Going back to Brooklyn, for me, represents so many things. Brooklyn, the city I landed in as a teenager during the Saturday Night Fever era when it was everyone's goal to "get the hell out of Brooklyn!" is not just any city. It is Israel, Chinatown, Little Odessa, Saudi Arabia, Punjab and Ethiopia, depending on what block you happen to be visiting.
It's a place where "Hey!" is the greeting of choice and nobody bothers with niceties - people simply cut to the chase. It's the land of filthy streets and pigeons circling buildings - and every kind of ethnic delicacy imaginable for sale at reasonable prices. The pizza crust is crispy, the shwarma is authentic, the restaurants include the gratuity on the bill so their waiters don't get stiffed, and there is no item that you can't find for sale within a 10-block radius. It is a crowded, huddled mass of people bursting with bargains galore, cement playgrounds and lots and lots of noise.
And for this Michiginar, Brooklyn was the perfect holiday getaway.
I visited a local supermarket to run some errands - and was shocked back into the thrill of the kill in the parking lot when I scored a good space by racing someone who saw the spot at the same time as I. As I pulled into the spot, I resisted the instinct to gloat, remembering that most Brooklyn people use "The Club" in their vehicle. The Club is a heavy theft deterrant metal bar - that locks the steering wheel, but could just as easily be used as a device to bludgeon people who grab a coveted parking spot and gloat about it.
Inside the store were more surprises. Unlike Michigan, where the supermarkets take up lots of space with wide aisles and a select number of products on the shelves, this ShopRite store crammed merchandise into its aisles. The shelves seemed endless and stocked to the rafters. And hordes of people poured in and out of the store grabbing the bargains advertised in the ShopRite circular.
There were about 16 checkout lines open. None of the cashiers were chatting--or sharing pie recipes as they do in Michigan. They were busy scanning and getting their lines of customers out the door as efficiently as possible.
As I approached the checkout line, I decided to do a Michigan experiment. A big young man with a "Brooklyn" tattoo on his forearm was scanning items in a mechanical haze. I put on my very best Michigan cheerleader peppy smile.
"Hi," I chirped. "How's your day going?"
His brow puckered as he looked up from his scanner. I kept the smile pasted on my face even though he was looking at me like he was ready to call the cops on this crazy woman.
"Is it going good?" I persisted.
"No," he grunted, turning his attention back to the items.
"Awww," I clucked sympathetically. "So, what's wrong?"
The poor dude didn't know what to make of this customer who was playing cashier's therapist in his busy store.
"I got two more hours of this," he muttered.
"I'll bet it's tough at this time of the year."
He just shook his head, grunted and completed the sale and went on break.
And I went home singing the "I love New York" theme song.