I rent a studio on North 3rd Street in Williamsburg. For 2, 700 per month I get a comparatively quiet place two blocks from yoga studios to designer denim to fancy pickles.
And also organic delis, pop-up restaurants, vegetable brunch eateries, vintage clothing closets and flea markets on every block. Williamsburg has sprung up from the abandoned factories and shipyards to become the hottest spot in Brooklyn.
I know, I kind of fantasize about me and some breath-taking looking guy I call my boyfriend attending those infamous “classes for dudes” at the Kula Yoga Studio twice a week, in the evening preferably, and after that, on his way back home, dropping by the Royal Canteen and gets me octopus tostada with tamarind drunken sauce.
I’m pathetic, but only in 40 percent. The other 60 is pure awesomeness. I left the sullen Copenhagen and I am moderately happy.
And yes, as a matter of fact, I do see myself flourishing in here. I mean, there is this amazing street art culture – it provides a flamboyant backdrop for an area that has become a hub for creative types. And the girls look like Kirsten Dunst, in slim slacks and Wayfarer Ray-Bans, the guys like 1930’s hipsters, bearded or mustachioed and tattoos galore.
I hired this studio in the northern part, which has grown almost touristy for residents and they don’t feel that happy about that, but I like the southern part better – it has more original spirit, with elaborate Old New Orleans establishments.
On weekends, I go shopping for custom-tailored jackets with vintage fabrics at Ferries (bellissimi!!!) and Bowler shoes at Rickard Guy. Or buy jam (I learnt to bake waffles! And waffles go best with home-made jam.) And the Brewery Brooklyn beer – come on! I am able to never put a drop of water in my mouth till the rest of my life since I’ve discovered that beer.
I went a couple of times to take pictures at the spot where the new Wythe Hotel’s being built. There’s something about this place and about this building, a block of bricks and glass, which drags me towards itself. It’s inexplicable.
It’s still cold, but my other favorite pastime is taking walks down the Coney Island Boardwalk. Not many people there, especially on week days when it’s raining or snowing, but especially on those days I feel like in a Technicolor movie and my thoughts hark back to Weegee’s classic photos of summer crowds in 1940.
And in the nights I go to sleep with Red Hook in mind. With its deserted portside warehouses and school bus and taxi depots. Fairway Market that’s been destroyed by Hurricane Sandy is about to be reopened soon. A few waterfront studio-galleries survived the storm. Last Saturday, when I went there by the Ikea bus from Manhattan, I bought two crabs the size of saucepans.
I know, this means I’m healing.
Damn, I’ve turned into a fucking Eat, Pray, Love cliché!
