9/5
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| Tacos and borscht |
At last. The beach. I haven’t seen the ocean since March in Florida. The boys and I in Brighton, all the signs in Cyrillic. New York City’s home for exiles from former Soviet Socialist Republics. (My barber says to me, yeah Brighton Beach. The Russians are moving out. Uzbeks moving in. They look at us like Puerto Ricans.) Cafe Max.
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| Cafe Max |
Tacos and borscht. A ceviche bar. We have khachapuri, Georgian flatbread. And kebabs. Pork, lamb, beef. And mojitos. The Brighton Beach is chill. Mainly locals. No tourists. (Anywhere.) Very calm and quiet. Good sun and warm water. Down the beach, the Coney Island Paracute Drop beckons like a beacon.
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| the Parachute Drop |
At the end of the day,, we follow it’s call down the boardwalk to Coney. Outdoor cafes filled with people.
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| in Brighton Beach |
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| quiet Coney |
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| still grinning |
It’s startling. Unsettling. Labor Day weekend and Coney Island looks like a post-apocalyptic ghost town. Luna Park, the Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, shuttered, fenced in, silent. The always slightly disturbing grinning Coney icon looming over the empty amusement park. We wind up, as must be, at Nathan’s famous. The sign for the annual 4th of July Hot Dog eating contest looming over the patio. This year held with no audience and social distance. Something odd about competitive eating (over 70 hot dogs!) and social distance. Very other table covers with orange netting. Dogs and beer. Perfect end to the day. This strangest of summers almost over.
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| memorial |
Long subway ride back home. On Malcom X, still glowing candles mark yet one more memorial.
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