MotherSister Brooklyn

Tuned-in readers may know that one of my wickets is travel writing and editing. Whenever I take a trip, I’m in the habit — whether I’m on assignment or not — of taking along several guidebooks, to compare and critique the writers’ perspectives and the quirks of the brand/series. On one of my trips to Paris in 2004, my parcel included a guidebook by Haas Mroue, a writer I’d worked with previously. Typically, after my trip is done and if I’ve worked with the writer in the past and plan to again, I send a note full of constructive criticism and updates — nothing gnarly, hopefully helpful. For Haas, however, I had only two words: Thank you.

Y’see, Haas’s guide to Paris was what you always hope a guide will be but so rarely is: reflective of a shared sensibility, one that nudges you gently towards fresh discoveries (even in a place that would seem to have few left, like Paris), and appreciative of the traveler’s experience. I found myself relying on Haas’s guide in ways that I hadn’t relied on a guide before, to help me find the cafe to suit my mood, the store to satisfy a desire, the experience to ground myself in a dislocated moment. Thanks to Haas, I found at least two places that make me feel at total ease in Paris, one of which I’ve mentioned before, the other I won’t reveal, and every time I go to both or lead other people there, I think of Haas fondly and say a silent “thank you” again.

There will be no new recommendations from Haas; I just got the news that he suddenly passed away last month in Lebanon at the age of 41, the same age his father was when he died three months before Haas’s birth. Do read the obituaries about him and his poetry. And if you ever run across any travel guides written by Haas Mroue, snatch ‘em up and use ‘em. You probably won’t find a more elegantly attuned traveling companion.

So I was reading this article about Martha Plimpton yesterday, and you know what stuck in my mind? Not her refreshingly old-school New York style, but the fact that she still lives in the rent-stabilized two-bedroom apartment she shared with her mom, who raised her on her own on the Upper West Side. “That’s what I gotta do!” I thought, my mind racing. “I’ve gotta secure a two-bedroom apartment now that The Scamp and I will never want to leave. Otherwise, our ship is sunk!”

Because I mean, really, tone-deaf articles like this one aside (married, high-earning white women buying real estate? oh, we’ve come a long way baby!), I don’t understand how any single woman with caregiving responsibilities — for a wee one, say, or an elderly parent — manages to find a decent place to live in this town anymore. (I’m emphasizing women here because it’s usually women who are paid lesser salaries, and it’s usually women who bear the caregiving load.) You usually legitimately need a 2-bedroom place, however small, but you don’t have another hard-chargin’, 60-hour-a-week warrior to split the rent with — so $2,000+ a month is astronomical, no matter how fancy the fixtures. Added to that are the time (spent not working) and expenses of child or elder care, and, well, you’re probably robbing Peter to pay Paul on a weekly basis. I also don’t understand volunteering (as people on the hunt essentially do when they advertise that they “can pay up to $2XXX…”) at least two large a month in rent, but I guess I’m showing my age on that point.

My cold sweat has been patted dry for the moment; I’m in the process of moving into a cozy 2-bedroom, by some miracle still here in Clinton Hill. But I doubt The Scamp will still have the keys to the place when he’s 37 years old like lucky Martha. Before my search was happily resolved, I was seriously considering Madame X’s tips to burst the NYC real estate bubble. Rather than waste time praying for a miracle, I’m just going to step up my hustle and scrimp and save every dime so I can seize the first good opportunity I find to join the owner class. Even if it doesn’t happen till I’m 62 and I only need a second bedroom for my walking stick collection.

I haven’t spent much time nursing my broken heart, but revisiting the neighborhood where I got married (Park Slope) in order to set the divorce process in motion today was a big vat of salt in a seeping open wound, so I need a soundtrack to help me along. The last time I ended a relationship, I remember listening to “Don’t Ask Me Why” by the Eurythmics on repeat at top volume for days, perhaps weeks. This time, nothing has hooked me so strongly — though now I have an impossibly deep understanding of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and Tusk (ehr, the Stevie songs, not the more vindictive Lindsey songs) — but I’m healing with lots of José González (listen to him even if your heart is intact) and Fink (his new one, Distance and Time, is particularly appropriate). Besides that, a modest playlist for the many moods of the moment:

1. Don’t Come Around Here No More, Tom Petty: Classic. And the Alice in Wonderland themed video is nearly as perfect.
2. Your Heart Is Gonna Pay, Alton Ellis: Mr. Ellis always makes you feel it in your bones, but the timing of the tangled knot of broken-heartedness and righteousness in his tone as he chokes out “You’ll be so sorry” after the second chorus is like a punch in the face.
3. It’s Too Late, Carole King: Another classic from the generation that would know.
4. Let It Die, Feist: To wit, “The saddest part / of a broken heart / isn’t the ending / so much as the start.” Plus so much more.
5. Lost Cause, Beck: At least he’s honest.
6. Forget the Flowers, Wilco: Just send me the bill.
7. I Know It’s Over, Jeff Buckley: Another exquisite cover by the late Buckley, wedding that angelic voice to Morrissey’s typically world-weary yet emotionally naked lyrics.
8. I Never Will Marry, Linda Ronstadt with Dolly Parton: Good policy.
9. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right, Bob Dylan: The freewheelin’ Bob Dylan has written many, many excellent break-up songs (everyone knows to go straight to Blood on the Tracks by now), but the flippant gather-no-moss style of this one makes it my favorite.
10. You Never Miss Your Water, Lightnin’ Hopkins: No, you don’t, do you?
11. Another Lonely Day, Ben Harper: Wow. He really goes there.
12. I Will Survive, Cake: There’s a special twist in this cover — perhaps it’s the snarling of the line “I should’ve changed my f**king lock” — that makes it a revelation to listen to even if you’ve heard Gloria Gaynor’s version a zillion times.
13. One, U2: When you want to find the shared humanity even in the bitterness of a break-up.
14. Piece of My Heart, Janis Joplin: Strength in vulnerability.
15. Irreplaceable, Beyoncé: I used to hate this song. Oh, it’s catchy as hell, in that special way that Beyoncé songs usually are, but I thought the lyrics were incredibly cynical and hard-bitten. Well, guess what? Presently, I am cynical and hard-bitten, so now it hits the spot. Plus, the production is pretty sweet.

Breezing past a Buddhist monk on the street isn’t an everyday occurrence, which is why when I did so last spring on Clinton Avenue, I’m reasonably sure I threw an appreciative double-take in his direction. There was something immediately calming about the sight of his flowing red and yellow robe, and as I continued on my way, I put one (Buddhist monk) and one (postcards advertising local meditation classes) together and resolved to visit the Vajradhara Meditation Center.

Not that it was hard to find: Located in a brownstone at Adelphi Street and Greene Avenue, the 2-year-old center’s meditation shrine is visible from the street. I have a long-standing interest in Buddhism, but I hadn’t found a center nearby for regular meditation…until now, which is a particularly opportune moment to apply its teachings of compassion and patience to my life. Buddhist nun Kelsang Demo welcomed me in, and we spoke about Kadampa Buddhism, the local community’s support of the center, and how to make the time in a busy and tumultuous life for regular practice.

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It’s been a long time since I paid attention to rental prices in the neighborhood; I’d been too distracted by watching my dream of home ownership soar well out of my reach with the escalating prices of the past 7 years. But now that I’m on the lookout for a new apartment, I’m amazed by how! expensive! everything has become. Fort Greene is out of the question, and I’ll be lucky to hang on in Clinton Hill by a fingernail. And it’s not just this area; no longer can you say, “Oh, I guess I’ll look in Kensington,” or “Maybe I’ll check out Midwood.” Sunnyside? Nope. Inwood? Forget it. ‘Cos apparently Masters of the Universe, highly paid DINKs, and affluent students able to pay $1,000 a head for a share are ponying up deep into Brooklyn, Queens, and upper Manhattan, too. Freelance, single-income, or limited-income households don’t stand a chance. MotherSister Brooklyn might become MotherSister Albany, at this rate.

So it was with great interest that I read this week’s New York magazine article on the degentrification of Red Hook, if only because it’s a distracting intellectual exercise to consider what might make a supposedly “hot” neighborhood stall along the way to having its streets paved with Starbucks and Gaps. A sidebar in the article points to Philly, Buffalo, and Baltimore as up-and-comers, but it seems like that’s been the word for several years now. Besides, what do you do for a living when you move to one of those cities? Isn’t the point of being in New York to take advantage of opportunities — professional, social — that don’t exist elsewhere?

Besides her distinctive name, Tree Delfin also stands out for being one of those seemingly rare creatures in New York City these days: a young mom. Originally from North Carolina, Tree barely had her film degree in hand before marrying her freelance photographer husband Mike and having her first child, a beautiful 11-month-old named Ruby. The 24-year-old has also started her own business, inspired to create toys when she couldn’t find what she wanted for her daughter. “I decided that perhaps there is a need for more toy companies that make handmade toys in the U.S. with non-toxic materials!” said Tree. (With all the recent toy recalls, her timing couldn’t be better.) She has started with pacifier clips, and they’re selling well enough (including in far-flung places such as Australia) that she plans to expand to rattles, blocks, puzzles, and other infant toys and to eventually produce felt items as well. She’s lovely and talented and an ideal subject for a MotherSister Minute.

LIVING HERE SINCE: 3-1/2 years ago.

WHY FORT GREENE/CLINTON HILL: I came here to go to Pratt and never left.

FAVORITE PLACE IN THE AREA: Underwood Playground.

MIKE’S COFFEE SHOP OR PRATT COFFEE SHOP: Mike’s!

TIPS OR SUGGESTIONS ABOUT THE NEIGHBORHOOD: We are lucky enough to have BAM in our neighborhood, as well as the Mark Morris Dance Company….I love BAM Cinema and they even host Sundance screenings in the summer. Mark Morris offers all types of dance classes for kids and adults.

Sugarsnap Toys can be found at Corduroy Kid in Prospect Heights, Acorn in Boerum Hill, and Gumbo on Atlantic Avenue.

There’s something incredibly sweet about this storefront at 741 Fulton Street, which used to house the high-end children’s clothing shop Hot Toddie.

Perhaps it’s the dreamy blue exterior or the exposed brick wall inside, but I almost want to pull together a business plan and find the funding to open something myself here. Can’t you just imagine a yarn/fabric shop or a chocolate shop? Maybe even another kids’ shop, like Area or the Green Onion in Cobble Hill?

Another space that I hope is snapped up soon by a retailer in touch with the Fort Greene community’s needs and desires is the former (useless to most) Chase Home Loans center (at 57-59 Lafayette Avenue), which famously lacked an ATM, like the Washington Mutual further up Fulton Avenue in Clinton Hill:

This is a pretty big space apparently (3,800 square feet), and I’ve heard it’s dividable, but it’s a great opportunity for a business that needs a lot of room to set up shop in the heart of Fort Greene. Maybe a general-interest bookstore or a place like Grey Dog or Tea Lounge? Or something like Willy Bee’s (now no longer) — the neighborhood could use a truly child-friendly (and even child-oriented) cafe-ish space….

I’d forgotten about the New York City Marathon, so I was pleasantly surprised this morning when The Scamp and I headed out to run some errands and found ourselves at the Lafayette Avenue piece of the route. We happened upon the scene as some runners with disabilities were heading up the crest of the hill near Clermont Avenue; their faces were determined, exhausted, exhilarated. As The Scamp and I gave ‘em some applause, the air filled with the strains of a ragtag rendition of “New York, New York,” played by a band set up on the edge of the Bishop Loughlin High schoolyard. I stood at the corner, gripping The Scamp’s stroller and watching the racers power themselves up and on, and I thought about how to continue my own New York City marathon, which I’ve slowly realized isn’t necessarily the one I thought I was running. (That’s life for you.)

I remembered that my friend Rico ran the New York City Marathon several years back; we cheered him on and met him after he crossed the finish line in Central Park, having made it there in 5 hours or so. He had the ultimate runner’s high and the pride of his accomplishment. He had been inspired to do it by his parents, especially his mom (he was thrilled to see them along the route in Queens). I asked him what he was thinking while he was in the thick of the race. “This is so stupid. This will never work. I’ll probably vomit bile.” How, I wondered, do you put one foot in front of the other, keep going? “You just do. You keep going.” He said it helped to have the people of New York City cheering the runners on from the sidelines. “You’ve gotta put your name on your shirt, so they can shout your name. Although,” he laughed, “if I had to do it over again, I might’ve used a different name. Like ‘Magnum.’ So they could cheer, ‘Go Magnum!’”