ernesto is a jerk

It’s raining in New York. Hard. Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ernesto moved up the eastern shore late last night, and I feel sorry for all the real Ernesto’s in New York who are undoubtedly taking lots of shit as the storm with their shared name drenches the city. “Ernesto, you asshole, why are you ruining the holiday weekend?” I knew it was raining hard while sitting in that funky old-man bar down in Sunset Park, but when I stumbled out at 4am it was as if I was walking into a television commercial for the Weather Channel. The winds were gusting and the rain was coming down in sheets, and I recalled all the times my New York friends have asked me “how do you deal with the rain?” when discussing life in Portland. I looked over at my friend Marianna, who was battling the wind to get her umbrella up, and told her I didn’t think I could ever live in New York because it rains too much.

(window display in Brighton Beach)
Last night, before the storm really hit, before we found ourselves addicted to the perfect jukebox filled with Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra, and before Helki’s dance party where a seven year old neighbor kid walked in and challenged us all to a dance competition and then proceeded to shred us with his wicked dance moves, we found ourselves sitting in a ocean front Russian restaurant out in Brighton Beach. Brighton Beach is a wonderfully intact Russian/Eastern European neighborhood in the eastern reaches of Brooklyn that’s not too far from Coney Island. Marianna said she had been out there a few times as a kid, but hadn’t been for several years, so we hoped on the subway and went out in search of the perfect Russian dinning experience. We walked around for at least 30 minutes, considering several restaurants and eventually settling for one that impressed us with their particularly bright, neon yellow and green napkins. Looking at the menu, I remembered that I am not a big fan of Russian food, but that didn’t stop me from ordering a stroganoff and enjoying the view of the ocean as the hurricane slowly inched it’s way towards us.
The restaurant, whose name I can’t pronounce or type because my keyboard doesn’t speak Russian, was also a nightclub and banquet hall. We were obviously there in the in-between time, as the dinner rush had probably just ended but the big party hadn’t yet started, and I am quite sure that there have been some amazing wedding receptions there. The place sported an incredible 80s style that only seems to exist in cheap import furniture stores, with lot’s of tinted mirrors, faux leather couches, and tables with shinny dark surfaces and gold trim. But they made it look good, real good, and it reminded me that you don’t have to have money to be elegant, you just need to try hard and be proud of what you’ve got.

New York has changed a lot in the past few years, but in far-out neighborhoods like Brighton Beach you remember all the romantic and mysterious elements that make this city unique. A stroll along Brighton Avenue feels like walking down the main street in a mid-sized European town, with markets full of mysterious foods and exotically packaged candy, restaurants with aggressively charming door men, and local teenagers cruising to the sound of American Hip-Hop. The roar of the passing subway on the elevated tracks overhead is the only indication that the town doesn’t end after a couple miles of suburbs, and reminders that you are a tourist persist around every corner, in signs and menus that you can’t read, in passing conversations you can’t understand, and the scoured look in the faces of the old people who you know have seen so much more in their lives than you could ever imagine.