Pop Souk

It's no secret that I have more than a passing interest in downtown nightlife. This is not to say by any means the clubs of the Meatpacking District, but rather the sublime underground culture where deliciously gender-bendy or genderless sparkling denizens of the night dance away in lavish costumes, makeup, and the occasional pair of Doc Martens. On the occasions that I have been able to inhabit the same spaces as downtown legends like Amanda Lepore, Ladyfag, and Susanne Bartsch, my heart has leapt and my breath has become as short as others' might upon seeing Brad Pitt or a Kardashian. 

Oftentimes, these people have created themselves from nothing, have put every last penny into a fabulous closet and have dedicated their lives to the artwork that is, well, their life. My brain pauses even thinking about the glitter, platform shoes, makeup and fishnets involved in such a lifestyle. Part of me is incredibly jealous.

So when I had the opportunity to attend Ladyfag's Pop Souk at Greenhouse last weekend, my heart leapt again. Every surface of Greenhouse was populated with delicious castoffs from the lives of these nightlife personae, from Gaultier corsets to vintage fashion magazines to sequined dresses to caftans to...anything you could imagine, really. But the event really describes itself best:

Nightlife personalities, artists, musicians, DJs, designers, fashion junkies, drag queens and the rest of us who make up the creative landscape of Downtown NYC, are usually blessed—and cursed—with fabulously overflowing closets.

More than just a marketplace, Pop Souk is an event where you’ll find some of the most talented New Yorkers hanging out in their own personal pop-up shops and hocking treasures from their own closets, selling their own designs, or tempting you with delights from their own kitchens. Come hear your favorite New York DJs spin, hang out with cocktails in the lounge, have your make up and nails done, get tattooed, taste the delicacies you never knew these night creatures could make and, of course, shop for your new Spring wardrobe!

Though I didn't come away with new additions to my wardrobe, I did snag some fabulous photos. Many thanks to Ladyfag for a delightful event!

The Chris Gethard Show-oh-oh

Before I continue, I must clarify: the gentleman’s last name above is pronounced “geth-ard.” This is not a post about porn.

The only live talk show taping I had been to previously was Live! With Kelly, and while it was certainly an experience, it wasn’t a goal of mine to ever again be apart of an audience filled with the Real Housewives of Middle America cooing at Daniel Radcliffe.

I was excited, though, when MV and AS invited me to attend a taping of The Chris Gethard Show. I had seen Gethard perform at a friend’s comedy show, the now defunct Mish-Mosh. I remembered that not only was he super funny, but he had an approachable-ness to him that I find a lot of comedians don’t have. It wasn’t just the fluffy blond hair or the thick-frame glasses because, let’s be real, you can find that anywhere in Williamsburg, but there was a silly goodness on the inside that came through. To the taping we would go!

At around 10:30 on a Wednesday night, we walk to the Manhattan Neighborhood Network television station (“You’ve always wanted to be on TV. Now’s your chance!” says the MNN website). What’s interesting about The Chris Gethard Show, or TCGS, is that it’s filmed on a public access channel. Even so, the show has a cult following and has been on the air since 2011. This following began at the legendary Upright Citizens Brigade improv theatre in 2009, where the show (not yet filmed) was known for attempting and following through on wild stunts like “using Twitter to book Diddy as a guest, staging a show to make a depressed teenager from Ohio have the best night of his life, and pulling off a cross-country tour.” Since then, the show has seen press in the likes of New York magazine and Splitsider.

Inside MNN, MV, who at this point is somewhat of a regular, says hello to some familiar faces in a small space already crowded with people. There are Taco Bell tacos up for grabs. Man-boys and girl-women with glasses wear brightly colored shirts with cute, funny cartoons on them and talk loudly about other times they’ve gone to see the show. A man with red glasses wears a banana costume and dances about. I have no idea what to expect when they say things like ‘Human Fish.’

At 10 minutes to 11, we’re ushered in to the small space, which includes a white sheet painted with ‘The Chris Gethard Show’ in giant black letters set up to designate a stage on the left. It is signed in permanent marker by all the bands that have played in front of it. On the right, there’s a series of chairs, a screen, and a three-person band called the LLC (including a singer who uses a kazoo and maracas).

Normally the show is centered around a theme, be it an International theme and ‘Foreign Language Bingo’ (in which audience members were given bingo boards with names of countries and languages written on them and asked to mark them off when a caller from a particular country called in) or ‘Fuck School, Fuck Math,’ (where callers were asked to share education horror stories and math problems). Then, Gethard talks to guests along with a cast of characters including but not limited to Random Melissa (a dark-haired young woman with thick black eyeliner and a hole in the knee of her jeans), 40-Year-Old Goosie (who is actually a 20-something man in a parrot costume, but was named such by a child who called in one time), Human Fish (a rather hairy gentleman wearing swim trunks, goggles, and flippers), Bethany (a sweet redhead with bangs wearing black thick-framed glasses who is known as the show's conscience)  and probably even more. In the background an older woman performs hula hoop tricks (“and we’ve got Mimi on the hoops!” Gethard says). There will also be shenanigans, stunts, and a musical guest who will perform twice during the hour-long show.

Viewers can watch the show on MNN or livestreaming online and tweet at Gethard as it’s happening—there’s a screen on the set that’s constantly refreshed, that Gethard and crew occasionally turn to to read especially hilarious or relevant tweets audience members have sent through. Viewers can also call in to the show and talk about anything related to a set topic up for a discussion on a particular night. Regular callers and Tweeters are known by name.

There are regular audience members, too. As we enter the seating area, they rush over to the seats they have perpetually chosen for themselves, like in college where you always sit in that same, perfect spot so you’re close enough to hear the professor, but far enough away so you don’t get accidentally spat on.

Tonight the show is purposely unplanned: “Whatta we got? We got nothin’!” we’re asked to sing, and we all comply with delight. As the LLC finishes playing the theme song (“Come take a ride with the weirdest guy I know!”), the audience begins chanting “Taco Night, Taco Night!” for the sole purpose of making Gethard uncomfortable (“Chris hates it when people chant things for an extended period of time,” MV tells me. But people do it anyway, for laughs.)

But the show doesn’t go poorly at all—Gethard, an amicable host who’s man-sassy with a lot of heart, takes some calls from viewers, who literally ask him about everything from the current state of hip-hop (Gethard prefers De La Soul) to advice on a ‘get wasted’ high school graduation trip. Human Fish contemplates ‘Bowties versus Taye Diggs’ and ‘Tupac Shakur versus Yom Kippur.’ A girl, Random Jean, gives out Swedish treats from Ikea that we all share and pass around the audience. Superfunky hip-hop/soul band Electric Monday performs and everyone gets up and dances. I’d say it was quite a success!

After the show, MV tells me, everyone—audience, cast, and crew alike—heads out to a bar called Lincoln Park close by. There’s a terrific sense of community that revolves around the show, a sense of belonging that’s not off-putting or exclusive. To be around it is to feel others’ excitement for it, quite honestly. And how delightful that Gethard and his zany television show are at the center of it, a playground for absurdity with a big heart.

If you’re in the New York area and interested in attending a taping, just email zerolaughs@gmail.com (it’s free, and you might get free tacos). To watch the show live or view past episodes, just visit thechrisgethardshow.com. Happy viewing!

Not-So-Merry Weather

New York, I love you, but your weather is bringing me down.

What is the meaning of this weather? I simply cannot understand where or why it’s coming from, and why now, of all times. It is early May. I should already be wearing the delightful spring dresses I bought in that heat wave we had back in March. I should be spending evenings up on my rooftop with a glass of wine. I should be able lay in the sun in Central Park.

But no. I have been relegated to my layers for yet another week. I leave my house wearing jacket layered upon cardigan layered upon t-shirt. I am still wearing boots and SOCKS of all things. I hate socks, and always have, yet my wardrobe has, annoyingly, been incomplete without them these past few months. At the beginning of March, I got antsy, but I understood. Then the beginning of April rolled around and I chalked it up to Mother Nature taking her revenge for a rather warm winter. But now it’s May and to say I am peeved is beyond an understatement.

And for the past few days, it’s not just been cold, it’s been rainy and, weirdly, warm. So when I leave the house, it’s a gust of chill, followed by an awkward slap of moisture, followed by warmth gathering in my sleeves as I walk anywhere, be it around the corner or to the train station. It’s like as if good ol’ Mother N doesn’t want to get rid of the cold just yet, but can’t fight the inevitable change. I don’t like being forced to deal with her menopause.

The warm-moist hybrid (what normal folks call ‘humidity’) is on a scale now where it reminds me of post-hurricane weather in South Florida, when the air conditioning is off because there’s no electricity and all you want to do is lie on the Mexican tile in the house until sanity is restored. Water pools in the air but doesn’t fall and sticks to your face if you try to walk around. Except in New York, on top of all of that, there’s that chill again. WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON.

I’m trying to choose my outfits sensibly, checking the weather every day, which is something I don’t normally do (chide away, CH). I usually look outside and wing it which, granted, is not the best way to conduct oneself as a New Yorker, but those are some old South Florida habits I can’t often be bothered to fix. But choosing an outfit for this weather is impossible. For once, everyone I see on the street is just as awkwardly, improperly dressed as I am—it runs the gamut from solo cardigans to winter coats to trench coats. Nobody understands what’s happening and I’m glad to feel like less of an idiot.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m annoyed when I wake up in the morning. UGH, ANOTHER DAY OF THIS? The weather affects people’s moods significantly, so it’s not really a surprise, but I feel like I’ve been in a mediocre mood for a little bit each day just because of the stuff.

All I want is sunshine and weather warm enough so I don’t have to wear sleeves. Seventydegree-ish, if I had my choice . I don’t think this is so much to ask. It’s certainly happened before. Oh, Elyssa, you might say! You poor, naïve little thing. We will never have such weather. But I disagree. Every day until it happens, I will wake up hoping for the best, whether or not weatherchannel.com seems to say otherwise. It’s time to get your act together, New York. But I believe you can do it! Here’s to bootless, jacketless, rainless weather. It’s May, and it’s about time.

P.S.-- It's 80s and sunny as I sit and write this from my weekend jaunt in Pittsburgh (more about that later). Get your act together, NYC!

How to Spot a Tourist

Perhaps the greatest downfall of living in New York is having the sidewalks in certain parts of the city crammed with people standing still directly in the middle of them staring up at the skyline: tourists. They have many sorts of faces, these people, but more often than not they have consistent characteristics that allow those of us not on vacation to identify them, sidestep them with an exasperated sigh, and continue on our way. In the case that you have not yet been able to identify these persons or if you are planning a visit to New York and do not want to be considered such, kindly read on.

They wear one or all of the following:

Backpacks (men/women); North Face jackets or similarly fleeced constructions; absurd things like anoraks that they carry in said backpacks in a convenient plastic pouch; gym sneakers with lighter-wash jeans (a heinous crime of fashion I have rarely seen New Yorkers commit); sweatshirts, especially those reading ‘New York City’, the name of a university, or similar institution that sells sweatshirts as memorable paraphernalia (Hard Rock Café, etc.). Some women, in an attempt to look less touristy, will wear a cross-body bag. Do not be fooled—if you look closely, you will see their city map(s) sticking out of it. These people are most likely Middle Americans. True New Yorkers like TBW will openly sneer at them and we will all find this behavior acceptable.

Some will be attired differently; that is, they will actually be dressed like acceptable human beings, their attire smart, stylish, and not slovenly. These people are mostly Europeans. They might carry maps in their back pockets, and will only be identifiable when they chat rather loudly to their friends on the other end of the subway car. Although I did once see an entire family of European tourists clad in orange anoraks. I imagine it was a means to find each other should they get lost, which is an admirable tactic for safe city visiting, but it unfortunately did not protect against looking like an idiot.

This is a good time to revisit the map question. If someone has a map, they are a tourist, no exception. Avoid them if you have the opportunity, but if they stop you and ask a question, be kind. Just because we actually hate them is no reason to perpetuate the stereotype of the rude New Yorker.

Tourists will also stop at the top of the subway stairs upon exiting and try to figure out where they are, much to the chagrin of everyone behind them at the bottom of the stairwell. It is acceptable to be rude to these tourists: perhaps even slightly shove them out of the way as you leave, or utter a completely infuriated ‘EXCUSE me’ as you brush past—you won’t have to pretend to be infuriated, either, which will make this easier. Imbeciles like these are clearly not fit for New York, as they have no sense of common courtesy and are dumb enough to block an exit. We don’t want them coming back. Ditto for the aforementioned tourists who stop in the middle of the sidewalk to figure out where they are.

There are certain areas of the city to avoid at all costs because of tourists:

Times Square

I once heard a comedian tell a joke about Times Square, which went something like this: You know you’re a real New Yorker when you hear about bomb threats on Times Square and you think to yourself, ‘Good.’ Times Square is a horrific explosion of corporate disgustingness, teeming with people who don’t know better and actually think a giant Olive Garden is heaven on earth. If you are worth knowing as a human being, you will want to avoid such people.

I will concede that Times Square is home to Broadway, which has numerous, beautifully crafted shows worth going to see in wonderful old theatres. It is a shame they are so close to the bright lights of the shallow nothingness that is Times Square. On a semi-related note, if you do go to the theatre, tourist or not, please dress well. Professionals have poured their blood and guts into these performances and it’s only decent to respect that by dressing well. If you were in my theatre in jeans and a t-shirt, I would throw you out immediately.

I recommend post-theatre dining at one of the many delicious restaurants on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen or, if you are feeling elegant, Sardi’s, where I recommend the spinach cannelloni.

Herald Square

Again, more corporate slatherings, this time of the retail and fast food variety. Macy’s is actually worth a visit, but never on a weekend—the store will be exploding with people and, if you do not like idiot tourists, you will hardly be able to control your rage. Any of the stores in this area exist in other parts of New York, and you are better off figuring out where they are.

Fifth Avenue

Sadly, the joy of window shopping at Tiffany’s, Harry Winston, and Henri Bendel is overshadowed by the trudge of people who don’t know where they’re going or what they’re looking at. If you are there on a weekday, you will occasionally see rather handsome men in suits walking past, which is always a delight. On a weekend, again, it is best to avoid the area. It is impossible to walk up and down the street if necessary as it is, but on the weekend it’s worse—numerous flagship stores (which, again, all have other locations throughout the city) make for immense numbers of people sloshing in and out.

Then, you will also find tourists downtown occasionally, but to be honest I don’t mind them as much. They are few and far between, and anyone who goes out of their way to look for something unusual is okay by me. It makes me remember my days as a tourist when I used to actively seek out interesting places downtown, writing down their addresses in a book and hiding my map so as not to let anyone know my secret. These people don’t take what the rest of the world hands them and says what New York is or isn’t.

My dear friend SC once asked me to show him the ‘real’ New York when he was visiting, and I had no answer for him. Not because I was clueless, but because the ‘real’ New York is different for everyone. My New York is different from my neighbors’, is different from my friends in the theatre industry, is different from my friends in the art world. What our ideas of New York all have in them, however, is the fire and passion that keeps the city in perpetual motion. The places packed with tourists like Times Square have no life because they’re a stagnant idea. Elsewhere in the city, we’re always changing, moving, growing. I wish more tourists had the guts to explore them. Well, not too many more…

Four Days

As I’ve said many times, there are things that happen in this city that don’t happen anywhere else. Sometimes on one day right after the other.

Wednesday, April 11

Gallery opening of photographer Jonathan Alpeyrie at the Anastasia Photo gallery on the Lower East Side. CN and I drink wine and look at photographs of WWII veterans. They’re diptychs, with veterans on either side of the war juxtaposed against each other. One photograph stands alone, of a singular veteran and in its power—an aged Scottish man sits, frowning and jowly, in a graveyard. He wears a bright red kilt and he’s surrounded by bright red flowers. I like him.

Artsy types fill the space—older guys with sprays of gray in their hair, elbow patches on their tweed jackets, younger guys in skinny jeans and oxford shoes. A girl compliments me on my shoes and I smile. We’re invited to an afterparty at the Gramercy Park Hotel.

A bouncer stands inside the hotel bar, in front of two glass doors and red velvet curtains. We give the right name and in we go. Young people sip cocktails. The velvet couch is prickly under my fingertips.

Thursday, April 12

A client’s assistants are out for the day. I sit in his car while he gets takeout dim sum for a friend recovering in the hospital. He also gets me a ball of fresh mozzarella cheese. It’s creamy and sweet and salty and cold and warm all at once. I probably should have eaten less of it in one sitting. What I haven’t picked apart from it sits in the fridge in a bowl of water, waiting for my eager fingers. It tastes just as creamy and sweet and salty as the first day.

Friday, April 13

On Thursday I realized I had no plans for the weekend. Not feeling especially excited about a Netflix evening, I called SD. A dramaturg for a new play written by a friend (Ramona Clay by Stan Richardson), I was invited. Another thing on the list of things I love about New York is the opportunity people have to develop their creativity. It was great to see a new play written by someone I knew watched in its beginning stages in front of an excited audience. I also realized I had forgotten how much I liked meeting new people.

Saturday, April 14

Japanese food and drinks with GD and her sister. Thick, slippery udon noodles and lightly crispy tempura. Cupcake wine. Afterward I walk to Emack and Bolio’s and get Cookie Monster—oreos and cookie dough—ice cream because I felt like it. In honor of the passing of a great man, I walk to the Met. Gold light pours over the steps and a security guard paces back and forth in front of the big, glass doors. It lightly starts to rain and I walk home. I fold the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands and clasp them tight. I walk home.

Big Wong King and the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory

I am perpetually on the search for good Chinese food. Because in my house, like any secular Jewish household, Chinese is a food group on its own. Good Chinese food makes me feel at home, and while I’ve had some great meals in the city, I’ve still been on the lookout for that one place. You know, the one place you always order from, that always has a good menu, that always has consistently delicious food. No frills, just good eatin’.

It is perhaps fitting, then, that after almost two years in New York such a place should be showed to me by none other than TBW. TBW has consistently found and/or shown me some excellent eats, and we have embarked upon several culinary adventures in the past (which reminds me, please try the white Bolognese at Sauced on the Lower East Side if you haven’t, as well as the tequila ices at Cascabel on the Upper East Side—though the latter is best for full-fledged summer).

One evening in particular, though, we were in search of sticky rice in Chinatown, having just come from a meeting in SoHo. But sticky rice was not to be found. TBW didn’t miss a beat, though, and he knew exactly where we were heading next.

On 67 Mott Street near Bayard Street, there is a gleaming yellow sign that says Big Wong King. It’s one of those places you might not know to go to unless someone else has taken you there, or you have really good luck with just falling into awesome restaurants by accident. Luckily, TBW was my guide. He has been going to Big Wong King since he was just a small TBW. Right after his mom would take him to the doctor they’d go for lunch there, he told me. It felt cool to be in his place.

We were quickly ushered in and seated next to some people we didn’t know, as I’ve learned is typical in Chinatown. I realized I had only $6.50 in my wallet. No problem, TBW said. That’ll probably be more than enough. I raised my eyebrows. Child, what now? We are not at Gray’s Papaya. How could we possibly have a full dinner on less than $7 each?

TBW ordered us some congee, which I had never tried before, as well as a spinach-like construction and wontons. The congee, a porridge-like substance, was spotted with some kind of orb. I asked TBW what it was. Duck eggs, he said. I raised my eyebrows again. Is that okay? he said, offering me a challenge. I accepted said challenge with an affirmative response and tried the duck eggs which were actually better than regular eggs, as TBW said they would be. The spinach-like object was drizzled with yummy, brown, tangy oyster sauce, and then there were the wontons. Never have I had such a perfect wonton. Sweet, not too much wrapping, a nice amount of filling, in a sweet and salty broth. I was happy. I had found my Chinese restaurant. Or, rather, TBW gave it to me as a gift.

And then the bill came. Fourteen dollars total, for two people. TBW did have to spot me some cash, but still—less than $10 per person, for a truly scrumptious and simple meal. I would be back, maybe even by myself!

--

Our next stop was The Original Chinatown Ice Cream Factory because the following exchange happened:

TBW: Have you ever been to Chinatown Ice Cream?

MM: No.

TBW: YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO CHINATOWN ICE CREAM?

MM: No... 

TBW: We're going to Chinatown Ice Cream.

Opened in 1978, the place actually has a cult following--with over 3,000 fans on Facebook, it’s consistently written up for being awesome. All of the ice cream is homemade (and all of the signs are delightfully hand drawn), and comes in tame flavors like vanilla or wild ones like wasabi! TBW and I split a black sesame ice cream, which tasted kind of like a nuttier Oreo. Like the love child of almonds and Oreos, actually. It was le yum. We walked through Chinatown to our trains eating the deliciousness, happy the night was not too cold for ice cream.

The Great Journey Across the Brooklyn Bridge

There comes a time in every New Yorker’s life when they must embark upon a journey that will take them across not just streets but rivers and boroughs. I am speaking, of course, of the Great Journey Across the Brooklyn Bridge.

It will begin in downtown Manhattan’s financial district, across the East River and finish, perhaps not surprisingly, in Brooklyn.

Yes, your mother may call you while you are crossing the bridge and ask you a barrage of questions about your intentions of making said journey:

“Why are you crossing the Brooklyn Bridge? Is it safe? Are you coming from or going to Brooklyn? Why are you going to Brooklyn? How are you getting there? What’s to see in Brooklyn? Are you by yourself? Why are you by yourself? You couldn’t find anyone to go with you? How many people are there? Are there a lot? Are you taking pictures?”

But you will simply inhale for a count of three, exhale, and say, “It’s a thing people do. I am with hundreds of other people. This is not strange. I’ll talk to you later.” Because some journeys your meshuggennah mother just will not understand.

Designed by John Augustus Roebling and finished in 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge was at one time the largest suspension bridge in the world. It is primarily known for its two towers, which punctuate the center of the structure. The bridge has six lanes for vehicular traffic on its lower level and on its upper level a pedestrian walkway. Though it certainly does behoove the visitor to stay in the right lane of the pedestrian walkway for fear of being bumped in the behind by bicyclists who will then raise their heads in frustration toward the sky, miffed, and say to you in clipped tones, “Just be careful, this is the bike lane, okay?” And you will think to yourself, lighten the hell up, dude, it’s a gorgeous, crisp blue-sky day and the wind is in my hair and I’m just trying to take some pictures, but you will just shut your mouth and walk away because a gorgeous day is no time to start trouble with miffed bicyclists.

Moving on.

The wooden pedestrian walkway may be crowded by tourists on the weekend who, upon seeing you taking pictures with your non-point-and-shoot camera, will ask you to photograph them in front of the bridge. You will oblige, because you are a relatively nice person who is short on patience for tourists but long on appreciation for gorgeous days, the keeping of nice memories, and National Historic Landmarks.

One of the finer points of the bridge, you may notice, are the ways the suspension cables form a sort of web on the bridge, making everything inside or outside of the bridge, depending on how you look at it, appear caged. It’s not a frightening feeling, though. Just one of awe. You may get all existential on yourself and think something along the lines of ‘Oh dear, we are all just so small in this universe,’ or you may decide that all structures should have such a gorgeous arrangement of cables and quietly plan how to integrate them into your apartment décor.

No matter—rest assured, you are, in fact, appreciating the structure as you contemplate either of these suggestions and Roebling would be flattered. The structure was, after all, responsible for the death of its aforementioned creator—Joseph A. Roebling died after his toes were crushed during a bridge location survey. The toes necessitated amputation, which resulted in tetanus, which resulted in death. His son and daughter-in-law took over and finished the project after his passing. So appreciate away, and watch your toes.

Don’t forget the little details, though. Locks upon which visitors have scrawled their names will appear snapped onto the bridge’s cables, as will stickers, graffiti by rather enthusiastic Hungarian visitors who love New York, and small bits of fabric and ribbon tied around certain cable cruxes at the center of the bridge.

 

Take lots of pictures. Of the structure, of Joanna’s message that, yes, she was in fact here. Of families visiting loved ones. Of the sun casting a spray of light onto the East River. Of old, industrial signage that may have been left up for posterity or laziness. Of the Manhattan skyline becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

At one point you will wonder where exactly in Brooklyn you will end up and you will want to text your Brooklyn friends because they could instantly tell you, but you should eschew this notion with a firm hand. This author firmly believes that part of the Great Journey Across the Brooklyn Bridge is discovering it on your own. Patience is key for this rather long stretch of wooden planks known as the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway, but if you abide by its rules you will learn in short time your destination.

Even as you near the end of the bridge and come across upon a rather intricate highway system in front of you and think to yourself oh dear god what do I do now and/or what the hell have I gotten myself into, fear not, for the Bridge will protect you. Or there will just be a sign telling pedestrians where to go next. You should probably follow that and not run into traffic.

Photograph your arrival into Brooklyn. Depending on the route you take, you may either end up in DUMBO, Brooklyn Heights or, well, wherever in Brooklyn you choose to go, really.

Congratulations! You have completed your journey. Upon doing so, this author recommends a visit to DUMBO’s Brooklyn Bridge Park to sit on the steps overlooking the river between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge and watch people throw pebbles into the water. Sit, rest, contemplate life, maybe even eat a pink lady apple and continue on your way. Perhaps you choose to peek around in DUMBO for a while, perhaps you choose to get a café au lait in an empty café near the F train, perhaps you peruse the tiny independent shops as you head back to Manhattan. Know, though, that you have accomplished a great feat and, if your experience is a positive one, it may be one you’ll complete again and again.