Brooklyn Travels Pt. 2

As previously mentioned, Mike is on the PUP list. His walking is limited to to the kitchen, bathroom, urban garden, and the occasional appointment. This morning, however, he did have the occasional appointment. He went to the glorified back-popper (Chiropractor).

Fortunately for me that meant a given walk with my handsome fiancé. Unfortunately for me that meant that I would have to go to Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens...again. In case you were unaware, that is work territory. That land mass is all too familiar for me. I know every crack, rat carcass, and stroller store in the area. But hey, a walk is a walk. Just like 'it is what it is'. Just like 'a fork is a fork'. And so on....

While Mike was getting his back popped, I dodged pigeons, small children, women with armpit hair, and the occasional v-word cleaner at the park on Carroll street. This park is nice on a weekday afternoon. Typically it only contains nannies and a few children. On a Saturday - forget about it. You would find more relaxation at the bottom of a blender (turned on). So I called dad and learned about Chrysler and their factories and how hot car parts get when forced to bend. Truly fascinating, really. I did intend on reading a Mark Twain novel - but the aforementioned park ruiners trampled pitifully on that plan. Fail.

Once Mike finished we went home. The back popper ordered him to sit on the sofa for the rest of the day so my dream of an extended walk with the dude was out of the question. So we watched 'Wilfrid' instead. Side note: I am an odd duck. I get it. But this show is almost a smidge too outside of the box for me. Almost. We watched on. After about five episodes I got the itch to return to the sunshine and crowded streets of Brooklyn.

Pt. 2

Obviously my second walk was solo. It was me, my iPhone, the Velvet Underground, and the Specials.   The most impressionable perk of listening to music while walking Brooklyn is the simple fact that I can completely ignore or tune out my environment. I can actually choose to drown out a ridiculous conversation held by the token people with the pungent voices. The thought of the social drowning excites me. And excited I was as I walked into..... drum roll.....

Fort Greene!

I made it! I actually froggered across Flatbush and into the unknown! Oddly enough - the dude and I live obnoxiously close to this undiscovered territory of awesomeness. Yet - we have only ventured over there once. And that was nearly two years ago. This expedition made me feel like that flying pioneer of a woman - Amelia Earhart. I was hovering over new land and taking it all in with a form of spectacle on my face (she had goggles and I had shades). But then I realized I didn't know where the hell I was going. And I did not want to turn into Amelia Earhart and disappear - so I decided to turn around and walk into hell (the Atlantic Terminal). The trip to Fort Greene was short. But it was interesting. I mentally noted a few restaurants and shops.

Background on the Atlantic Terminal: Lots of public transportation funnels into this one area. It is sort of like Brooklyn's version of Penn Station. On top of that, there is a Target, DSW, McDonalds, and random assortment of other outlets for shopping addicts and loiterers. The terminal attracts lots of people and too much hustle and bustle for my threshold of social interaction. It is like swimming in a sea of shit. Oh, to make matters worse - the Barclay's Stadium (Brooklyn Nets) will be across the street soon. So seriously - it will be Brooklyn's version of Penn Station. Busy. Awful. Annoying. And another basketful of dreadful and unflattering adjectives.

So Anyway - I went into the terminal to brave Target. I really wanted a picture album. As I mentioned in yesterday's travels - this is big on my to-do list. It ranks right up there with bathing and eating. Very important. So I swam through excrement and snatched up two photo albums. Bam. Mission accomplished, motherCENSOR.

I am not going to downplay this expedition, I barely survived. But I did and my pulse is still relatively steady. After all of the terminal nonsense, I trotted toward the humble home. And now I sit at home on a seat that contains my butt print. As it turns out, Mike is watching some shouldn't have been made sequel of the Fast and the Furious. I have a suspicious feeling that I may be able to guilt Mike into a French movie after being forced to listen to car accidents and abhorrent acting.