Down here it’s just winners and losers and don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line.
The Boss
On the wall of the second Airbnb, this one in Union City, New Jersey, is written ‘what is your relationship with the present moment?’ Of course, Airbnbs are infamous for silly motivational quotes on their walls, usually on walls near the beach, but this one actually resonated a bit.
During the days, we stopped now and then to contemplate this question. Of course, on holiday in New York, barely working, one’s relationship with the present moment is pretty positive. Ask a workday drone the same question and they might respond with an obscenity. Regardless, and self-development aside, it is a worthwhile question, and at least makes one take a moment to think.
In New York, the concept of calm is relative.
The unprepared traveller can revel in stumbling upon a quaint town and deciding to stay a few nights, happy that their lack of itinerary means spontaneity is possible. Alas, there can be drawbacks. I clicked the ‘book’ button of the Airbnb listing for ‘Sunny Apartment in Brooklyn’ and thought no more about it. Later, I realised we were staying in Brownsville, apparently one of the most violent areas in NYC. We couldn’t cancel and lose the payment, so that was home for the week.
If the USA is a first world country, Brownsville is a third world pocket. Shelters and the people that stay there make the morning coffee walk quite interesting. On one street nearby there were more than 15 churches. Basically, each is just a shopfront with the name of a dodgy sounding congregation above. What a great place to start your own denomination. Desperation seeks salvation, I suppose. There were also many hair stylists and fried food restaurants. And a few grocery shops. Fresh food, as in a carrot or an apple, is something that the average denizen of Brownsville might encounter once a month at best. My puritan’s stomach was duly appalled by the culinary offerings on street corners.
Daily Press Coffee was perhaps the first sign of a gradual encroachment of hipsterism on down and out B’Ville. We promptly debated how long gentrification of this neighbourhood would take. If it proceeds at the pace of the local street walker, the hipsters will appear in number in a few decades at best.
Daily Press staff were Brooklyn too-cool-by-half, not enamoured by our accents or low-key charm. The bagels and croissants were ‘baked fresh daily’, the subtext being that they were delivered a day or two later. At Daily Press my futile crusade against the scourge of paper cups began. We demanded our coffee, self-righteously, in a ‘real cup’ and were duly, eye-rollingly obliged. Innocent strangers, fellow customers, encroaching hipsters; all got theirs in a to-go cup and sat at the tables reading their phones. But why? Has economic rationality heightened such to the point where it is cheaper for a business to buy and dispose of a paper cup than to force a staff member to deign to wash one? It’s a cafe after all. The girls behind the counter spent many idle moments phone scrolling in their elite, disdainful-of-the-world way. Without expanding further, a coffee from a real mug or cup tastes better than one from a paper cup with its silly plastic lid. And it is a chance to ask yourself about your relationship with the present moment.
Swiftly we decided to boycott Daily Press. It went from cool local haunt to too-cool local haunt in two days, such is the high speed change of a six-day stay in one neighbourhood.
Rarely did three white guys walk together through Brownsville. Street traffic was low, and the vibe was unmistakably urban decline, or urban nadir, or urban give up.
The three of us were: Me, JM, Chris. JM is Jean-Marie. He is German, yes. I lived with him in 2008 pre-Olympcs in Jiuxianqiao in Beijing. Then we shared a decrepit, shithole type apartment in Beijing, this time closer to the city centre, in about 2010-11. He is a bloke that can be thrown into any type of international situation and generally thrive. It was the first time we’d seen each other in 8-9 years, at least.
Chris is an old friend from Beijing, Australian but living in France. Those two didn’t know each other but the group dynamic was strong. We had, after all, a gift-that-keeps-on-giving topic of conversation: America. For those mean types with a tendency to mock, America provides endless fodder. For more analytical types, it also provides much matter, in that it is a riveting, ever-changing sociological, anthropological study. A failing experiment failing in real time, surviving because its people believe it is succeeding and fly their flag from their cars and houses without irony. Indeed irony is not their strong point. What did I read? ‘What they lack in subtlety they make up for in lack of subtlety.’
What did we observe, apart from the paper cup issue (the Starbucks effect, successor to the McDonalds affect)? That this part of Brooklyn is pretty depressing. That desperation is currency. That the city is brutally cold and unforgiving to the downtrodden. That life is zero-sum if everyone agrees that it is so. That, in this part at least, the relationship with food, the actual definition of food, is toxic. That for all this there is some humour in the air. Observe desperation on a grand, largely benign scale, and you can feel depression or find hilarity. We chose the latter, from our perch removed from day-to-day grind.
We chose another cafe, Beets Cafe, and incongruously they offered Acai bowls. Such audacity to try to provide healthy food, a so-called superfood no less, in this wasteland. We gladly supported the business, in the way a self-important two-day visitor does.
I was only a few days into jetlag, suffering a unique mid-afternoon fatigue, one where gravity seems to increase its downward pull somewhat, and one feels the desperate physical urge to succumb, crawl to a nook and just sleep. This is not socially acceptable and I passed those afternoon hours as a zombie. Later, half drunk, I would search for sleep, try to channel the sensation of hours before, then find it, and be wide awake at 4am. First world problems, then. What boring travel writer said a good way to fight jetlag is to lay off the booze? He or she was quite ignored, as we had multiple drinks each afternoon and night.
The first night we dranks beers and red wine at Rob’s house in downtown Brooklyn. Ah, so this is where all the yuppie hipsters live. Why didn’t we stay here? I was still in the buzz zone where jetlag is lame and exaggerated. Rob’s mum was visiting from Carolina (either North or South) and was easily charmed by the accent and the genuinely interested questions we asked. A great lady, beaming with pride. Rob was probably surprised we had all actually made it. My appearance was contingent on the finals failure of my (pathetic) football team. Rob was under the impression that I actually played in this team (a professional league, I told him), before I set the record straight. It was only the team I supported, I assured him, making my appearance at the wedding slightly less valiant.
Rob was a friend from Beijing. He was of a rare species, a very modest, humble, self-deprecating American. From Jersey no less. We met through friends in Beijing and later formed an average band together. JM played keyboard and we had a great Chinese drummer called Young. Rob was actually very talented, just not too committed. We had 6-7 songs and he sang most of them. His melodies were catchy and he had a rare thing: a good, distinct, powerful voice. He just never wrote lyrics and so he sang the songs live in a type of gibberish of hummed melodies. It worked, we thought, but who knows. We were called Brave Face and had a keyboardist/synth player called Jean-Marie, so… I think once the blackboard at Old What Bar listed us as Brace Face, or maybe Brave Fate.
I digress. We drank at his house and met his current (officially already married), future (wedding ceremony on the weekend) wife. We were in Brooklyn from distant places for the wedding after all. Anna was friendly, warm, if a little bewildered perhaps at this strange trio of sarcastic strangers in her apartment. She was at the tail end of a massive feat of wedding planning the likes of which I will thankfully never experience.
The second day we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge with tons of fellow tourists, took our photos and had some well-earned afternoon beers in Manhattan somewhere. We met Rob again later and had a glass of red wine at a jazz bar. It was a very boring type of dull, French jazz, and the jetlag fatigue was strong. We headed back to B’Ville.
We found another cafe that sold, also quite unbelievably, fresh baguettes. The shopkeeper was a supremely unrushed man from Burkina Faso. He was as surprised to see us as we were to find a baguette. His rolls were superb, made at his exacting rhythm. On the way through Brownsville we also found a community vegetable garden wedged between two roads, and we bought a large bag of fresh vegetables. This place was something of an oasis in a desert of asphalt, a very optimistic bright spot likely overlooked by most of the citizens living closeby. Our stomachs yearned for fresh food and plain rice, and Chris cooked something simple, but whole and delicious.
One night we went to a hipster music bar somewhere in Brooklyn and had some strong cocktails. Great, random music, and it was good to be in a more vibrant neighbourhood. Not much nightlife in B’ville. Here we provocatively asked what sort of tips we should be paying to staff. The girl said 20% was a good starting point, ascending with better service. Eye roll. The service in general is average, not warm or particularly prompt. If we should pay for basic manners, we are paying way too much and getting too little. Like many foreigners, I concluded that the tip system is basically shit with no redeeming features.
JM, in his insightful way, said that the tip system is a way for a business owner to transfer his/her business risks to his/her staff. On a bad day, one with rain or few customers for some reason, the workers will suffer the consequences more than the owner. Or so the theory goes. Like most tourists, we tip more than we should and leave slightly resentful and peeved at the mediocre service.
Friday saw a monumental downpour, flooding in Manhattan, and we stayed at home in our dark apartment (‘sunny’ according to Airbnb listing’). We were happy to have a reason to do nothing. I was suffering jet lag, Chris had just finished a rare period of intense work and JM had been on the road nearly a year. The rain poured. I finished Breakfast at Tiffany’s (just a novela, influential nonetheless) and started on Atonement (lush landscape indeed). Rob hosted us for a get together later, and Chris and I had ambitious plans to watch the AFL Grand Final at a downtown pub at 12:30 that night. By 7pm we were 5-6 beers deep, and rudderless. We met a bunch of other great blokes at Rob’s house. Fellow wedding guests from around the world and a few of his school friends from Jersey days. Was all good fun and the boys were drinking heavily between spliffs, as is the fashion in somehow liberal USA. Or smoking heavily between beers. They are way ahead of Aus when it comes to smoking a joint in public and good on them for it.
Much banter ensued, and we did discuss our time in China that evening, and during the week in general. For all of us, it was the most interesting, exciting, influential time of our lives. Ok, we were in our 20s mainly, given to the self-importance of the age. But we also concluded that we lived there to witness the most vibrant, crazy period in China’s modern history. Just that brief moment when the country embraced friendship and internationalism, but was still ancient, backward in its way, culturally beautiful and incessantly interesting. The country was curious and everchanging, obsessed with progress and speed, making up for lost time, and we were there, observers, very minor players, and nothing will ever replicate that.
We didn’t make the football game at the pub, after waiting for 45 minutes for many cancelled trains. We watched at home, half awake. The sense of distance from Aus, of the insignificance of the small-town sport, helped dampen the pain of a Collingwood victory. Move on. The TV commentary was abominable as usual. Amateur stuff.
Saturday wedding day. We were back at the Acai bowl cafe Beets. It is run by some entrepreneurial Haitians. We walked through a huge cemetery nearby. I was exhausted still, shaking jet lag and thinking that maybe there was another illness involved. The weather was fine. We found ourselves in Bushwick. Supposedly hipster now but still seemed pretty resistant. Rundown but with a vibe. Had a Bloody Mary and some Baijiu shots given to us by the Taiwanese bartender. Random. We could easily have stayed and finished the bottle, and we wanted to, but luckily we had to head home to get ready for the wedding.
The wedding was at 6pm. Had a few quick drinks beforehand and a chat with some other guests. We were shuffled downstairs for the ceremony. Nice, brief one. Rob looking confident and happy. Stressful stuff no doubt. Shuffled back upstairs again for a rushed dinner. Great semi-drunken chat at table caught short. Average vegetarian option for the martyr at the table (me). A young girl was forcefully telling us to go downstairs for the next part. She was universally hated. Why stop us from sitting to slowly eat and talk? Great crew at our table, all keen to sit and get drunk and chat shit. We were herded downstairs for the first dance, cake and more drinks. Rob had recorded the vocals of the Knoeffler song, and he can sing. Hidden talent, far better than most singers out there. More drinks, some dancing, Australia representing the dance floor.. Rob’s mum was mortified when I told her that I would never get married. Perhaps her generation still thinks this is because I can’t find a wife, rather than wanting to avoid the stress of being the centre of attention on a wedding day. Things wound up pretty quickly. We weren’t in the mood to kick on much, as it was our fifth day straight of drinking. Back to B’ville.
Sunday, one more time for Bagels at Daily Press. Redeemed. To the subway for another visit to Rob’s house for brunch. Rob’s rooftop overlooked a packed Atlantic Avenue and Brooklyn looked amazing that day. We could see all the way across the water to Manhattan. Amazing three days of hospitality from Rob and Anna. Heavy amount of socialising and great people all round. His dad Vic is a great man of dry humour, my type of bloke. He called us a group of thugs, which we liked. How great to have a strong connection with a random bloke like Vic, albeit only over three days. His partner Randy (Brandi?) was a particular fan of mine, lurking in my presence a bit too much for coincidence. Grandmother of five no less, attracted to the barely comprehensible accent and Aussie wit compounded by fatigue and booze. She and Vic live in Lancaster, Amish country, and they shared some interesting anecdotes about their close neighbours.
I omitted to mention another guest at the wedding who looked identical to Larry David and was ‘in character’ throughout. Voice, walking style, baldness. Tick, Tick, Tick. He was a classic American who talked at you incessantly and listened to not a word you said. He would be as at-ease speaking to me as to a Tibetan monk on a vow of silence. No English required! He victimised many a fellow guest with tireless monologues, at great value to myself and a few other Curb Your Enthusiasm devotees.
On the way to the subway that Sunday we were slightly hungover and it was a fine, blue sky day. Brownsville smelled of optimism. Maybe the hipsters were only 10 years away. Close to the subway station, a lady said in that demanding USA twang ‘Excuse me, is the train station near here? I’m partially blind.’
‘Yes, it’s just over the road.’ Well she wasn’t seeing well, so it was sort of hard to point in the right direction. How did you get here in the first place? She was none-too-mobile, lugging a big garbage bag of her clothes. I slowed down. ‘Hold on to my arm’, and so we slowly made our way.
‘What nationality are you?’
Haha, funny stuff. My work wasn’t done. I was carrying the garbage bag by now. She had no ticket, no real vision, and no real idea where she was or how to get where she wanted to go. Ask the cops? ‘Our job is to stand here and do absolutely nothing, lady’ said their eyes in dismissal. Serve and protect, maybe. Does it say help on my arm? Ask the hilariously named customer service lady? Her contempt was not concealed. She said ‘I don’t want to tell you the way, in case something happens and I’m held responsible.’ Ah, so now the ubiquitous had an accident? You need a lawyer… ads made more sense. Lawsuits aside, I continued my spontaneous and temporary good deed for the year. Altruism is definitely not a consistent trait of most humans, but it is all the more satisfying for how random and fleeting it is. Alas, my new friend switched between grateful and polite – ‘aren’t you foreigners so kind’ – to New York sink-or-swim mode – ‘what the fuck you just say to me!’ – when I congratulated her on dismounting from the travelator. She jumped the entry gate, four metres from the police and customer service ladies, and I walked her to the train, under much vigorous instruction. She had no money, no home, and had spent last night in a shelter that was ‘way too fuckin crazy’. Cold city indeed. I gave her $10 cash and looked at a kind-looking white girl on the train and said, implored: ‘help this lady get off at the right stop’.
The girl nodded. I saw compassion. The doors closed.
‘I wouldn’t call this a happy city.’
‘The rats are happy.’
‘You’re missing the point.’
Dull fifth day hangover fatigue, stomach issues. After the brunch, we walked down Atlantic through a massive street fair. Ended down at the water, impressed by the enormity. Endless flood of humans, healthy toned high-achievers on Sunday fitness and positive living, just a few miles away from jerk chicken shadows of hard to redeem Brownsville. In New York, in the world, obscene, shameless wealth and physical bounty is juxtaposed with desperation, despair. Dig for compassion and come up with, yes, more apathy. Now you have humanity.
Are these funny characters, these solo phone yellers, half or totally crazed street walkers, arrogant Wall Street business types, lazy cops, ghetto stoop dwellers, unrushed Burkina Fasoan shop owners, chubby Latina fruit sellers all planted in our path to make our holiday more interesting and authentic? Paid $8 an hour for their cameo and empty promises of future fame? No. Alas they are just tiny pawns in the experiment; great stars in their own wildly popular show called ‘My Life’.
Why are there so many sirens?
That was us in Brownsville.
Dark Dirt 