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Ironically, the thought occurred to me while sitting in a Barnes & Noble.

I ducked in to kill an hour and survey the many tables full of NYC-focused books. This time I settled on Suburbanization of New York, a collection of essays by New Yorkers on the subject. I had spent the earlier part of my day in Midtown with some old friends – Macy’s, Express, Victoria’s Secret. I went there because I figured I’d feel safe and calm among the familiar standbys. So it was fitting that I ended my day reading about the very mall in which I’d just wandered.

A few of the authors lamented the loss of the gritty, more polarized aspects of the city (a lament I don’t currently share, considering I value feeling safe where I live). But the underlying theme that really hit home with me was that this entire place is so consumer-driven. Duh, it’s the financial/commercial center of the universe. But isn’t it also the cultural epicenter?

Apparently during a big push by contemporary NYC mayors – Giuliani included – to clean up the city, a lot of the esoteric, eccentric features of the city were washed over and homogenized to draw in the yuppies and make them feel safe. Enter Curtis and Lydia.

Park Slope was recommended to me – and I chose it – because it is safe, clean and comfortable. But there I was, sitting in a Barnes & Noble (probably located on the very spot where a cute indie bookstore was once family-run for generations), reading about the expulsion of culture and diversity in a city that prides itself on cultivating those ideals. Did we come to NYC expecting a hardcore metropolitan lifestyle (I don’t mean bullets whizzing past our heads) and end up in the suburbs?

(Leviticus 19:18)

I apologize for quoting from the King James Bible, rumor has it Shakespeare may have helped translate that version. Plus ‘thy’ sounds way cooler than ‘your.’

I was hesitant to go to the sports bar alone tonight (where else to watch Selection Sunday?). I wasn’t sure if it would look like I was a drunk, a loser, or there to pick up guys. Dudes can pull off drinking alone at a bar, but I didn’t think I could. But I went anyway, and I sat next to some friendly looking people, hoping they wouldn’t give me any trouble.

I asked the bartender for ‘something local on tap,’ a la Curtis. He suggested a Brooklyn lager, which I know Curtis would disapprove of, and just as I was about to ask ‘what else?,’ the lady next to me said ‘give her the Chelsea.’

Before the mug even hit the bar, I had been introduced to the helpful patron, Julie, and her two friends, Mel and Mark. The bartender was Jason, whom Mark described as ‘the kind of guy who’d bail you out of jail.’ They were a lively bunch and made me feel very welcome.

I endured some shame as a Pac-10 alum among Big East and Big Ten fans, but felt vindicated when the Pac-10 got six tourney berths. Not important. Anyway…

It wasn’t long before I met the weekend manager of the bar, Lewis. When I told him I was from California, most recently Los Angeles, he asked if my parents were porn stars. That’s a new one. I expected ‘surfers’ or ‘movie producers,’ but not that. Caught me off-guard but was quite hilarious. He then proceeded to tell us about the time he hit his head on a pole on the subway and walked to the hospital holding his bloody face. Bizarre encounter, yes, but I swear this was the friendliest group of people I’ve ever met. I lived in California for 24 years and never had an experience that has made me so grateful for the kindness of strangers.

They encouraged me to come back and hang out soon, and are all very excited to meet Curtis. Can’t wait to take him there. I’ll certainly be back.

On our way into Manhattan from JFK last week, the cabbie told mom and I that Prospect Park was the ‘masterpiece’ of Central Park‘s designers. After spending an hour in Central Park last month and an hour in Prospect Park this morning, I’ll have to agree. Central Park’s vast expanse is certainly impressive, but Prospect seems to foster more of a community feel. This may be a result of it merely being in a more community-oriented area, or the fact that it’s 258 acres smaller. Either way, it was glorious.

There were dads playing softball with big groups of kids, guys playing rugby, young moms pushing strollers, dogs jogging with their owners, couples meandering hand in hand. I was never out of eyesight of another person.

I made it across the park, over icy streams and through muddy paths crosscutting groves of trees, to the Botanic (sans ‘al‘) Garden. The open parts of the garden were sparsely green and nothing was in bloom, but the greenhouses were full of humid wonder. It was like being at the butterfly exhibit at Marine World circa 1995, but bigger and in the middle of a city – and without butterflies. OK that comparison sucks. I found it odd that of all the exhibits, the desert greenhouse was the least hot inside. I guess that’s what they mean when they say ‘it’s a dry heat.’

I followed the garden to the north side of Prospect Park, where I was let out onto the front steps of the Brooklyn Museum. I was glad to find it had classical architecture – big white columns – and the names of Roman icons inscribed around the top. Those kinds of buildings always look grand and charming.

I walked next door to the Brooklyn Public Library a bit too early to go inside and check it out, but it was big and inviting.

I re-entered Prospect Park at the northernmost tip and zigzagged my way back down to my street. Lakes and trees dotted the sprawling lawns, and there were people everywhere. I may even go jogging, and jogging so ain’t my thing. It was indeed a welcome respite from the busy hubbub of the Brooklyn streets that flank it on all sides. If you walk far enough, the sounds of children playing and quiet conversation overtake the dull hum of rushing cars.