Rockaway Roundup

Rockaway Beach, Queens—the little piece of land just beyond Jamacia Bay—has gotten so much new attention in the past few years. On Saturday, we collectively held our breath as hurricane Irene approached this fragile place. I’ve heard stories of past Rockaway hurricanes, and how the ocean would greet the bay with disregard for the unsuspecting sandy-land between.

I am acutely aware of the ways that people view and interact with this city beach because my parents met at Rockaway Beach. For them, summer was synonymous with this place. For me, I just have a peculiar case of nostalgia for a place I never even knew. Rockaway has changed since my parents were out there, but what’s interesting is, it’s changing again. I like to think of it as a re-birth of cool.

Here is a roundup of some links to Rockaway’s past and present:

My Rockaway

Hurricane Donna Hits the Rockaways, 1960

Rockaway Tenacity

Hurricane Irene’s Aftermath

Rockaway Taco

Catch the A train ~~~~ and ~a~~wave~~~

Inside a Reimagined Beach Bungalow

Rockaway in the NY Times Fashion & Style Section

Rockaway Photo Booth from The New Yorker

Late Summer Rockaway Guide from Time Out NY

and of course, The Ramones, 1977

Dear Apartment 4B

I started to write a blog post a few days ago. It began:

Dear Apartment 4B,

It breaks my heart a little to admit this, but I am just going to come out and say it: It’s over. Its been a terrific 7 years. But its time for us to move. I will miss your brick face, your pre-war charm...

but then I couldn’t finish writing, because it made me unbearably sad. We have been talking a lot lately about moving. There are many logistic elements to consider: location, price, space, commute, community, restaurants nearby, access to cultural establishments, parks, food-sellers etc.

But there is something else that I have to consider. My heart absolutely aches when I think about leaving this place. We have a veritable encyclopedia of wonderful memories here: parties, Thanksgivings, Dominican roasted chickens, building things, painting that, hanging Christmas lights, drinking wine in the evening and coffee in the morning, and mostly, relaxing together in our little railroaded place of peace in the wild city. Joe has built almost every piece of furniture that we own. Each drawer, countertop, bookshelf and cabinet fit perfectly in these imperfect swervy old walls. This is where we grew together, our lives intertwining more and more as we sat at the kitchen table looking out at the most beautiful Manhattan Mini-Storage sign we had ever laid eyes on.

I know so many amazing people who love to travel. Philosophically, I love to travel too. But in actuality, I don’t. I truly believe that wanderlust versus home-loving is partly biologically based. So, even though I think daily of faraway lands, physically, I don’t desire them. This makes me terribly unworldly, I know. I believe that it is this same tendency that makes it hard for me to move to another home.

If you have ever been at our apartment during the day time, you may have noticed the light. The light that comes into our windows looks like atmospheric poetry pouring onto every surface it glimmers onto. It’s an old apartment building, it’s pre-pre war, it was probably built in the late 1800’s or so. There are memories of memories here. The idea that generations of lives have lived here makes the space all the more deep and complex and alluring.

People my age hardly ever stay in a New York apartment as long as I have. They skip from crappy place to slightly less-crappy place, year after every few years. But I have stayed here, made roots, decorated with every sentimental nick-nack from our lives and created a rich and layered story of us that is tremendously dear to me.

My identity is so twirled up into this apartment and in Manhattan...but really I can probably be me, anywhere. Lately, I have been looking through craigslist and imagining the possibilites. When I do this, I feel powerful and spontaneous and normal. But deep down, I just want to wake up to Saint John the Divine out our bedroom window and the uncharacteristically magnificent urban sunrise and I don’t want to go, anywhere.