Brooklyn in Love Read online

  Inevitably, tensions flared; everyone was as frustrated by the scene as we were, getting snippy and territorial. Some guy called Andrew an asshole when Andrew neglected to hold the apartment door open for him as we were leaving and he was arriving. If the search had ever been fun and full of promise, it was no longer. It was a first-world problem, but bleakness was setting in. My faith in mankind was evaporating. Were we ever going to live together? Would the real estate gods come to smile upon us? Would Brooklyn ever be home?

  • • •

  Truman Capote once said, “I live in Brooklyn, by choice.” He was not alone. Tons of bright personalities have proudly called Brooklyn their home: Walt Whitman and Jonathan Lethem, Norman Mailer and Nathan Englander, Betty Smith and Myla Goldberg, Adam Yauch and JAY-Z, Spike Lee and Marisa Tomei, and let’s not forget Miranda’s ultimate move across the bridge. What is it about the sprawling borough that’s been the siren’s call for so long?

  In 1898, Brooklyn was its own city—the fourth largest in the nation. Then, consolidation happened. Along with Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island, Brooklyn was engulfed by Manhattan, creating New York City as we know it. For decades, Brooklyn remained in the shadow of Manhattan, forever the ugly stepchild. It became radically diverse, home to Russians, Poles, Hasidic Jews, Dominicans, Italians, Africans, and dozens of other minority groups. But every year since the turn of the millennium, Brooklyn has become more and more of an international destination and, in the process, a brand. Parisians especially love Brooklyn, declaring anything with certain rustic coolness as “très Brooklyn.” As the borough has gentrified, it’s become deified as well as the object of scorn, what with its artisanal pickle makers, craft beer brewers, and vegan soap makers.

  And now, as we were sadly discovering with the booming real estate market, there was a whole new movement afoot. Brooklyn wasn’t just for creative types and artistic spirits; it was for bourgeois breeders. The price of apartments was going up before our very eyes, making us worried that we’d be priced right out of the market. We realized our initial focus on Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, and Boerum Hill—three quintessential Brooklyn neighborhoods with bucolic street names like Pineapple and Willow—would have to be expanded. So we started looking in Carroll Gardens, Prospect Heights, and Fort Greene, each a little more remote but still thriving with indie boutiques, organic coffeehouses, and mom-and-pop restaurants. Then we contemplated going still deeper into the borough, to less gentrified and glorified neighborhoods. We hiked to the desolate Gowanus Canal but didn’t share the Elsen sisters’ affinity for it; along Fort Greene’s Myrtle Avenue, nicknamed “Murder Avenue” as it was home to some of the most infamous housing projects; and tried to ignore the highway traffic spilling into South Slope. Each time we expanded our range, we nervously recalculated the commute into Manhattan and reconsidered our must-haves. Were we willing to give up laundry inside the unit for a subway stop on the corner? Could we handle hauling groceries up to a fourth-floor walk-up or the potential rodent invasion of a subterranean apartment? Was a second bedroom that could fit a crib but not a dresser a deal breaker after all?

  Sunday after Sunday, we were ninja-like, canvassing the borough, ducking in and out of open houses. We had seen dozens of options. There was the L-shaped charmer in Carroll Gardens with an open kitchen and working fireplace, the new condo on Fourth Avenue with a balcony overlooking the Statue of Liberty and downtown Manhattan, a converted schoolhouse in Prospect Heights, and an old factory along the “Columbia Waterfront District”—real estate brokers’ neologism for the remote strip between Red Hook and Cobble Hill. There was the new DUMBO building that was already being sued by its occupants for shoddy construction, the depressing garden unit that rattled from traffic on the nearby BQE, and the second-floor apartment so close to the new Barclays Center—home to the Brooklyn Nets, traveling circuses, and teenybopper concerts—it was virtually like living in the middle of the busy five-way intersection. We saw narrow railroad apartments where we could hold hands and touch opposite sides of the room, triangle-shaped bedrooms, and floors that sloped at fifteen-degree angles. We wept with desire for all the beautifully remodeled brownstones with double parlors, twelve-foot ceilings, and pocket doors, and cried in disbelief at all the dubious condos, erected as if overnight for this rush of buyers. In the middle of it all, more affordable apartments were surfacing in Manhattan, so we started going to open houses there, ready to give up on the Brooklyn dream.

  We saw it all, and we bid like Russian oligarchs at a Sotheby’s auction, as if money were no object. Who did we think we were? We were delusional by then, carried away by the frenzy. The reality was, we were willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for an apartment that we not only didn’t love, that not only didn’t tick all the boxes of our search criteria, but that we had also spent all of seven or eight minutes superficially perusing in a sea of people. Our future home, our life savings—a whim. If we stopped to think about it, it was insane. But we couldn’t stop to think about it. We didn’t have time. We couldn’t afford to. If we did, we could lose out on our slim chance of scoring a Brooklyn apartment.

  Our wake-up call came when we finally had an offer accepted on a three-bedroom apartment with a glorious living room, lined with built-in bookshelves and full of natural light. I had visions of stretching out on the floor there every Sunday morning with the paper while Andrew recreated HOME/MADE’s scrambles and home fries in the open kitchen. Andrew and I were on a high for days after our broker called with the news, reveling in the fact that we had finally beat the market and gotten this place, a three-bedroom no less. Then, one night as we were eating sundaes at the bar of DBGB for an article I was writing, Andrew casually mentioned our future home’s second-floor location. An alarm went off in my head. My very first apartment in Manhattan was on the second floor, and suddenly I remembered every pigeon coo and penny drop I had ever heard while living there. We asked our broker for a second viewing of the apartment, so we could be there without the throngs of open-house attendees and just listen.

  We arrived on a weekday evening and sheepishly realized it was not only on the second floor, but it also faced Flatbush Avenue, one of the busiest throughways in the borough, ushering rideshare vans, public buses, and anxious commuters from the Manhattan Bridge to East Brooklyn. I stood in the window watching the traffic and got to see what our view would be: a Chase bank with neon blue signage, a twenty-four-hour, florescent-lit Duane Reade, and a billboard, currently promoting Z100. The smell of Tex-Mex from the greasy takeout joint below might counteract the bus fumes, but there was no way of getting around the work the apartment itself needed. The kitchen and two bathrooms, circa 1979 judging by the pink tile and brass fixtures, needed to be gut renovated. Two of the three bedrooms—which were side by side, neither of which had a closet—were so tiny and bizarrely shaped, we’d have to tear down the wall between them to make the space functional. Lastly, we’d have to install new floors throughout or live with the industrial carpeting that looked as though it had been there since the days of Three’s Company. Right there and then, our excitement came to a screeching halt. The next morning, we did what we knew we had to: we backed out of the deal.

  So there we were: more than four months, fifty-something apartments, seven bids, and this one near-hit later. We were still searching, still hoping, still empty-handed. And I thought Manhattan could be tough.

  A WALKING TOUR OF RED HOOK

  With only one bus and no subways servicing all of Red Hook, this Brooklyn neighborhood remains off the grid—though guaranteed, that will change as more businesses, art studios, and, inevitably, fancy new condos, move in. It’s that exoticism and remoteness that make it especially fun to explore.

  Although public transportation is limited, you can actually take a water taxi from Manhattan to Red Hook, enjoying harbor views en route and when you dock. Before heading up the main drag of Van Brunt, explore the studios, exhibitions, and performance
s at Pioneer Works, a massive multidisciplinary community center.

  On to Van Brunt—it has a smattering of cool boutiques and plenty of good eating. Fort Defiance serves up Southern cooking and tiki cocktails, while the Good Fork infuses Korean ingredients into its comfort food menu. For something sweet, stop at Baked. From all the cookies, cupcakes, bars, and tarts, my favorite is the Brookster, a pie-shaped brownie with a chocolate chip cookie at its center.

  Deviate from the main drag, and you’ll find two Red Hook essentials: Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pies and Cacao Prieto. Steve’s is a hole-in-the-wall establishment that abides by its own operating hours and focuses simply and sublimely on one thing: key lime pie made from all-natural ingredients. Cacao Prieto is a small-batch rum distillery/chocolate factory that sources all its cacao from the owner’s family farm in the Dominican Republic. The rum-filled bonbons are to die for, and the illustrated packaging of the chocolate tablettes make them the perfect gift.

  PART 2

  Then Comes Marriage

  CHAPTER 6

  Decadent Duck

  It finally happened. After months of trying to figure out where I should steer my career or at least how to get out of that toxic job, I landed at another ad agency.

  Not only was I relieved to be rid of Dennis’s craziness and away from the cool kids’ critical eyes, but I was actually excited about this new gig. The agency was new to town, an offshoot of a British firm and, as such, fresh with possibility. The growing staff hailed from all different countries and backgrounds—from France to Australia, editorial to entertainment, from just out of college to well into their fifties—making it an eclectic mix of personalities and talent. The work was challenging but familiar, and I was back in my element, slowly shedding those feelings of insecurity that had burrowed under my skin at the last job. It was good to feel connected and optimistic. It was good to be happy at work again.

  I was equally as busy as I was happy, for Andrew and I had also—drumroll, please!—finally scored an apartment. Just before the market had slowed down for the summer, we had won a bidding war for a two bedroom with “great bones,” to use some of the real estate lingo we picked up on the hunt. It had a good layout, good light, good closet space, and, the coup de grâce, its very own washer and dryer. As far as we were concerned, we would be living in the lap of urban luxury. The second bedroom was spacious, giving us room to breathe once we lived together—and to grow, if all went according to plan.

  But for all that our new apartment did have, it did not have a modern kitchen and bathroom. Once we closed, we got the co-op board’s approval to undertake renovations. In addition to gutting the kitchen and bathroom, we decided to take my interior decorator father’s advice and tear down a wall between the living room and dining room to create one giant common room, giving it a more modern feel. We were also installing built-in bookshelves, stripping, sanding, and staining the floors, and painting all the walls and ceilings. It had been eight marathon months from our first open house to now, and we were finally nearing the end of our real estate journey.

  The renovations were introducing me to whole new side of Andrew. While I had forever bemoaned how laid-back he is, how all the date planning, communication instigating, and essential relationship bits fell to me, Andrew was all over these renovations. He was proudly donning a take-charge attitude, working with the contractors to get shit done. He’d often stop by our new apartment on his way to work to check on progress, directing the contractors on paint colors, shelf dimensions, appliance selection, and all the other details we were going to live with in our new home on a daily basis. He kept me updated, filling me in on what our tasks were for the weekend, where our budget stood, and what decisions still needed to be made. If I had ever thought he’d never initiate or be the proactive one in our partnership, I could now see I had been wrong. Apparently there had been a macho man hiding inside Andrew all this time, willing and able to take the lead, and I have to say, it was hot.

  • • •

  One morning as I was rushing down my East Village apartment building’s seven flights of stairs to get to work, I noticed I could feel my boobs bouncing—a rare to virtually impossible sensation given my A cups. Not only did I realize they were bouncing, and therefore must have grown overnight, but they were sore. I stopped between floors three and four and felt myself up. Could it be? Was I pregnant?

  A few weeks earlier, I had tried one of those ovulation kits the fertility specialist had recommended. At that point, I had been off the pill for six months and figured my system should have been free and clear to conceive if ever it would be. Once I saw the little smiley face signaling a surge in luteinizing hormone (LH), which indicated that I was ovulating, I called Andrew and told him to get to my place immediately. But could getting pregnant be as easy as a few days of overly enthusiastic sex?

  I popped into the Duane Reade on my corner after work to get a pregnancy test, feeling totally conspicuous, as it was the first time I’d bought one since I was a teenager. I kept my eyes down as I paid, for some reason feeling as embarrassed as if I actually were a teen again. But any notion of being discreet was thrown out the window when the cashier gave me a big shout-out with my receipt: “Good luck!” he said with a toothy grin.

  Back at my apartment, I closed the door to the bathroom even though Milo was the only one who might see me peeing on the test stick. I rested the stick flat on the counter per the instructions and went back out to the kitchen to pour myself some water. I rifled through the mail, and I checked my phone for messages. I changed into sweats and gazed out my bedroom window overlooking Third Avenue. It was clogged as always with taxis, buses, cyclists, and pedestrians. I had been perched in this spot in the East Village for nearly ten years, watching the neighborhood transform from modest walk-ups and grungy punks to glitzy condos and fancy college kids. Despite the dubious new reality, I was going to miss it when I was gone.

  Long beyond the three minutes it took for a test result to appear, I made my way back to the bathroom for my moment of reckoning. It was positive.

  I didn’t shriek or laugh or cry with hysteric joy like they do in the commercials. Truthfully, I felt numb to any emotion. Although Andrew and I had talked about it, although we were hoping and planning for it, even though I did that ovulation test and we had sex for the sole purpose of getting pregnant, now that I was, I didn’t know if I was ready for it. A new job, new apartment…new baby? What had I been thinking?

  • • •

  There are certain moments and scenes in those first couple of years with Andrew that still stick out in my mind. The next morning was one of them. We were meeting our contractor at the new apartment to check on how renovations were progressing. Inevitably, the estimated budget and time frame had been blown and every week we wondered anew: When would we finally get to move in? I hated not being able to control how long it was taking to complete everything. We had been living in limbo for months, waiting for so many things to come together and, with that little pregnancy test stick, there was now yet another factor to consider.

  I rounded the corner to our new street, bright September sunlight beaming down through the trees. It was so unlike the deluge of honking taxis, double-parked trucks, halal carts frying up chicken, and chanting panhandlers back in Manhattan. A giant glass Richard Meier apartment tower stood guard on the corner, a major outlier among the early twentieth-century buildings that dominated the block. There were stray pedestrians heading off to work, walking their dogs and pushing strollers, coffee and cell phones in hand. It was all so quaint and peaceful. I could see Andrew standing in front of our building awning, head piously bowed over his iPhone, the same way it was the very first time I saw him outside Park Bar.

  This is it, I thought. Everything changes as soon as I open my mouth.

  I quickened my pace to reach him and instead of saying anything, I handed him a plastic bag. Inside was the pregnancy stick, now
displaying not one, but two little lines. Two lines that meant something was growing inside of me. Two lines that would dictate every decision we made from now on.

  “Hi!” Andrew said with a smile, taking the bag I was holding out, a quizzical look on his face. “What’s this?”

  I said nothing and instead watched his brow change from furrowed confusion to wide-eyed disbelief as he made out what the bag contained.

  “Oh my God, really?”

  “Yup!”

  “Oh. My. God.” Andrew folded me into his arms.

  “Can you believe it?!” I asked, burying my nose into his neck, still incredulous myself.

  “No,” he responded, sounding genuinely surprised. Andrew doesn’t obsess about things the way I do. He had probably even forgotten about the ovulation test that sparked that particularly amorous three-day streak a while back. We pulled away and both laughed. Nervously, happily stunned. It didn’t seem real. Aside from my tender breasts, which I was now very much aware of, I didn’t feel what I had expected pregnancy would be like. No nausea or vertigo. No hormones making me eat copious amounts of pie and pickles or act loony and hyper-maternal. I had the same energy, was wearing the same clothes, and was going about my same business like any other Wednesday in September. Andrew and I stood indulging our how-in-the-world, oh-my-Lord, is-this-for-real stream-of-conscious thoughts before heading up to our apartment, which looked as though a bomb had gone off in it, sending us both to work with exploding thoughts and feelings.