coney island

The beach. Hot dogs. Salsa on the boardwalk. Funnel cake. The Cyclone. A dazzlingly diverse and loony crowd of folks that could only be found in Brooklyn... This is the magic of Coney Island! 

Beyond the rides and food and trash and lights of the amusement park, Coney Island is remarkable because of its story as a New York City neighborhood and landmark. Over the years, Coney Island has faced the threat of gentrification, a steamrolling force that is transforming New York City neighborhoods with soul and history into communities that are wealthy, white, and inaccessible. It is a struggle across the city for neighborhoods to keep their identities (and longtime residents) in the face of such rapid change.

I am not a resident of Coney Island. As a child, I visited the aquarium on school trips. I have taken family members there to marvel at the sharks and fish, the illuminated underwater tanks. As a young woman, I've had many unforgettable nights at Coney Island. For me, summer in New York has become synonymous with Fireworks Fridays at Coney Island, where the fireworks displays are dangerously close to the crowd. The burnt scraps of paper fall down all around you on the beach. You can smell the ash and smoke. Like much at Coney Island, the experience is visceral, exhilarating, and probably not all that safe.

I wrote this vignette a few years ago after a particularly memorable evening at Coney Island. It's not fully formed, but it is an impression of the sights and smells of Coney Island. I think it captures how instrumental place is in our construction of memories. Here you go! Copyright and all that! 

The white surf broke over the rocks and the water did not look so far below. It seemed close, reaching and surging for us. The boardwalk came alive as vendors flicked on neon signs across the beach. Old men sold glow sticks, and young couples crushed cans of beer into sad discs to fling into the ocean. The kids were quieter now as they were tucked into carriages and cars, arms. There was the smell of popcorn burning and the sudden tragedy of someone’s last arepa falling in the sand. From this far and through the haze of tears, I could not discern the turning of the ferris wheel. All I could make out was the golden word printed in midair: WONDER.

Wonder Wheel at Coney Island and fireworks.

Photograph by Linus Gelber. View his photostream here. 

eating pizza in a garden

Tonight, I went to Lewis Ave. Lewis Ave. is home to a small strip of bougie restaurants and shops in Bed Stuy. My boyfriend and I made the long walk over in order to check out Saraghina, a restaurant I have heard about ever since I moved to the neighborhood. It has been hailed by The New York Times as not just a pizzeria, but a true trattoria, bringing artisanal pizza to a neighborhood that although it is being gentrified, still ain't teeming with snazzy restaurants like Billyburg or Park Slope.

First, a bit about me and gentrification. I inhabit an awkward role in the changing landscape of BK. I am from Brooklyn, it is in my blood and in my heart, it will always be home. But my privilege (chiefly due to my education) separates me from many of the people in my community. In some ways, I am implicated in the displacement of my people - of my own relatives, of my neighbors, of little girls like me who go to the same elementary school.

For instance, I scowl at white people at the Hoyt-Schemerhorn station, then I exit and find my way to a rooftop party near BAM. I usually feel awkward at these parties thrown by and for white alumni from my college. I clutch my Red Stripe like it's a security blanket, watch the lights, and feel guilty. I think about double consciousness, but mostly I think about whether I will be able to recognize any of these streets in a few years. I decide the music sucks, but sometimes I dig it, and then that reminds me of where I have been, the many different places, all the hybrid influences that have made me this hybrid brown girl with hybrid dreams and longings in her heart. I am always the first guest to leave and walk home. The whole way, I talk to myself and I complain about yuppies and hipsters and their pricey beer and fancy cheese and fucking lame music (it all sounds the same!). But I was still there and will be there again.

Just like I was at Saraghina. Do with that reality what you will. I split two pies with my boyfriend as part of the strange, ongoing experiment in double consciousness that is my life.

Before we entered the restaurant, we sat in front for a while, marveling at the absurd brunch prices. It was $7 for bread and butter with jam and nutella, $10 for organic eggs. I'm more of a $2 egg and cheese on a roll kind of girl. We joked about sticking to the Dominican spot we know where you can get "fluffy pancakes" or "Fhench toast" with meat and eggs for $5.

The interior of Saraghina is beautiful. The decor alone seemed to be a parable on gentrification. It was all dim lights and wooden tables, tall bottles of water. Everything looked old, from the Xeroxed menus, windows with chipped paint, dusty mason jars, Citronella candles, and plastic chairs that reminded me of my elementary school classrooms. Some would say Saraghina had a rustic Italian vibe, but I think the restaurant just looks like any other building in Bed Stuy with old details and chipped paint --- only more expensive.

Everything from industrial architecture to trash on the street to people of color makes Brooklyn feel real and edgy and chic to folks moving in, and Saraghina is certainly capitalizing on the grit factor of the neighborhood and the building to attract its clientele.

Nearly everyone inside the restaurant was white. I was expecting this since the place has been written up in the Times. I had also come across online reviews of Saraghina where people had posted comments like, "This is the only place in my neighborhood that I feel comfortable taking my family when they come to visit." The customers were white couples feeding slices to their small children and groups of thirtysomethings sharing wine and mussels. It seems that, in general, Saraghina customers are people who 1) like pizza and 2) enjoy eating pizza with other neighborhood folks who look like them. When we arrived, there was only one other couple of color in the garden. We smiled at them and said hello. SOLIDARITY.

All this being said, the food was good. We got a pie with buffala mozzarella, which tasted just like regular mozzarella, but cost $2 more. We also got a pie with zucchini and eggplant, which I loved. The crust was crispy and thin, there was not too much cheese, the marinara sauce was tomato-sweet, and the vegetables were grilled soft and perfect. It was very, very good.



My boyfriend was not as impressed. He said, "How could you eat guiso and then think this is good?" I'm pretty sure he would have preferred for us to stay home and use adobo and a couple of packets of Goya azafran to make black beans and rice. It would have cost us about $2, as opposed to the $35 we spent on our meal and the tip. Despite his complaints, he still ate almost all of the buffala pie by himself.

We left with our stomachs full, and the curiosity that had first led me to the place was definitely satiated. Whether I will return again for another delicious and pricey experiment in double consciousness is TBD. The garden was beautiful, the waitstaff was kind, and the two Latino men in the kitchen held it down cooking the stuff that is the lifeblood of the establishment.

So there you go. My lengthy treatise on an evening out with my boyfriend (who looked very cute in his V-neck tee), gentrification, and this new neighborhood pizza place.