Water From Above and at the West - North Williamsburg and Greenpoint Coast

I like to have my hands free while walking. Even when it's raining, I feel uncomfortable holding an umbrella. Umbrellas have been around for thousands of years, and I can see the practical purpose of them; but for today's rain, I definitely didn't need an umbrella. Of course, when the weather has been similar on a morning commute, I've arrived to work as a used bath towel with nowhere for me to be hung up to dry. It could be a masculine ideology that implores me not to use one, and I'm sure even if I were to argue it was a minimalist mentality, I'd still be treading male stereotypes. I'm a man, and I keep my hands free! Today, I was ready for anything like a man should be at all times! Oh, how much work it is to understand the social influences that shaped my brain and challenge decent logic.

The rain misted with occasionally complete droplets when I exited the front door of our walk-up apartment building. Walking north on Havemeyer Street, I caught a glance of the ever-friendly and gregarious greeter at Lodge. Through the window he looked at me knowingly and nodded. I never thought of myself as a regular in the neighborhood, but we've lived here for almost twenty months, and he's worked there for the same amount of time; so, he knows what I look like and he's polite to meeting my eyes. I appreciated that slight left of the chin. In my male white world, he's on my team, or maybe he's just a nice person.

A left at Metropolitan Avenue, and a quick right onto Roebling Street. Walking north on Roebling, I can see McCarren Park. The rain began to send down a steadier cluster of complete droplets. It was no longer a drizzle. I merge with Union Avenue and in several steps I've officially entered the park. The park was pretty busy: an over-thirty mens soccer game, several woman hustling on bike or by foot toting a yoga mat, a co-ed softball game with players on the side-lines drinking beers in styrofoam cups, and a few people strolling with opened umbrellas. The trees looked the most impressive of anything, as usual.

A right onto Driggs Avenue and then a left on Lorimer Street, led me by the New Warsaw Bakery. There is much about Greenpoint that celebrates the dominating Polish culture, but this bakery on the perimeter of McCarren often makes me smile. Most of the buildings that line the park are now condominiums, restaurants, and abandoned buildings awaiting their transformation. The New Warsaw Bakery is a classic looking building serving a classical purpose. The odors emitting from the building are enticing, but it is the thought of something being created within the walls that evokes a positive feeling.

After crossing through the awkward intersection of Bedford Avenue, Nassau Avenue, and Driggs Avenue, I took Nassau a few steps to the left and then turned right onto Guernsey Street. A small and compact street, Guernsey street radiates an intimate urban landscape. The residential apartments are three or more floors high with the distance of opposing apartments on either side no more than forty feet apart. The trees lay a canopy to top the tunnel-like block. It is a cozy street in any weather. Continuing north on Guernsey, the street enters a historical district as it bends onto Oak Street. Following Oak, I turned onto Franklin Street and pace steadily north on this familiar commercial block.

As the rain picked up, I zone out, and forget about the water traveling down from my hair along my face and leaping off my chin. After hitting Eagle Street, I know that I've hit the end of my furtherest part of my loop. A left onto Eagle, I face the Manhattan skyline before turning left onto West Street and starting south towards the old Eberhard-Faber Pencil Factory. I'm curious about what this block looked like a hundred years ago, but I'm also wondering what potential it has in the next twenty. The industrial space along the water is probably in need of a clean-up, but it feels like a space that will change dramatically soon.

A left on Quay Street brings me back to Franklin Street which takes the name of Kent Avenue at the borderline between Greenpoint and Williamsburg. Kent Avenue is  the waterfront block of Williamsburg before it passes The Brooklyn Navy Yard, crosses under the BQE, and extends south to Lafayette Avenue, a block away from my first Brooklyn residence. I'm didn't go back there today as a did a few weeks ago. I walked down Kent Avenue ignoring the condominiums and catching a glimpse of the bridge in the distance. Typically on a Sunday, this area would be too busy to not pay attention to tourists wandering the neighborhood; however, with the rain now a steady pour, it was a comfortable walk and easily navigated experience.

After taking a detour onto River Street, I turn onto Grand Street and plod my way home. I'm fairly wet, but I wasn't arriving to a job interview or entering an apartment with wool floors that might shrink. Elizabeth asked me if I had a decent walk, I responded "yes" and kept it at that, reinforcing my manhood and my lack of needing to be detailed and emotional about experiences--at least that was until I sat down to type up my walk.

Bicycle and Pedestrian Paths Collide: Havemeyer Street and The Williamsburg Bridge

I walked up the ramp for the bicyclists. Levy told me just the night before that for the several months he'd been living in the area, there were two paths over the Williamsburg Bridge. He assured me that I wouldn't have to be concerned about bicyclists; and while I heard him and remembered this fact, I neglected to look up which path was designated for pedestrians. So, I walked south on Havemeyer Street, made a right on South Fourth and a left on South Fifth as it wraps around Continental Army Plaza, and took the first ramp I saw, the bicyclists' ramp. 

As I paced up the ramp maintaining my frame within a white lined area the automobile equivalent of a service lane for bicyclists, I expected to receive annoyed glances or a polite recommendation to cross over to the walking path midway over the bridge. Before the two paths had been renovated, which could be almost two years ago now, I dealt with an angry bicyclist who apparently had a rough day and didn't want to have to swerve around walkers and runners. At the time, bicyclists and pedestrians shared the south path, and as it was, I'm sure the peeved bicyclist was not the only person on the bridge impatient with the situation. I don't think that I avoided the bridge for a significant amount of time because of this incident; however, not knowing the two paths had been clearly labeled and honored by pedestrians and bicyclists alike made me question whether it would be the relaxing experience I'd hope for in crossing a bridge. This having been my thinking, I was utterly disappointed in myself for breaking the rules of the paths.  

As usual, I was the primary source of my own grief. I wanted to appreciate the views of midtown at a pace that is not typically allowed while traveling over the bridge on the M or J train from Marcy Avenue to Essex Street; however, I forced myself to truck along with some speed and get to the midway point where I could cross over to the path I belonged on and not inconvenience or bother any of the bicyclists. 

Even after I crossed over to the appropriate side, I was a bit distracted by other thoughts. The views of downtown Manhattan and the climbing World Trade Center are clear and most likely fascinating to a fresh and unfamiliar eye, but my mind was elsewhere and my body just plodding along. I found myself thinking about who Havemeyer Street was named after, and whether or not it is important to know the origin of street names that you regular or even live on. For 17 years, I lived with my family on Concord Street, but growing up and since having moved out of this home on Long Island, I have seen many Concord Streets, and I kind of assume it is simply a name that has Anglican origins and folks just like the sound of it. I've never been on another Havemeyer Street, and I know that Havemeyer is a name important to Brooklyn, just as the names on the streets parallel are named for famous Brooklynites and former colonial and post-colonial landowners. 

After making essentially an about-face upon touching ground in Manhattan, I reversed my path completely and returned home with the mission of putting my earlier lack of research aside. The Havemeyer name is synonymous with sugar refining in United States history. Starting in the mid-nineteenth century, the family essentially controlled the sugar refining industry and maintained this status into the twentieth century through operating what was then the largest factory. This massive building over 13-stories tall became home to the Domino Sugar Company in the twentieth century. After closings its doors in 2004, this building with its signature neon sign, almost as unique to New York City as the bridge that stands before it, received historical landmark status in 2007. Supporting my memory, this information now stands to support my exploration into Elizabeth's familial history. Her family not only lived in Williamsburg after immigrating to the United States, they also worked for the Domino Sugar Company in the mentioned New York City landmark. 

So, there is an immediate connection to Havemeyer, and I think it is interesting information to have ready to share if it ever comes up in conversation. Then again, I'm also proud to say that I now know that I can inform friends, family, and neighborhood passersby alike that the entrance to the pedestrian path is on the south side of the Williamsburg Bridge on Bedford Avenue between South Fifth and South Sixth. 

Creek Freak - Greepoint, Calvary Cemetery, and Newtown Creek Perimeter

As I go about it, walking is mostly a reliably cheap form of recreation. If being cheap wasn't dull enough, I also find entertainment in baring witness to the renovations of a condominium on a familiar path or picking a different route to a regular location. So, there needs to be some novelty to the experience, but I would hardly call this thrill seeking. On occasion, I take pride in where I've walked or how far I've walked; I might even pick out landmarks that caught my interest. Relaying this information, however, often feels awkward. It feels weird giving statistics or historical facts related to a walk because it polishes the experience up. My recreation becomes packaged. I wouldn't tell people they should stare at boiling water and notice the nuances, so why would I write about tidbits in my lackadaisical walks? What I'm learning is that I enjoy telling about my experience and that details are important; however, I don't want the details to be treated as the reason for my experience.

Evidently, the learning is going very slow.

As I walked north on Meeker Avenue from Metropolitan Avenue underneath the raised BQE, I started preparing my justification for being within the gates of Calvary Cemetery if a groundskeeper or a patrolling police officer approached me. I knew I'd have to rehearse other reasons for this walk if I chose to relay this story to friends or family, but for now, I was paranoid about being called-out in a cemetery. I've never been to a cemetery where you need to show identification to get into it or there is some kind of security guard going around asking people if you're at the right tombstone, but I was still planning my excuse. Appreciating an albeit disturbing yet rare view of the Manhattan skyline with rows of graves and memorials in the foreground was sort of my goal, yet there was no way I could survive presenting such an argument to a person who perceived me as trespassing or worse. 

After making a left turn on North Henry Street and entering Monsignor McGorlick Park, I was able to distract myself from my anxiety. A quiet and lusciously green space with a beautiful covered pavilion built in 1910 at the center, this park provides a retreat from the prevalent concrete of New York City-living that I'm sure many residents would appreciate in their neighborhood. For a park of this size in a location that is not busy with commercial traffic, it feels safer than sketchy and more intimate than inundated. I'm really starting to appreciate and enjoy this park to the point that I even found out what the large reclining muscular male statue memorializes--it celebrates the first ironclad warship that fought for the Union Army, the USS Monitor, which was built in Greenpoint. In the near future, I'll sip a coffee and read the paper in McGorlick Park and see if it truly is a good fit for a Sunday afternoon. 

Leaving McGorlick Park behind, I walked up Monitor Street until it enters the industrial park that surrounds Newtown Creek, a recently rewarded Superfund site. After making a right onto Greenpoint Avenue, just beyond John Jay Byrne Bridge, I got my first glance of Calvary for the day, but I didn't keep my focus on this too long. As it seems with most structures surrounding Newtown Creek, they have not been well maintained or have been worked beyond the point of potential repair. John Jay Byrne is one of several drawbridges that cross Newtown Creek, and while it was under construction as I crossed, I couldn't help but think that no one would notice me doing so if they decided the bridge needed to be raised.

I survived the first of the three drawbridges I would cross for the day and walked the few blocks to the entrance of Old Calvary on Greenpoint Avenue. I quickly noticed the "No Trespassing" signs on the gate, but since the gate was open, I chalked that up as applicable to when the gate was closed and trampled on in. Finding a sidewalk that lined a main road leading the to the cemetery chapel, I felt I had found a path that would remove any suspicions around my wandering around. For extra precaution, I removed my ear buds and turned off my iPod. As most people I saw there were well in their 70's or 80's and were there to pay respects not to shun outsiders, I was very obviously out of place but not really paid any mind. I hiked through the many Irish, Italian, and Polish family plots and mausoleums and paused for a few moments outside the chapel, a stunning structure designed by Raymond Almirall, before quietly exiting the end of the cemetery that falls below the Kosciuszko Bridge. As little details do have a way of making memories stick, Almirall studied at Cornell University, he designed the library across from the school where I currently teach, and he also designed the Tweed Courthouse which now serves as the home for the Department of Education. I figure I'll keep these details connected and in mind if it serves to justify a rational for my walk in the future. 

With a few photographs documenting my view from Calvary, my walk around Newtown Creek was quick and vigilant--I didn't want to get hit by a cement truck or wander on a less efficient path. I walked down 56th Road/ Laurel Hill Boulevard, made a right on 49th Street and followed the creek on my right on 48th and 47th Street to Grand Avenue. I paused for a few moments at Maspeth Creek to capture a few Canada Geese swimming up towards Newtown Creek and ultimately out to the East River. Remove the industrial waste and the surrounded steel and cement and the previous sentence might flow with a piece on a picturesque kayaking adventure, but this is obviously not the story of this walk or these New York City waterways. The human footprint has left its mark; and for the most part, there isn't much else to do but appreciate it in this area until work begins on Newtown Creek. 

A right on Grand Avenue, and I'm back in familiar territory. For the first time, I walked over the Grand Street Bridge and the Metropolitan Avenue Bridge. Since the size of these drawbridges is not quite to the same scale as John Jay Byrne, I was not as nervous crossing them, but if I had to drive a ten-plus ton truck over these bridges every day as many men and women must do who work in this area, I'm sure I'd just be waiting for my truck or that of a coworkers to be the one that breaks the back of one of these bridges. These things were not built to last. I have no background in engineering, but if giant suspension bridges carrying exceptional volumes of traffic can unexpectedly buckle, ill-maintained drawbridges in obscure industrial parks can expectedly buckle. I hope I'm wrong or at least the tragedy that draws attention to these bridges is a Williamsburg resident on his or her way to band rehearsal in Ridgewood busts a wheel on their bike or drops their iPhone in the creek because of a bump. Folks will say they shouldn't have been texting while riding their bike on a bridge anyway, but it is what it is. 

Opting for Metropolitan Avenue, I avoid walking in front of Pumps, as if this entire walk were about avoiding embarrassment, and meander towards my neighborhood. After jaywalking across Marcy Avenue as I turn back to my apartment on South Second Street, I notice a police officer sitting in his car across the street. I guess he decided not to give me the $50 ticket, as he would be capable of doing everyday if he would just watch the intersection and get out of his car. No, I don't worry about this overt violation of the law, but I still have an exceptional excuse prepared for possibly the same police officer or any other inquiring authority who happens to be in Calvary Cemetery and happens to deem me out of place. I decided I'd tell them I was just going for a walk, and I suppose I'd just have to let my race, sex, gender, class, and other privileged American characteristics do the rest of the talking. 

Two Doughnuts - South Side to Bed-Stuy

"You walked more than three miles for two donuts?" my dad exclaims. "You could have just bought some from C-Town around the corner," he elucidates. "I guess you earned eating those donuts. How much did they cost?" he inquires. "Eh, I would have just gone to C-Town," he ends the conversation.

I didn't just walk to Dough to get donuts. I haven't walked by my home of two years in almost the same amount of time. As I enjoy walking, Dough and my old apartment were a destination, and the streets and activity from my starting point on the South Side of Williamsburg a form of entertainment--a more furtive cousin of people-watching from a park bench.

A straight walk south, I walked Lee Avenue, the major commercial thoroughfare of Hasidic Williamsburg. Many woman and young girls were pushing strollers, with small collectives standing outside windows adorned with patent leather shoes. Young men greeted each other with familiar smiles. Older men appeared more intentioned in their ways, either conducting the business of the day or entering and leaving designated locations of prayer and study. Cafe au Lee caught my attention as it had a portable storage unit set up in a metered parking zone. The unit door was ajar, and inside several picnic tables were dressed with table clothes, napkins, and condiments. It didn't appear as though anyone was eating in the container, but I suppose I might have missed the morning rush of diners.

As Lee Avenue passes over Flushing Avenue, it takes the name of Nostrand Avenue. At this corner begins the Marcy Public Housing Complex. Before I knew Jay-Z grew up in this post-World War Two housing project, I served as a substitute teacher several days at PS 297 on Stockton Street and met some exceptional children who called the complex their home. The area is a dramatic contrast to Lee Avenue, but I don't believe it is as much as it once was during the years in which these projects were dramatically neglected by the city in the 60's and 70's. Clearly the stigma of these years lives on, as Hasidic owned businesses and residences pop-up south of Myrtle Avenue and not along the public housing.

From Nostrand Avenue, I turned right on DeKalb Avenue, took a peek down Skillman Street before grabbing two donuts at Dough. Two years I lived on Skillman Street and Lafayette Avenue, and some months after I moved, an amazing donut shop opens. No nostalgia for the donuts; just a destination for a quality treat. 280 Skillman has many memories including the several weeks of mice hiding inside of the oven. I couldn't blame them. For even when the oven was off, it was the warmest place in the often frigid street level apartment. No mice on this walk. Saw some familiar faces but no conversations recounting the past. No nostalgia on this trip I suppose; just a destination near a destination for a quality treat.

I walked back quickly, somewhat self-conscious of the fact that I was holding a paper bag with donut grease revealing itself in multiple locations. Upon ending the walk, I split a lemon poppy seed donut with Elizabeth. Probably won't talk to my dad about the walk any time soon, but if it comes up, the exchange will be similar to the fabrication I shared, and he'll remember I paid $4.50 for two donuts.