As the summer streets of New York become populated with clipboard wielding college coeds intent on saving children, whales and our dear mother earth. And as a furious sea of umbrellas protecting our citizenry and guests from a month long shower of god's tears crash over our pedestrian byways, I have been faced with an unrelenting challenge to find an unencumbered lane to walk, let alone a place of refuge.
Thus far, my only respite has been afforded me on early weekend mornings on the sidewalks and crosswalks of my temporary Williamsburg home. As this neighborhood's denizens deeply slumber and recover from a week's worth of fixed gear trials, latte tribulations and machine-like pounding of the word like, I walk and explore the old, the new and ever-changing face of Brooklyn.
This Sunday I was joined by my new friend Jose for an industrial strength liquid trek of discovery and observation throughout outer Williamsburg and inner Bushwick. Fitted with iced coffees in white styrofoam cups from
Cafe Capri, positive energy and a gift for gab, we set out on our uncharted journey. A monument to the brave men of the Monitor and Merrimac, a Futura with a front seat interview about the Futura, an Italian/Dominican-ish cheese and guava paste danish, a sign of personal warning and musty home for white people's stuff and the secret to success were all found along the way.
But it was an unplanned right off of Bushwick Avenue that revealed a distant aluminum clad Valhalla. Just down this desolate stretch of pavement stood
Trailer Park by Kim Hollerman. I had only heard of its legend from weary travelers and ancient blog post, but now, unguarded and with door open it beckoned us to enter its lush environs. Sponsored by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation, the trailer is a breath of fresh air that provided me the solitude I had been searching for, a place to eat our danish and a seat for Jose to attend to his blistered feet.
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