Let me begin by saying that I have absolutely nothing against the fine borough of Brooklyn. Grandmama was born in Brooklyn. I know some lovely folks who live in Brooklyn (though I’m sure “folks” is a totally inappropriate word to use for New Yorkers, but you know what? My blog, my vernacular.). I am not hating on Brooklyn.
Know what else Brooklyn has? Really amazing chocolate cake. Cake that I have since been describing as “worth going to Brooklyn for”.
You see, this is because I, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned once or twice (or several hundred times), live in New Jersey. Despite the fact that the two places are less than 25 miles apart, it takes well over an hour to get from one to another, especially on a weekend, and involves a 30-minute drive, a walk and 2 trains. Like I said, this is really very tasty chocolate cake.
For y’all who have never had this particular joy, a piece of information: To get to Brooklyn from Greenwich Village, one takes a train that is labeled Coney Island and, obviously, to get back to Manhattan (a critical step in the return to Jersey) you take a non-coney island-bound train. Still following me, or have you wandered off in search of someone who is not explaining the NYC subway system?
Anyway, back to the cake, which I was lucky enough to experience because my birthday was a week-and-change ago and it was the final stop in a very lovely day spent in New York. Upon leaving the restaurant, having practically scraped the glaze off the plates, the gentleman I was with (Y’all remember the gentleman I was with, right? Same guy.) and I, head down into the subway and wait at the Manhattan-bound track. And in pulls the train. And it says Coney Island. Poor.
As does the next one. More poor.
So logically, when we see a train pull up to the other platform, going in the opposite direction, we sprint to catch it. Except you know where it is headed? Yeah…Coney Island. Sailor words ensued.
At this point, we decided to get on the next (also Coney Island-labeled) train on the Manhattan-bound platform and hope for the best, which luckily was the outcome. On the ride back to West 4th street I couldn’t help but be reminded of a story my college roommate told me. Her freshman year, she had encountered a very, very alcohol enabled fellow riding the local bus on a Friday night. He asked her, repeatedly and frantically, if this bus was going to [apartment complex most of you have never heard of]. No, she informed him, this bus goes to California.
He proceeded to freak out.
Five minutes later he asked her what he should do, since he really needed to get to that apartment complex and he couldn’t get back from California. She calmly told him that they had already reached CA and were now on the way back and that, yes, in fact, that apartment complex was where they were headed once they reached Virginia.
I was snapped out of this memory by an argument between a group of teenagers, who were being ridiculous, and a crackhead, who was telling them to “Shut the fuck up”.
…All good dates should include the line, “I’m with the crackhead on this one."