Late summer + Late afternoon = Winter?
Perhaps that equation makes sense if you are the sort of person who grows sadder as the summer draws to a close. In normal times (whatever that means anymore), the days grow shorter and cooler at this time of year. So, if winter isn't incipient, fall is certainly on its way--with the barren season not far behind.
Although the air was warm when I mounted my bike, I felt as if I'd taken a ride in the middle of January or February, after the bright lights of Christmas and New Years' festivals are switched off. Coney Island, like other seaside destinations, seems to retreat into hibernation from that time of year until Easter or Passover. During those spring holidays, people congregate on the boardwalk, and sometimes even venture on the beach, even if the roller coasters and Ferris wheels and other attractions have not yet opened.
But such gatherings were absent yesterday. Granted, it was a Thursday afternoon, but in normal (there's that word again!) times, I would have to weave around groups of strollers on any summer afternoon that didn't include a raging thunderstorm.
Most people would say that Coney Island is "dead," or at least closed, when the Cyclone--one of the most iconic amusement park rides in the world--and Wonder Wheel are still, their entry gates locked tight. But, for me, what really shows that a stake has been driven into Coney Island's heart is this block:
I remember riding the "bumper cars" with my grandfather as a child, and trying to win prizes at the shooting range. Tourists usually come to "the Island" for the "big" attractions, like the Cyclone and Luna Park. But, for me, the real spirit of the place--in all of its grit and garishness, in the hustle of its carnival barkers and the pulsing of its shopowners' hunger alongside the expanse of ocean--is in places like the shooting gallery, the sideshows and the old man--actually, he turned out to be exactly my age, save for a few days!--who sat in front of one of the padlocked doors.
He saw me riding and taking photos. We talked. He told me a bit about his life and how he ended up there, like a piece of driftwood on a more remote beach. I assured him that what happened to him could happen to any one of us, myself included. "I don't want to keep you," he said.
He wasn't keeping me. I still have choices: I would ride back to my neighborhood, where some would complain about restaurants and bars that aren't allowed to serve patrons indoors. He would look for the bits of work--sweeping sidewalks, unloading trucks--the few still-open hot dog stands (Nathan's, and others) and other shops could offer him, and pay him a few dollars for.
I rode to winter. He was living in it. I rode home.
Perhaps that equation makes sense if you are the sort of person who grows sadder as the summer draws to a close. In normal times (whatever that means anymore), the days grow shorter and cooler at this time of year. So, if winter isn't incipient, fall is certainly on its way--with the barren season not far behind.
Although the air was warm when I mounted my bike, I felt as if I'd taken a ride in the middle of January or February, after the bright lights of Christmas and New Years' festivals are switched off. Coney Island, like other seaside destinations, seems to retreat into hibernation from that time of year until Easter or Passover. During those spring holidays, people congregate on the boardwalk, and sometimes even venture on the beach, even if the roller coasters and Ferris wheels and other attractions have not yet opened.
But such gatherings were absent yesterday. Granted, it was a Thursday afternoon, but in normal (there's that word again!) times, I would have to weave around groups of strollers on any summer afternoon that didn't include a raging thunderstorm.
Most people would say that Coney Island is "dead," or at least closed, when the Cyclone--one of the most iconic amusement park rides in the world--and Wonder Wheel are still, their entry gates locked tight. But, for me, what really shows that a stake has been driven into Coney Island's heart is this block:
I remember riding the "bumper cars" with my grandfather as a child, and trying to win prizes at the shooting range. Tourists usually come to "the Island" for the "big" attractions, like the Cyclone and Luna Park. But, for me, the real spirit of the place--in all of its grit and garishness, in the hustle of its carnival barkers and the pulsing of its shopowners' hunger alongside the expanse of ocean--is in places like the shooting gallery, the sideshows and the old man--actually, he turned out to be exactly my age, save for a few days!--who sat in front of one of the padlocked doors.
He saw me riding and taking photos. We talked. He told me a bit about his life and how he ended up there, like a piece of driftwood on a more remote beach. I assured him that what happened to him could happen to any one of us, myself included. "I don't want to keep you," he said.
He wasn't keeping me. I still have choices: I would ride back to my neighborhood, where some would complain about restaurants and bars that aren't allowed to serve patrons indoors. He would look for the bits of work--sweeping sidewalks, unloading trucks--the few still-open hot dog stands (Nathan's, and others) and other shops could offer him, and pay him a few dollars for.
I rode to winter. He was living in it. I rode home.
