On Starting a Good Day - a Review

There are three things you have to know about me before I tell this story. 1. I’m willing to walk a mile for good coffee, 2. I have a weakness for Asian street food, and 3. I live in Ridgewood, NY.

Ridgewood is where the grid system of Brooklyn bleeds into Queens. The borough’s infrastructure feels like an echo of the curvatures of the Long Island Expressway. The way I feel about the streets in Queens, is the way a memory foam mattress feels about the weight and curves in your body, which is generally that I understand the form, but wildly assume the function.

Let me explain. I have come to memorize my neighborhood’s streets by complete and total accident. Ridgewood itself borders Bushwick, a burgeoning center for hipsters. But Ridgewood itself is resistant to the same gentrification. There is, of course, exception. Among the wood panel buildings, there are some modern buildings that are made to look like they are carved from black marble or slate, but these oddities are rare, and often abandoned. Large glass storefronts that look brand new are empty, but dusty and disgusting bargain bin stores seem to be thriving.

Most of the people here are Eastern European or Hispanic. There is a small Swedish enclave to the north west, but you’re more likely to hear Polish or Albanian on the streets than English. Hearing another language on the streets outside your home is weird, but in a gratifying way. I'm more comfortable hearing Slavic obscenities than American ones I guess.

Cursing aside, there is a strong sense of community in the neighborhood. I walk to the train station with the same four people every morning and even though none of us have said a word to each other, we all nod curtly when we pass each other on the sidewalk.

I even saw one of my fellow commuters tying up my loose cardboard that I left for garbage collection so I wouldn’t get fined.

This kind of neighborly compassion is what I thought I’d lose when coming to the other side of the country. I mean, we all know the New Yorker stereotype. But rather than the gruff hurried lifestyle that was advertised and repeated to me by the media, I was met with the opposite.

Things seem slower here, but at the same time there is a consistent rhythm to everything. Feeling that rhythm constantly might be why so many consider city-living fast paced, but to me, the beat is calming.

That’s why I took a walk to Myrtle Avenue this morning. Myrtle is basically one giant strip mall. It’s a massive road that leads from Downtown Brooklyn to central Queens.

But whenever you go there, you risk wasting your entire day. No matter how many times you’ve been to Myrtle, something that you’ve never seen before catches your eye and you get sucked in.

Today, that was a coffee joint that sat just on the edge of Ridgewood’s borders. AMA Coffee. I went in with nothing in mind to order, which is commonplace for me. Whenever I go to a new coffee shop, I like to ask what the barista’s favorite drink is.

Today, he recommended the dirty chai. A drink I only recently tried for the first time. I enjoyed it. But what was more important was the Banh Mi.

See. Out of all the garbage food I crave, Banh Mi is my biggest weakness. Like most food, I love it half for it's flavors and half for the memories associated with it.

Getting a milk tea and a Banh Mi is a way to easily short circuit my brain into having a great day. Is it bad to have a day decided by the food and drink I get?

I mean. It makes me happy. So why would I care?

Anyway. So. One chai latte and a damn good sandwich later and I'm goofy smiling. On my twenty minute walk home I'm enjoying myself, genuinely minding my own business when a person with two kids walks past me and mutters under his breath “an excuse me would be nice.”

Now, I'm generally affable and mindful on the sidewalk. I made sure to give the whole family a wide berth as I walked past, I even stepped into a planter.

So, I turned and faced this dude. He had turned around and was fully facing me. Just staring, shaking his head. He didn't have a discernible accent, but he had a lean to him that told me he thought he owned the place.

Still smiling, I turned around and kept walking.

I made it home in record time. Checked the distance, 1.2 miles to AMA coffee, I'll be going back next week.

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this anticlimactic jaunt into my Saturday. Have a good week.