71squaremiles

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Coping with residual exhaustion today from yesterday’s ten miles, I wandered close to my neighborhood. It’s lovely to photograph and truly see the sights around me on a daily basis.

One person on both walks since my News 12 story aired on Sunday has recognized me. It’s a great comfort when the physicality of this work becomes difficult. It means the world, actually.

Today I met Colleen in Bed Stuy. We talked for awhile about gentrification and the future of Brooklyn. I sympathize with the lifelong residents whose homes are now unaffordable to them. My hope is that in some small way perhaps my work will give them a voice as their lives change.

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I began my route yesterday again in East New York, heading to Spring Creek. Walking southeast on Fountain beyond Flatlands, the entrance to Recreation National Gateway seemed to be only a deserted road next to an inlet with a field and trees on the side opposite. I set the goal of seeing the road pass under Shore Parkway in what seemed about 3/4 of a mile distance. On the curb, near the water, I found decaying stuffed animals piled high on to the blockade. It was a memorial that I imagined was for a person killed but likely not by a car as no one was driving on this section of the road. A signal to turn around, I found Best Buy and civilized traffic patterns quickly. The scene haunted me for good reason. Apparently the Gateway shopping development has improved the area somewhat during the day with a constant flux of vehicles.

Venturing farther on Flatlands Avenue, I found myself in a mindset hazy but focused on paper acquisition. I stopped a few times for water, a cup of watermelon, jerk chicken and to purchase the tenth anniversary issue of The International Journal of Kurdish Studies from a thrift store.

The sensation of being sweaty and dirty all day reminded me of summer days in Virginia spent at baton twirling camp. The physicality and monotony of practicing those eight hour days prepared me for what the remainder of this week will be and my walks when I return in August.

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The N line through Bensonhurst is surrounded by a series of privately owned gardens. It was here that I met Vinny, the proud owner of a garden that looks almost wild. Every single day since his good wife died of breast cancer a number of years ago he has worked his land. He asked if I had a boyfriend, and warned that some men can be very bad. I ate good portions of his arugula and mint, both delicious and refreshing in the heat. His garden is at about 62nd and 12th, say ciao.

The population of this area is quite diverse- Asian, Italian, Caribbean, and Jewish. East of New Utrecht are a few warehouses, otherwise much of the land is suburban.

I stopped twice to eat- once for two mediocre meatballs and once for gelato. I’ve been preparing my entire life for the single scoop of half coffee half chocolate (a Clio Goodman favorite) at Cafe Italia. My table partner, Sol, explained that the ten or so older Italian men in the back smoking cigarettes and playing cards wager only the various offerings of the restaurant instead of dollars. Cappucino, espresso, gelato, juice, or tea. Also, he told me that yes, sometimes there are other women that come with their husbands to debate just not today, to be careful when I take the subway because his friend was recently mugged while transiting to a brunch in the Bronx losing his watch, phone, and wallet, and that I should probably also stop at the gelato shop on the corner as well because that is a little bit more tasty.

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Yesterday, I studied the typography of signs in a few cafes along my walk, the most interesting of which was Peter Pan Donut and Pastry Shoppe on Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint. This area is mainly Polish, hipster, and retired, as was the clientele of my dear Peter Pan. I don’t eat either of the items on the menu, so I settled paper cup of coffee at the bar that from above is probably shaped like a backward “g”. Donuts shops have a strange ability to preserve other eras. Peter Pan is a time portal. Same as all of the other patrons, the large older gentleman next to me and I did not speak to one another and instead focused on observing the darling and busy Polish girls serving donuts in oversized green and coral dresses.

I don’t agree that time is a lie.

Walking east from Manhattan Avenue on Greenpoint, the neighborhood transitions from residential to industrial- with much of the land occupied by the wastewater treatment plant. At some point, there was one tiny house among a forest of warehouses. It seemed only possible for one bedroom within but perhaps there were secret rooms underground. Written on the door was, “Orlowski Leonick.”

Ignorantly, for most of the day I imagined Orlowski Leonick as some sort of Russian sorcerer. Elaborating upon this story in my mind, Orlowski refuses to take money from the man to build their warehouses and factories, wishing to stay in the same home his great grandfather built after entering Ellis Island. He probably has long white hairs growing from both his nostrils and ears, and his eyebrows are unruly but as intentional as bird nests. I imagine he dresses like a sailor in a navy blue stocking cap. All blue.

Orlowski Leonick

According to the records of Ellis Island, these are of course, two last names. 633 Russian Orlowskis are listed. Only one person with the surname of Leonick entered, and also one Leonich.

Next time, I’ll knock.

Toward the end, I became obsessed with photographing the filaments of plastic bags flowing in the wind attached to the barbed wire around most lots. One strand of wire pried lose while I was shooting nearby and I nearly shat myself as I heard it. Thankfully it was still attached on both sides around that point and did not fly off and lodge itself into my person.