Missing Brooklyn: Part II


Alicia Grunow, 32, left to get a PhD at Stanford.
I lived in Lived in Brooklyn for 2.416666667 years — 5 months in Fort Greene, 2 years on the edge of Park Slope. I left to go to graduate school at Stanford in California (and Columbia would’ve required six-figure loans — staying in Brooklyn made the deal sweeter…but not quite sweet enough).

More than anything, I miss my Sunday mornings in Brooklyn. Waking up late, running through brownstone-lined streets and around Prospect Park — with no rules on which direction to run. Stopping for a latte at Gorilla Coffee and not knowing what kind of fruit would be in my bran muffin from Blue Sky Bakery. A bottle of wine from Sip and drunken noodles delivered by Mango after a long day at work.

The neighborhood feel. It’s funny, even after living muffins2.jpgin a small suburb for two years, the people at Blue Sky more reliably remember me when I go back to visit, than do the people at the places I frequent now.

Burgers at Bonnie’s. Dinner at Aurora. Dancing at Bembe. The bridges. Crossing the bridges. The view from the bridges. And the separation between home and work.

I don’t miss the weather. Or traveling to and from the airport. Or the post office.

Jason Baker, 31, moved to Minneapolis.
I lived in Brooklyn for five years: in Flatbush and Prospect Heights, respectively. Two years ago I moved with my then-finacee to become a faculty wife here in Minneapolis. As for supplanting Brooklyn in my heart of hearts, the City of Lakes doesn’t come close. Here’s what I miss most about that big, beautiful borough:

The walking. People ambulate in every city, but the quality of Brooklyn walking is singular. I miss the morning shuffle past local, snobbish coffee shops and the tell-tale screech of steam arms; bbagel.jpgtrying to sneak by the salt-dough smell of Bergen Bagels but always giving in to temptation; ambling into the jaws of the transit nexus at Atlantic Avenue, permanently under construction; I miss schleps to DUMBO to buy records and drink cocoa; promenades across the bridge and the epiphany of Grimaldi’s pizza, tourist cliches be damned; gallops after the frisbee in Prospect Park, drunk on fresh cider from the Amish trucks at the farmer’s market; I miss wandering around with girls in the summer and smiling to myself as out-of-line construction workers whistle and whoop at them; huddling beneath awnings between rains, counting the gum-sores stuck to the sidewalk; playing games of chicken with neighborhood toughs as they suddenly spit into the street, leaving me to wonder, Was that at me? I miss crouching in front of real estate windows with fellow Brooklyners and kvetching about how we’ll never own; strolling to dinner at some place only to be found in Brooklyn — Frankie’s, Bogata, Los Pollitos, Cafe Lafayette, Miriam, Sorrel (sadly Sorrel has closed, so we all miss it. -ed); I miss having too much wine there and then walking back home.

Sent by Annaliese. Photos courtesy of martine266, mishmosh and threecee via Flickr.

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