MOTHER BROOKLYN I'M HOME

WARNING: Fasten your seatbelts. This is going to be a BUMPY RIDE.

        You can take the son out of Brooklyn, but you can’t take the Brooklyn out of the son. Here I am on United Airlines Flight 1379 from Las Vegas headed to Mother Brooklyn.  I’m in seat 31-D. There’s a guy one row up from me with problems in his lower gastrointestinal tract after consuming the jumbo bean and cheese burrito at Cafe Mexicano. And I don’t think I can breathe through my mouth the entire five-hour flight to LaGuardia Airport. What a start to this trip.

        But no sacrifice is too great for Mother Brooklyn. Ah the homeland. When I land, I’m expecting the flashbulbs of paparazzi. Afterall, my return is the biggest thing to hit Brooklyn since Joey Chestnut ate 70.5 hot dogs at Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest this summer to win his 17^th Mustard Belt. My sister, Elise, picks me up in her new olive green Subaru Crosstrek. Where’s a martini when you need one? Oh well, at least I’m back.

As we’re driving to my sister’s apartment, I see that vagrant who always stands on the tiny strip of median on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway begging for money is gone. How did he ever make it to that spot without getting mowed down by these aggressive, snarling NYC motorists? Maybe he finally got runover. Things in this city are always changing. If I were at the wheel, we already would have been in three wrecks.

          When we make it to my sister’s apartment on Avenue C near Ocean Parkway, I’m astounded by the diversity. Orthodox Jews, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Muslims in all manner of garb, Hasidic Jews and even white people.

                “My Country ‘tis of thee

                Sweet land of humidity

                Of thee I sing”

                Summer is travel season and I’m participating in an American tradition.

                The trees provide a canopy of shade even on this hot day. Red, yellow and green signs hang from many homes proclaiming, “Free Palestine,” an obvious reference to the war in Gaza. All these Muslims and Jews living in this crowded neighborhood despite their emotional political differences, yet somehow, they manage to coexist without killing one anther as much as they disagree. Perhaps there is a lesson on these blocks for the world.

            I was born in Brooklyn. My grandmother, on my mother’s side, had a shop where she made window shades. As a child I would sit on a shoebox outside the store and tell customers it was my store. Then I would bum a dime off my grandmother and buy a slice of pizza around the block.

            New Jersey was some far-off exotic land which I heard about on the radio during the advertisements for Palisades Amusement Park. But Brooklyn was home.

            I was circumcised in Brooklyn. At my bris, my father’s buddy, Morris Bregg, my godfather and a tough guy who was handball champion of Coney Island, fainted.

            A bris is this Jewish religious ceremony where a baby boy is circumcised on the eighth day of his life. It symbolizes the covenant between God and the Jewish people, as commanded to Abraham in the Book of Genesis.

                The circumcision is performed by a mohel, a guy who is trained in Jewish law and surgical hygiene. God, I hope so. I don’t remember who the mohel was. But don’t blame me, I was only eight days old. It’s probably good I don’t know who he was, because I’d probably hunt him down. He took too much off.

I take the subway with my sister and her husband, Dale, to Coney Island. There are all these big colorful umbrellas propped in the sand to protect beachgoers from the hot sun. The smell of the Atlantic Oceans fills my nostrils. It’s wonderful. I’m sweating nostalgia from every pore of my body.

          I can see myself playing in the sand with my sister and my dad as he browns in the sun. Dad loved the beach. And he loved taking us with him.

          A grown middle-aged man stands on the sand in his black dress shoes. Black polyester socks up to the middle of his shins. A bathing suit hitched high to his belly button. On his head a straw fedora. He looks ridiculous. He looks great. This scene is so Coney Island. He is the epitome of beach attire. I don’t need my brother-in-law’s $2,000 binoculars to ogle girls in bikinis. I got this guy to look at.

I hear salsa music blaring from somewhere out on the sand. All sorts of Latin rhythms and beats. A woman sells fresh sliced papaya and mango.

These are the very sands where pinup star Bettie Page was discovered in 1950 by police officer Jerry Tibbs, an amateur photographer with a camera. Some cops have all the luck.

I take in the youngsters at Luna Park enjoying The Cyclone rollercoaster overlooking the ocean and all the rides at Luna Park.

          Now I’m walking down the boardwalk looking for Joey Chestnut. I want to challenge him for The Mustard Belt.

           “Joey where are you? Joey Chestnut come out. Don’t hide from me Joey. You got what I want. The Mustard Belt.”

           “He’s probably hiding under the boardwalk. He’s afraid of you,” my sister says, humoring me.

           We walk all the way down to Brighton Beach. It is so humid, the sweat sticks to our shirts like Elmer’s glue. Brighton Beach was where my other grandma lived. My father’s mother. She toiled in the sweatshops of New York sewing furs. They call Brighton Beach “Little Odessa,” and “Little Russia,” because of the huge tight-knit Russian and Easter European communities here. There are Ukrainians, Georgians, Uzbeks – who are these immigrants from Central Asian, and Slovenians and a whole bunch of other people I‘m leaving out.

You see stores and foods here you won’t see anywhere else. I’m standing outside the Tashkent market and look across the street. There’s this gigantic store. The big sign is in Russian. I can’t read it. The little sign is in English. “BLACK SEA BOOKSTORE.” It sits in the shadows of the Q-Train subway. It’s actually an elevated train that runs above Brighton Beach Avenue. The train tracks dapple light on the cars below. Elise, Dale and I wander into a market. A Russian shopper confronts us. “Go across street to Tashkent. Food better. Everything better. Fresher. Meat good.”

          We cross the street to Tashkent Supermarket. If only I had my great-great grandmother’s babushka. I’d tie that headscarf under my chin right now. We create our own meals from the self-serve food bar that goes on for what feels like

half a city block. I go for a piroshki – a Russian meat pie, a pickled tomato, some kind of cole slaw I’ve never had before, some really good kasha. I’m too chicken kiev to try any creamed herring.

               There are jars everywhere with labels in the Cyrillic alphabet, but I have no idea what they say or how to read them, so my shopping spree comes to an end.

               Back in my sister’s apartment, Elise cooks up some salmon to go with our other worldly delicacies which include some kind of pistachio mousse and poppyseed pastries.

               The next morning, I take a long walk in Prospect Park which dates back to 1867 and my shin splints feel like they date that far back too, from all the walking I’ve done these last few days. For me Brooklyn is where civilization began. I leave the magic of Brooklyn after four days. Hug my sister and her husband and take the big bird from LaGuardia back to Las Vegas. Back to the barren desert. Back to the cactus, the rattlesnakes, the scorpions, and suburban coyotes.

           The malevolent sun beats down on me. Dryness bakes the inside of my nostrils, my throat, and my skin. I’m back in the land of dust devils. Back in the land where you hardly ever need windshield wipers.

           There are no paparazzi here either when I land. Just a tired, bored Uber driver to take me home.