We agreed that I would drop it.
And Brooklyn (see ‘Condo-Fishing 3’)?
Brooklyn’s first call was to visit an unorthodox flat in a walk-up brownstone house, on one of those residential streets with just lines of cute houses and old trees. The flat looked good on photos, and it seemed to be passing all the other tests incorporated in the hard learnt fishing lessons.
After a long commute we arrived at the subway station on Fulton Street, where every other store was a fried-chicken place, mingled with some ‘mom-and-pop’ dollar-store or ethnic clothing shop. Characters in this part of Fulton included: a few people eagerly shouting -some of them just seemed to be mad at the air-, a few bling-bling individuals of all sizes and shades walking to some kind of mute beat, and policemen almost on every block. The air appeared overcrowded despite the seasonal crispiness: a lot of fried-chicken aroma mixed with cheap yet strong, sneeze-provoking perfumes. Once off Fulton, peace came to all my senses. Suddenly the scenery changed although not completely.
“Do you feel safe walking here?” And in my naturally reactive boldness, enhanced by my freshly revamped Zen spirit of acceptance, I smiled “YES! Why?!” “Would you come walking all these blocks to this place by yourself, in the evening or as soon as it gets dark?” “Yes…” “How many Caucasians do you see on the streets?” “None. And so?” “How many blond girls do you see on the streets?” “None! But I do not feel unsafe!” “Let’s make a bet: the first one who sees a Caucasian, pays a coffee. And the first one who sees a blonde, pays a meal.” “OK!” Fifteen minutes browsing those streets had gone by and the bet was still open. Nada.
From Long Island City, NY to Brooklyn: 40-minute commute in theory, about 60 in reality.
Source: GoogleMaps.
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