The 1 train down to 42nd Street, then a Q down to Coney Island. About an hour and a half in total I think.
I tried to snap Manhattan Bridge from the train. A moderate level of success. Also, as you’re pulling into Coney Island you get a nice high view of the seafront.
Pretty much the first thing you see as you leave the station is a poster about bed bugs, so if you need something to set the scene then there you have have it. There’s always something slightly sad about a seafront’s theme parks out of season.
A walk along a pretty cold boardwalk (though I’m not sure we’ve ever been warm at Coney Island) and some coffee and eggs at Tom’s Restaurant (Est. 1936).
Scrambled Eggs, Sausages and the strange things they call hash browns (but really aren’t).
Coffee 7/10 (needed to be stronger) and fell at the first hurdle by coming with cartons of “half and half” which, as we know, are made of white paint and children’s tears.
A bearded guy called Patrick started chatting and said he was interviewed for a film about Hand ball (not a thing I’d heard of) and the film was good and had won lots of awards. Also, he was pleased that he’d figured out how the chest exercise that was poking out of his rucksack worked. (I looked the film up when I got back, and turns out it is a thing - though no obvious mention of a Patrick. Sorry, Patrick).
More walking. So much walking.
But then… more coffee. Hoorah. The Esse Cafe this time. 6/10. Tasted a little of chemicals to me.
Back on the train and up as far as Atlantic Avenue. Out into Brooklyn.
Popped into a thrift store and picked up a copy of David Foster Wallace’s “A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again” for a dollar. Possibly the best book title ever.
On top of a mailbox lay a German language edition of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. The front was inscribed with the name Sorena Sorenson. Used a bookmark was a handwritten poem by A.C.Lawson called “By dint of hammering” and on the reverse were some complex looking equations. I see that Sorena Sorenson works at the curator of geology at the Smithsonian, so since the only mention of the poem is in book called “Minnesota's Geology” by Richard W. Ojakangas that seems to make sense.
Went to an IHoP (International House of Pancakes). International, seemingly, as far as Mexico, France and Belgium. That seemed to be as International as they felt they could stretch pancakes. The coffee wasn’t good (3/10). Sorry if that came as a shock to anyone. I also had some onion rings which failed to reach the heady heights of the coffee, but if I will expect good onion rings from somewhere that predominately sells pancakes.
Heading back to the station I saw a what I presumed was a homeless guy with a fun gimmick. He held a Rubik’s Cube and his sign said “You shuffle.” I would have joined in, but he was busy shuffling for someone else.
