New York in August, Part 5: “You take Brooklyn, I’ll take Troy”

Much of Sunday morning was spent sleeping off the Philadelphia excursion for UFC 133 and cheesesteaks. It was so late and we were so tired that I’m not even sure what time it was when we finally got back to Manhattan. I can only tell you that it was sometime between 3:30am and 4:30am.

It seemed like we spent an hour just staring at the Manhattan skyline, which from the New Jersey Turnpike is so close yet because of the geographical layout of the surrounding area is always further off than it seems. When I’m first arriving for a trip, the delay builds a delightful tinge of anticipation. Now it was just aggravating. I was exhausted, felt fat, and wanted to be in bed as soon as possible.

I woke up around 11:30am, showered and took my leave from Brian and Marla, who it seems I never get to spend enough time with even when I’m staying with them. It’s people like that which make me realize that geographical cures are a fool’s errand. It’s the people and connections you make, not where they are, that should entice you to stay or go.

I ventured out into the street, bags in tow, and took the 6 an Q trains to Park Slope. On the 6, I struck up a very brief conversation with a young couple whose young baby kept staring at me and laughing. On the Q, I kept avoiding eye contact with a young pretty brunette who, thankfully, did not laugh while she stared at me. I got off the train at 7th and Flatbush Avenues then walked South to a place recommended by a Trojan transplant originally from the other side of Prospect Park in Brooklyn. We had arranged to meet at 2:00pm.

I was a little over 45 minutes early, because I’m a big weirdo and do that sort of thing. Besides, I wanted to get a feel of the Tea Room before I met with Vic Christopher.

The Team Room is a large space with couches, chairs, and various furniture items that look like they were stolen from your first apartment. Nothing matched but everything fit. The thing that struck me the most though was that just as he had told me, this place was super comfortable and a conducive working environment in spite of the fact that it was packed. There isn’t really a spot like this anywhere in Troy or even really in the area, and boy, wouldn’t it would be great to have one like it here?

After I got settled, Vic arrived with his wife Heather. He was about a half-hour early, which he told me he almost always was. In that, we share something, though I felt that day that I had attained a small victory in our mutual neurosis via beating him there by fifteen minutes. After I adjusted to seeing him wearing something other than a suit, the three of us discussed Park Slope and Troy.

A couple years ago, All Over Albany made mention of a blurb that referred to Troy as “the new Brooklyn.” Nobody seemed to know what it meant, and it seemed pretentious to me, so I openly and publicly disavowed it. The region had enough downstate envy as it was, particularly with the crowd at Bomber’s on Lark Street at any given night (which I used to joke was in danger of losing its customer base because according to them they were all moving down to Williamsburgh in two weeks). I had eagerly wanted the region to work on establishing its own identity and criteria for development and gentrification before trying to ape other places by forcing a square block into a round hole.

I realize now that my dismissal of the notion was rooted more in arrogance than in any real desire to have Troy be its own place. Walking around Park Slope and having a discussion with Vic, I saw not only the similarities but the potential in taking inspiration from the area. I saw it and I felt it when I walked the streets and admired the brownstones, which I as a lifelong resident of Troy I had always taken for granted. I heard it in the way people talked, the walkability of the area, the street layouts, and the seamless integration of the residential and commercial.

Troy could be something. Vic saw this when he moved to the area years ago, and he still sees it now. I’d always wondered what it was that so endeared the area to him, and now I had finally figured it out. He fel in love with Troy because it’s his home. In a lot of ways, Troy is Brooklyn and vice-versa. More than just because of the reasons I’ve already mentioned, which are merely superficial criteria. Rather, it was the people, the diversity, and the feeling you got walking around that something great could come of all this. I can’t help but think my brother must have felt this too when he and his wife were looking for a new neighborhood.

Vic sees that potential and has done a great deal in helping to fulfill it. When I call myself a “local treasure,” it’s obviously in jest. Because who the Hell would call anyone that? Thing is, though, there is value that should be prescribed to people like Vic: a transplants who become permanent residents through equal parts comfort, familiarity, and vision. It’s my hope, and I expressed this to him, that whatever administration takes over in 2012 will keep that in mind. This city has suffered for thirty years under senseless partisan hackery and misplaced ambition that has seen blood shed, laws broken, and democracy compromised all for want of being able to lay claim to the title of King of S*** Mountain. It would be laughable if it didn’t cost the city so much and didn’t destroy so many lives in its wake.

In a very real way, there is blood on the hands of Troy politicos. There is a chance now, though, for us to overcome decades of sabotage and neglect for the sake of the ego of small men and women. But it lies with whoever becomes Mayor and whoever gets in the Council and for them to not only reform the city, but be willing to call out obstructionists whenever they stand in the way of change. More importantly, they need to want to do their job, not want the job to do something else. There’s a big difference there, and while there’s some good talkers in advance of this coming November, I’m not yet convinced that there’s anyone that has the gumption to brush off the hackery and actually make decisions in the best interests of the city.

But hey, if you’re reading this: change my mind. I dare you .

——————-

Tell 'em, Pop Tart. Tell 'em.

After departing the Tea Room, I arrived at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Naturally, the dogs greeted me first. Then there was Caden.

We played, laughed, and bonded. We went to the park and watched the dogs play on Prospect Park’s dog beach, with little Pop Tart acting like Queen Bitch and trying to herd all the larger animals. We walked over the greenery, with young people and families all around. Caden was eager to lead the way, having found a new freedom and exhilaration through this new trick he had picked up called walking.

It was hot as blazes and the park was crowded, but it was lost in his adorably clumsy steps.

I don’t have any more words, so here’s the video:

I stayed one more day with my brother and nephew. When Caden went down for his late morning nap, I went to a cafe around the corner to get some breakfast and do some writing. I received service with an attitude from two dudes still strung out from the night before who informed me “cash only” in a way that dripped with the unspoken ‘, moron’ attached at the end. Because apparently I should have read the sign that wasn’t there.

I sat down on a table that had been broken at some point and fixed in the most haphazard way possible. After ten minutes, a 135-pound Brooklynite in a knock-off fedora and meticulously “unshaved” face sits down next to me with a young blonde who desperately wanted him to say something interesting. She would leave unfulfilled, though I imagined listening to him that this was par for the course in their relationship. But then I hit a realization. Here I was in this f***ing place, this awful excuse for a coffeehouse patronized by neutered posers and brewing what I’m pretty sure was Maxwell House out of a can nestled in the midst of this wonderful Park Slope neighborhood. And I thought to myself, guess what? This place has its warts. And I thought back to conversations and time spent yesterday discussing what my own city could be, and I didn’t feel so bad about having to go home later that day.

Caden peeks out from his hiding spot.

After an hour, I went back to my brother’s apartment and spent some more time with my nephew. We laughed and played hide and go seek, except he was the only one hiding…in the same spot. Later that afternoon, I said my goodbyes and took the F train to Penn Station and the Megabus back to Albany.

I got home around 10:00pm and got into my bed as soon as possible. I wasn’t relieved to be home; I never am when I make my sojourn to see my brother’s family and the friends I have down there, who are some of the most wonderful people I know. I did, however, go to sleep that night with a renewed optimism and less angst about where I was.

There’s a button made by Hello Pretty City host Laura Glazer that I have on my bag, which reads “You take Brooklyn, I’ll take Troy.” You can buy it down at Anchor No. 5 Boutique, downtown on River Street right next to Market Block Books. While it’s not a permanent rallying cry, it is at least a statement I won’t dispute.

Not for now, at least.

PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS

• New York in August, Part 1: a newspaper deputy, hipsters, and hardcore bands
• New York in August, Part 2: Bohn Mi, Mon Ami
• New York in August, Part 3: …er, make that Philadelphia
• New York, or rather Philadelphia, Part 4: UFC 133 Live Report