(Art by Jane Wingfield, olysketcher.com)
A recent Sunday in Red Hook begins with a trip to Baked. Overheard conversations include thoughts on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (it’s excellent) and compliments to the manager, Frank, on his impressive display of the day’s baked goods. “I spent some time,” he admitted proudly in response to the continued praise from a trio of three I could only label regulars based on their proprietary sprawl. Another man dressed in a jacket and tie sat down with a scone and a piece of cheesecake. It was around 9 am. I admired his disregard for rules about appropriate breakfast foods. After eating a frittata, I brought my plate up to the counter. “Thank you. We appreciate you,” said the friendly bearded flannel wearing man behind the counter. His sincerity was apparent. I felt appreciated.
I continued to the laundry portion of the day, a task no New Yorker without an in-unit washer/dryer enjoys. However, the laundromat on Van Brunt is clean and only two blocks from my apartment. Quarters don’t jam. There are a few lovely women who energetically wash and fold, seemingly at all times. A teen boy who works there is usually trying to cajole a friend into delivering him food, or cheerfully complaining about homework.
By this point it was pouring rain but my boyfriend, Eli, wanted to take a walk. We bundled up and strolled down Van Brunt towards the water, undeterred by slashing rain and gray skies. We passed no one on the streets. After walking to the end of the pier, (we were joined by a tall photographer) where the skyline was nearly invisible through a thick layer of fog, we popped into Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pies. We chatted with Michael, (not Steve) about the destruction of lime trees in the Keys and the possible deportation of Vietnamese Americans. Having lived in Red Hook for 3 months, it felt sacrilegious that I’d yet to try the pie. And the pie is certainly good — cold tangy and just sweet enough, but the assortment of yellowed photos (notably a map of Florida’s fish based on geography) palm trees and Christmas lights is worth every bite. On a dreary day, stepping into the pie shop felt like a trip to the Keys.
Returning to the laundromat, we stopped to admire the cats perched on a bale of hay, Red Hook’s version of the baby Jesus, most attractive being a plump tabby who contently groomed herself as if sensing an audience. “It’s like we’re at the zoo,” I remarked, peering through the bars at the animals as Eli tried to coax a cat close enough to pet. On our way back home we passed by Michael from Steve’s Key Lime Pies. He waved. We waved back.
After completing the near Herculean event of folding sorting and remaking the bed in a small space, we journeyed back down Van Brunt to The Good Fork for dumplings and a scallion pancake. The outrageously cozy and intimate atmosphere at The Good Fork encourages romance and we found ourselves dining with three other couples. If you’ve never sat in a round booth by the window, you’re missing out. The married couple next to us kissed with the gusto of young lovers and another older couple held hands across the table. When the older couple left, they hugged their server (dressed in a kilt and high socks) goodbye, wishing him a safe trip. “See you when you get back,” they said affectionately.
Walking back home Eli remarked that we hadn’t left the neighborhood all day, and we also hadn’t gotten into the car, onto a bus, ridden our bikes, or used the train. Today we’d achieved true local status in our own neighborhood.
Like many people with an average salary, living in New York can be difficult financially. As a teacher it’s about as likely as me voting Republican that I could ever afford to buy an apartment. Eli keeps his skis in the car because we don’t have enough room in the apartment. I dread needing something from our overhead storage space as it requires avoiding anything from a backpacking pack to a laundry basket falling on my head while balancing on a ladder.
It’s inevitable that someday we’ll move back to New England, seduced by open spaces, less people and green trees. When we leave Van Brunt behind, another couple similar to us will move in, chasing dreams that only exists in the city. When we go, that new starry eyed couple will trace our Sunday route from Baked to the pier and back home. But when we move, I’ll take the memory of quiet Sundays in Red Hook with me, a series of images and memories unique to New York where sometimes, with the right mindset, even the trash strewn streets can contain poetic appeal.
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