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.