't enough energy in us to whip up anything more than toast.

There was no question where we were headed. One and a half blocks west of our one bedroom apartments, a cozy Italian trattoria beckoned this tired couple of New York transplants. This little place holds an important spot in our Park Slope history; we dined here the evening we signed our very first lease. We take our visitors here in winter, when walking much further would cause frost bite in the thickest of skins.

On this evening, we stumbled through the front glass doors, smiled at the host and nodded, yes, table for two, please. He followed us to the miniature mahogany table, near the brick oven in the back, and before we even pulled out our chairs, he plonked the menus down and said, "So, Pellegrino?" M. replied, "Please."

I tried to play it cool. I sat down, unfolded my napkin with a flick of my wrist, smoothed it over my lap and leaned eagerly toward M. "Did you hear that? He knows us!" I could barely contain myself. "We're regulars!"

M. half smiled at me, but I knew he was thinking it, too. How could you not?

We'd been here almost exactly one year. We'd fought for Friday parking spots to avoid moving the car for Thursday street cleaning, we'd made mac 'n' cheese for the summer block party, we'd dug out our sidewalk in winter and finally--finally!--someone recognized our existence. For some odd reason, this recognition, more than our right to vote in NYC, more than the large monthly check we cut for rent, signaled our belonging. Yes, the weekend away saved us from facing the subway delays and from the homeless "crackhead Joe" who frequents the corner a few blocks down and from the go-go-go mentality of the city, but coming back to our block did actually feel like coming home.

Feeling Like Fall

Neighborhoods. That is was Brooklyn is really all about. Everyone has their place, their space, where they feel comfortable.

M. and I finally made it up to Fort Greene today. Yes, we've been here a year and have yet to explore the brownstones surrounding Pratt. We tend to keep to our neck of the woods over the weekends, avoiding hopping on public transit, avoiding anything we'd normally do on a week day.

But today, the sun came out, as did the chill, making for a nice, long walk to Fort Greene Park, where kiddies galore gathered for face painting, pumpkin drawing and music beneath the falling leaves. It's Halloween weekend, and Spiderman, penguins and princesses frolicked around with their winter coats atop the festive garb. One of M.'s friends was visiting her old neighborhood and in between delicious sips of hot cocoa from BitterSweet, she began recounting to us the joys of the little enclave in north Brooklyn. It's neighborhoody, hip, like San Francisco (which is, for anyone who has ever lived in the city by the bay, a wonderful thing), and there are plenty of things to do, whether you're twelve or forty-two.

And she's right; it's adorable. There's a playground for the kids. And joints like 67 Burger and Gnarly Vines for those of us over twenty-one. So why do we prefer our neighborhood to her old stomping grounds? Well, for the simple reason that it is ours. It's familiar. We had no reason to prioritize it over any other in Brooklyn upon our move here, but since we came to this spot, we made it ours.

So we were happy to come home after a day wandering the Fort. But we did bring with us a Halloween spirit and immediately newspapered our kitchen floor for pumpkin carving.