Meeting the Locals

I’ve now lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn for more than two weeks. So, what is that like?

• Yes, there are a lot of parents

I knew before I moved here that Park Slope has a reputation for being stroller city. It certainly lives up to its reputation, but it hasn't bothered me much because it doesn't feel like the suburbs. You get the sense that a lot of these parents are defensive about their domestication, and are determined to prove that just because they appear to be part of a traditional mom, dad, and baby arrangement, they are anything but cookie cutter. This is the home of “cool” moms and “hip” dads, hoping to raise a generation of tolerant liberal children. That is all well and good, but it is also a little funny to watch. The other day at a restaurant I overheard a very serious conversation between a mother and her late-elementary age son. He was asking questions about a classmate who had two dads, and the mother was trying to explain that there are many different kinds of families. She actually referenced the book Heather has two Mommies, but when that didn’t ring a bell she conceded that she must have read it when he was too young to remember. This made me wonder, exactly how early in the child’s life had she decided to pull that book out? I mean, I’m sure it is great and all, but I can’t imagine the book as one that a kid would request and love. I sort of picture a toddler, whose favorite book is Fifteen Pages of Adorably Drawn Kittens being told by his parent, “No dear, tonight we are reading Heather has two Mommies.”

Later that week I saw a little boy wearing a Disney-style Snow White gown. Both he and his parents looked very pleased with themselves.

• People are very welcoming. Perhaps too welcoming.

Right after I moved in, I still hadn’t gone grocery shopping, and so was still dependent on restaurants for my daily meals. The first place I tried out in my new neighborhood was a small Sushi place that seemed to have an appealing and moderately inexpensive menu. The food was good and substantial, but the owner of the place kept coming over to talk to me. He repeatedly emphasized what a great, family owned business this was, and how I should feel free to bring people here. I couldn’t tell if his chief concern was increasing his business, or the fact that I was eating alone. It weirded me out a little, but I ended up coming back a week later. I saw no sign of the owner, so I thought maybe I could eat anonymously. Then the waitress came over and asked if I wanted “the usual” and recited exactly what I had ordered last time.

My other “too welcoming” experience was one I probably should have seen coming. Last weekend I decided to attend a local church. Having spent previous Sundays hoofing it from one apartment appointment to another, I was ready for a new routine. I enjoyed St. Mark’s in Seattle, so I thought I would try out the nearest Episcopalian church. When I showed up five minutes before the service was scheduled to start, my first thought was that I had gotten the time wrong. There were less than ten people scattered about a space that could probably fit a few hundred. By the time the service started, the total had probably swelled to 25. At first I tried to think, “this is charming. I’m sure it would be a great close-knit community to join.” But as things continued, I started to admit that it was kind of grim. The processional consisted of three people who, after reaching the front of the church, gave each other a few awkward “now what?” side-glances. When we sang hymns, there were a few designated women who sang into microphones--presumably to flesh out the anemic sound of the congregation. The priest had an accent--which was easy to understand when he spoke in a dull monotone, but near impossible to decipher when he became animated and wanted to make an important point. So I caught only the blander parts of an already cliché sermon. When I decided to refrain from communion, a woman took the opportunity to come over and have me fill out a visitor card. As she pressed it into my hand she said firmly “I will collect this from you after the service.” Equally frightened of both the woman and the prospect of forever being on a mailing list, I briefly considered making a run for it. But, I decided that there was no way I could do it inconspicuously. When we made it to announcements, a woman entirely unfamiliar with the concept of brevity was given a microphone. She cryptically alluded to “our troubles” and how she was sure that God would provide. About the time I realized that the service was going to creep over the two-hour mark, the woman asked if there were any visitors this week. Everyone turned around to look straight at me, and so I had no choice but to stand up and croak out my name. As two-dozen faces beamed at me, I suddenly had this feeling that—as it was clear that attendance was part of “our troubles”—I was perhaps being taking as a sign that things were on the upswing. When the service ended, I managed to sneak out without depositing my visitor card. I half expected someone to come running after me.

• Do Orthodox Jewish women work out? If so, what do they wear?

Yes. They wear running shoes, black leggings, a below-the-knee black skirt, a black ¾ length shirt, and a heavy black hairnet. And they still look less frumpy than me when I run.