“Everything was closed at Coney Island, and I could not help from smiling… I can hear the Atlantic echo back, roller coaster screams from summers past…” The words of Ben Gibbard along with the pensive melody from Death Cab for Cutie made me feel surreal, as I stood knee deep in the Lower Bay at the Western edge of the 134-year-old coalescence of amusement parks. The dark glassy pool of lukewarm water lapped gently against my legs as the reflections grew dimmer by the second. It was closing time, and over my shoulders vast blocks of colorful lights were shutting down, with the ambient noise of laughter and chatter tapering off into the streets. While most visitors come for the excitement of the rides, I was seeking the thrill of the precise moment it all turned black.
There was something profoundly magical about seeing the beast put to sleep, and sharing an intimate moment with her before she awoke the following morning with new life abound. This was as close as I’d ever get to being a Brooklynite, and I desperately wanted to understand their perception. Living on the East End of Long Island made me appreciate the beauty in the dispersal of tourists on Tumbleweed Tuesday, which immediately followed Labor Day and the Hamptons transitioned into ghost towns, and the locals breathed a sigh of relief. But this borough – a hundred miles from the place I most called home – was different, and I sought a lens that cut through the clutter of pop-culture.
When I arrived at the East New York train station earlier that evening, I received a gracious escort from my old friend Lauren and her family, residents of the once-Jewish neighborhood of Canarsie. We hit King Kullen: America’s first-and-now-almost-defunct supermarket, before making our way to the local pier. A brick-paved circuit of benches and street lamps, the dusky cotton candy sky smothered hoards of fishermen looking to supplement their dinners, dog walkers escaping the confinement of cramped apartments, and excited children stretching their legs to play among the open spaces. This was merely an appetizer for our night, as we planned on hitching a ride to Coney Island, to experience the song I had been listening to for weeks.
Stepping out of the car at the corner of Sea Breeze Ave and the Ocean Parkway Service Rd, we were greeted by a familiar face: Zoltar, the fortune teller. The animatronic machine equipped with eerie lights stemmed from a host of machines beginning in 1904, before being popularized by Hollywood several decades later. If you don’t know Zoltar, then you haven’t seen the 1988 movie “Big,” but don’t fret, I haven’t either – the reference was just stored away in some dusty corner of my brain. One of the few affordable attractions left in the New York Metropolitan Area, I found that my fortune was worth far more than the 25 cents I invested in the little sheet of card stock from the mythic robot: I would soon receive a letter with life-changing news that transformed my world for the better. While portions of my life had been unraveling back home, I was actively pursuing a different path, and my future was resting on a series of job applications to various employers in North Carolina. Though I didn't aspire to wake up the following morning as Tom Hanks, perhaps this was a good omen.
Across the street stood Luna Park’s Cyclone, one day shy of the anniversary of its opening, which took place on June 26th, 1927. While the since-demolished Switchback Railway preceded the Cyclone as America’s first roller coaster in 1884, the Cyclone is still one of the most beloved wooden rides in the world, reaching speeds of 60mph, and boasting legendary passenger Charles Lindberg, who evidently described the experience as being “greater than flying an airplane at top speed.” Additionally, coal miner Emilio Franco, who had been unable to speak due to aphonia, allegedly screamed throughout the duration of the ride, and upon departing, uttered “I feel sick,” before fainting from shock. Despite being slated for destruction in the early 1970s, a grassroots campaign to save the attraction led to its preservation, and it was eventually designated on the National Register of Historic Landmarks in 1991.
Grabbing a plastic cup of Brooklyn Lager on the boardwalk, it was already 8:30pm, and most of the rides were closed for the evening. Witnessing the shut-down was all a part of our plan, however, so we snaked our way down alleys past the painted murals to kill the time. By 9:40 we had kicked off our shoes at the high tide mark and waded into the night, and the countdown for 10pm began. The moon shone over a steady parade of blinking lights – the airplanes making their descent to JFK on the other side of Jamaica Bay; somehow I had never thought to look for this beautiful assortment of neon from the passenger window before. And that’s when it happened: all the rides went dark, the beach returned to a state of peace and serenity; the only noise in the heart of the largest city in the country was the rippling of the waves, and “everything was closed at Coney Island.”
Barely 12 hours from our previous arrival, we stepped onto the scene the following day for the opening of the festivities. Lauren’s father volunteered at the New York Aquarium, which abutted the amusement parks (and almost engulfed the Cyclone’s property in the ‘70s), so we accompanied him on a brief ride down the parkway to a tranquil soundtrack of Simon & Garfunkel. The early sunshine made the city look bright and hopeful, and gleamed from the diagonal planks of the boardwalk as we explored the painted walls of the trap-sans-tourists once again. Sunflowers were already in bloom between the frescos and sticker-saturated poles between the sidewalks. The hike around the Island raised a hunger from within, as I realized I had skipped dinner the night before, but we had a plan to remedy this as well.
Albeit unconventional, I awaited my breakfast from the locked doors of original Nathan’s Famous. Built in 1916, Nathan Handwerker sought to undercut his former employer: Charles Feltman, who began serving hot dogs at Coney in 1867, and is often credited as one of the “inventors” of the working-class meal we know today. While Feltman sold his frankfurters at 10 cents a pop, Nathan only charged a nickel, and positioned his business across the street from the subway station – its fare also costing a nickel at the time. The marketing strategy, paired with his wife’s garlic-based seasoning, made him a success, with the restaurant now selling up to 10,000 dogs a day.
Speaking of aquariums and hot dogs, in 1954 a 75’ finback whale washed up on the beach, to the curiosity of local residents and visitors. Conniving carnies saw an opportunity to monetize the tragedy, and attempted to preserve the carcass behind Nathan’s with a viewing admission of 50 cents, which quickly reduced to a quarter before the stench of decomposing blubber began to drive away prospective customers. Less successful than Mr. Handwerker’s ploy of hiring well-dressed men to consume his products in front of the restaurant to entice those wary of his cheaper product, an urban legend claims mobsters were asked to drag the whale back down to the water and blow it up with dynamite. Regardless of how it was disposed, the smell reportedly lingered in the summer heat for some time to come before sales began to recover at the eatery.
Thankfully we weren’t greeted by dead mammals this morning, and I was jubilantly the first in line at the stand’s opening. Actually, its hours of operation state 10am, but we were served shortly after 9:15, where I got a fresh chili cheese dog with a side of notorious crinkle cut fries – of which a traditional red two-pronged plastic fork is provided for consumption. Despite the hour I opted to wash it down with a Coney Island Lager, thinking “when in Brooklyn!” While I don’t think I could shovel over 70 of these things down my gullet like Joey Chestnut at the annual Hot Dog-Eating Contest, I certainly enjoyed the legendary breakfast. There’s something beautiful in the simplicity of the New York staple, and I could see how this place had stayed in business for over a hundred years.
With a belly full of animal byproducts, it seemed only rational that I attempt to make my stomach flip by jumping on another one of Coney Island’s iconic rides: Deno’s Wonder Wheel. Still a family operation – and going strong since 1920 – the 150’ eccentric ferris wheel has the unique feature that two-thirds of its cars are “swinging,” or otherwise affixed to a rail system which enables the cars to slide out from the center of the wheel to the edge under gravitational pull when reaching the 9 O’Clock position (if observed from the beach). The passenger is suddenly jolted outward over the amusement park giving the impression of flying off the wheel – a sensation Lauren didn’t warn me of when purchasing our tickets, but the subtle thrill was a perfect way to sum up our time amidst the birthplace of America’s adrenaline-based recreation. Fear not, though, in all its years of pleasure the wheel has never had a mechanical failure, unless you count the New York City Blackout of 1977, during which the owners hand-cranked everyone to safety. I oddly envied those riders, thinking I myself would have appreciated Simon & Garfunkel’s “hello darkness, my old friend” lyrics, in pursuit of tranquility in the city.
Before embarking on the elevated subway, which provided city-wide access to Coney’s entertainment, we stopped into an Applebee’s for mid-day margaritas, since the liquor slushy stands had yet to wake up. The place was dead, and we made small talk with the bartender; once again I was in a silent oasis. Outside the pedestrian traffic was picking up, as families arrived in droves, and businesses were turning on their “open” signs. A couple of rounds later and I was feeling giddy, and more than ready to continue my tour with the next stop: Brooklyn Heights.
Rising to prominence due in part to Robert Fulton’s ferry operation, which began in 1814, the area once referred to as “Brooklyn Village” is known today for its surviving brownstone architecture. Taking off in popularity in the middle of the 19th century, the row houses have become synonymous with growth of the city itself, and since one of these sandstone beauties was once home to Lauren’s grandmother, we took a stroll through the tree-lined neighborhood to experience the woven iron gates and stoops adorned in hand-carved arches. While most people think of New York as a “concrete jungle,” the streets of this once-independent city are bursting with flowers and greenery, and the racket of the automobile is easily concealed by the chirping of sparrows and other avian residents.
As we made our way toward the East River, observing more murals and churches, we paused to get out of the sun and enjoy lunch at Ferdinando’s Focacceria. Appearing to be an unassuming hole-in-the-wall from the outside, this spectacular Sicilian joint has been feeding the community, and perfecting its menu since 1904. While I’m sure there are a dozen reasons to stop in, the most important one for me was a secret that has been well-hidden from the American pallet: the mouthwatering, one-of-a-kind, delectable Panelle Siciliane. A street food dating back to its Arab origins in the 9th century, its ingredients are simple; fried fritters made of chickpea flour, salt, pepper, and parsley, are added to a semolina roll, and topped with ricotta and pecorino romano cheese. The result is a sensational sandwich that makes you wonder where these things have been all your life, and why you’ve limited your understanding of New York cuisine to more common “Italian” staples like parm' and pizza, instead of heeding the wisdom of first generation immigrants.
After one of my fondest meals in recent history, and an ice cold Peroni to refill the tank, we pointed our shoes to the North, heading for another one of Brooklyn’s most popular attractions: the Promenade. Envisioned by Walt Whitman and hosting picturesque views of Manhattan, the public space was created out of controversy surrounding Robert Moses’ planned route for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in the 1940’s, which would have split the neighborhood in half and decimated much of the historic landscape. Columbia Heights leaders subsequently suggested running the road along the shore, and covering it with an esplanade. Originally delayed by WWII, construction began in 1946, and the first section was opened to the public four years later, offering views of New York Bay formerly observed by George Washington during the Battle of Long Island, of the Revolutionary War.
From the terraces and parks spanning the length of this early greenway, one can gawk at the skyline of Lower Manhattan, including 120 Wall Street, the One World Trade Center, and the Brooklyn Bridge. Speaking of which, the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” the Brooklyn Bridge itself, is seamlessly accessible from the Promenade, and so we continued our trek by entering Manhattan through the pedestrian walkway across John and Washington Roebling’s engineering masterpiece.
The construction began in 1870, which sought to replace Fulton’s Ferry, after Prussian immigrant John Roebling reportedly experienced the downside of traveling the waterways, when a malfunction wasted several hours of the engineer who was said to have “not the leisure to wait upon any man.” The project would take 13 years, though John would meet his demise before the groundbreaking, in 1869, after one of the ferries ironically crashed into a dock, crushing his foot, leading to the amputation of his toes before tetanus claimed his life. The remaining task was then left to his son: Washington, who would also suffer from the project, becoming immobilized by Caisson Disease (commonly known as “the bends”), after emerging too quickly from the depths of the river during the building of the second “Manhattan/New York Tower.” The anchorage of this tower also curiously rests on the site of George Washington's residence during the period when New York hosted the capital of the nation.
Not a native knickerbocker, I never knew the wonders of the bridge offered to those on foot or bicycle. Above the automobiles lays a wonderful pedestrian crossing, patrolled by three-wheeled NYPD cars, and monetized by vendors beneath the towers, offering cold water and gift-shop goodies. Popularized in Europe – particularly Paris – padlocks have become prominent on public bridges, to symbolize ever-lasting love, when the participant throws the key into the body of water below.
While some myths point to the added metal becoming a concern due to added weight, I must point out that the Roeblings accounted for future use, at least tripling down on every rating, and then proceeded to have P.T. Barnum march 21 elephants across the bridge to quell public anticipation; one of the locks coincidentally paid homage to this. Regardless, city-sanctioned signs have since been erected to advocate against the practice, including the phrase “no locks, yes lox,” in a pun to promote smoked salmon on bagels with cream cheese, rather than the addition of padlocks to the bridge. This was easily the best use of tax-dollars I had ever seen, and I chuckled as we continued our voyage over the symbolic unification of Brooklyn, from America’s first suburb, to a borough of the greatest city in the world.
Concluding my first tour of Brooklyn, I would eventually take the train home, feeling a little wiser. Not only had I finally experienced the place I lived in the shadow of for the better part of 18 years, but I was blessed to understand the magic of “the city” from the eyes of someone who grew up in its wealth of history. It was also New York's perfect encore performance, as a phone call would await my arrival to the rural end of the Island. As I was settling into my week at home, a voice sporting a thick Southern accent greeted me on the other end of the line, and offered me a position in the most prominent city in Western North Carolina. It turns out Zoltar was right; I would soon receive the letter that changed the trajectory of my life, and allowed me to embark on my next big adventure.
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