09 March 2008
a williamsburg debacle
An ad in AM New York (>>>I needed something to read on the train home) boasted the Beauty Bar's tempting martini with a manicure- for just ten bones. After the slight debacles of:
Waiting for the F train at 7th ave for over 30 minutes - all while a transient man covers Bob Dylan songs with a Toys R Us electric guitar (Yes, that guy), listening to MTA employee with a well defined speech impediment yell some incomprehensible information over a loud speaker, I called out: "Did anyone follow that?" A chorus of nos cajoled Vadim upstairs to find a translator. The NYPD officer shuffling his feet adjacent to the 24-Hr stand noted, "I have no idea. Clearly one the MTA's finest. Go to 4th Ave"
We bounced our way through the tunnels and upstairs, allowing the wind push us down a few avenues-
As we crossed Fifth Avenue towards Fourth, we overheard a man's whistle to a black town car, a Puerto Rican man took a brief moment from aggressively shoveling McDonalds into his mouth to correct the whistler, "That doesn't help, asshole!"
I negotiated pump donning feet down the steep steps of the train station and handed my block ticket to the MTA employee, who then offered me a hearty serving of sass as I pushed my way through the door to the M/R trains. A few moments later, an unexplained " F" labeled train charged through and picked us up. We bonded with a couple- deciding to race across the platform: transferring with gusto to the N train.
At Union street, we stepped back into the savage wind to investigate the martini/manicure potential of the beauty bar.
Beginning to lose my patience with the wind and shoddy public transportation- we ended up indulging in kamikaze shots at a rowdy Irish "tavern" - hectically buzzing with NYU students. We Located Elif across the street: bogarting Chinese, dropping her phone twice and spilling her diet coke. At which point we opted out of the Beauty Bar plan. Far too crowded, having watched the single manicurist repeatedly bumped into ...we flagged a cab to the Lower Eastside, wait no, Midtown- change of plans again, Captain Cabbie- Royal Oak calls. Who doesn't want to attempt to end the night (or rather commence) TO WILLIAMSBURG! in the spirit of partaking in hipsters, with the backdrop of a seemingly illusive venue.
Tumble weeds and hipsters, the Hasidic Jewish community having already tucked themselves into their homes- we found our way through the otherwise empty streets and into an overcrowded bar- with an ATM a step deep into the floor of a dark, tiny hole. The wall paper resembled the patterns of our sheets and curtains, the drink line was much beyond it's value of alcoholic refreshment. We snuck out the door, stopped a gaggle a hipsters to point us to another bar and ended up on a somewhat more active street. We huddled into the first tavern we visually located, finding ourselves knee deep in Polish immigrants. You get two choices in Williamsburg bars, Hipster or Polish. Well I suppose Polish Hipsters are a plausible combination and I really shouldn't rule out the Hasidic Jewish community. To clarify, in bars: you have these few options. We enjoyed a delicious import beer in lovely glasses, and decided to head back to the Slope. Another series of trains later, we succumbed to the push of the wind, teetering me in my four-inch pumps over and over the hill to home. An enthusiastic pug greeted us in, for red wine and a cheese plate.