Going to this area reminds me of my childhood with my grandparents. They would load up their immaculate Lincoln Town Car, and drive the hour plus (in traffic), to wander the boardwalk, eat roasted semechki (aka sunflower seeds) out of paper bags, and occasionally spot an old comrade from their former home of Odessa, Ukraine. My sister and I would be handed a few dollars when we were antsy on the beach, we'd take off towards Brighton Beach Avenue with our best friend Leo, make a pit stop at the Synagogue Flea Market on Brighton 4th (only on Sunday). My sister would get kvass and we would all get perogie. After, we would venture into the old comic book shop for our dose of Archie Comics, (Betty & Veronica's were my faves), and dirty joke books. I knew more dead baby and Polish jokes than an 9 year old, or anyone for that matter, should ever need to know. Sometimes, we would troop our way to Coney Island AstroLand Amusement Park, (where we would religiously avoid the Cyclone - my momma told us it was old and people died on it). We would hand most of our cash to Leo because he was exceptional at winning those flammable stuffed animals that were made out of rayon and stuffed with sawdust. How we treasured those little trinkets. After our adventures, we would head back to the boardwalk and run as fast as we could up the rickety wooden stairs, wary of the junkies hanging out below the boardwalk; afraid they would grab our legs as we ran up and pull us under gaps in the stairs. We didn't know exactly what they would do to us if they captured us, but we knew it couldn't be good. A ramp was a godsend.
Now that I am older, I don't typically venture this way during the summer months, if at all. My grandmother lives is in Coney Island, and I usually get a ride with my father when I visit. I may head to The Mermaid Parade every few years, and last time, I finally got on the Cyclone through firm coaxing by my friends (and this event led to bi-weekly chiropractor visits for the following two months. That's what I get for not listening to my momma). There is now a fence below the stairs blockading potential people snatchers. No longer are there little shops dotted along the walk selling the treasured semechki by the bagfuls, but larger restaurants that I head to for an occasional family event. Tatiana Grill is by far a favorite (I have been meaning to check out their brunch).
Overall, for beaching, BB can get really nasty into the summer and therefore it is not ideal. Glass is strewn throughout the sand, fights breakout on the beach, and potato chip bags (amongst other nasty items) float across the shoreline. This early on in the season, I figured the garbage has not piled up yet and it's still relatively quiet, so I took my chances. I probably should have walked the extra ten minutes to its quieter, cleaner, counterpart: Manhattan Beach.
On this particular day, the beach was covered in small groups of teenagers that were cutting school, being a bit loud and rowdy, a few brought broken black umbrellas and were trying to use these for shade, overall, mostly being kids. A brawl broke out and within seconds, a horde of teens had run through the sand and were egging the fighters on. Other beach-farers that day included a handful of early/mid 30 year old woman relaxing solo. No beach day would be complete without the 20 somethings strolling up and down the beach with rock hard abs checking each other out, with the occasional appreciative cat whistle. I must admit, my people have confidence, and I admire their love of self. Older former Soviet Bloc ladies, and gents, of all shapes and sizes were parading and speed-walking the shore in their neon (and animal print!) bikinis and speedos.
As I sat on my towel, rereading my copy of the Tipping Point and scanning through the latest Time Out New York, an older gentleman approaches me and begins to converse with me in Russian. Assuming he is lost, or has a question, I am polite and respond. Then he begins to eyeball me. "Are you Moldovian?" Um, no.. my family is from Odessa. He squats down, so and continues to speak with me. Cautious, shocked, but with the home training to respect my elders, I listen to his next question with trepidation. "Do you live in Brighton?" Me: "No." GoawayGoawayGoaway. I am trying to have a peaceful time, worship the sun, and read. "Are you single?" Before I have a chance to answer, he notices my ring. Although it's on the wrong hand, I have gold ring with diamonds that my grandmother gave me a few months ago. She had taken it off of her finger, and placed it on to mine with the words, "I am going to die soon anyway, have it." Thank you, babushka. With a look of acknowledgment and resentment, he says, "Oh, I see you are married", and begins to rise. That's when I notice, there was something else rising, in his shorts. As he stands up, and I gawk, he leaves me with the parting note, "You look it sooo nice", bulge growing, turns, and walks away. I am stunned.
I roll over on to my stomach to even out my tan, and continue to read. A few minutes later, I notice movement over my right shoulder. I glance over, and it is another older gentleman laying out his blanket about 4 feet away from my little island. My gaze goes back to my book, and I think nothing of it, although there is plenty of space for him to move farther away. He begins to speak (in Russian. I don't know how they know, I usually get people thinking I am Irish, but I guess you do know "your own"), "Oh, I am so sorry, did I bother you? I noticed you look over." "Nyet, Nyet. I am fine. Don't worry." Two minutes later, he decides he needs to speak to me some more. Fabulousss. "Did you go in the water? Is it nice?" I reply that I did not, as I did not want to leave my bag."Oh, do you want to come swimming with me?" WHAT?? "No, no, I am reading." He starts to ask me where I am from, and wants to know if I got here via car or na sub-vay. I tersely say subway, and focus on my book and hoping to close myself off to any other disturbance. "Don't be shy. If you want to go into the water, I will watch your bag." I let him know that I am leaving soon, and it is getting chillier, but thank him for the offer. "Let me know when you are ready to go, and I will help you get the sand from your towel and to remove it from your bag." I assure him that I am OK, and I can do it, it's no big deal. Perhaps he was trying to be nice and help out a girl, but I found his questioning unsettling, and anyway, it was time to head back for my second part of the day. My sundress came on, I gathered up my belongings, put on my flip-flops, and started to get up, and so did he. "Let me help you! Let me help you!" "No, no, its OK!, Please.". "But you have sand all over your bag." I said goodbye as I made a beeline for the boardwalk, he was behind me calling out, "Please, you have sand on your bag!". No response, just my flight response whisking me off.
That afternoon had certainly taken the oddest turn. I spoke with my friend about it later in the day over a few beers at Studio Square, and her theory goes as follows: "young woman, middle of the day, chillin on the beach.. he must have thought you were a lady of leisure." Wink, wink. "A hooker! Imagine? WTF?" Unemployment has made me a Lady of Leisure.. but not THAT kind of Leisure. Sheesh.
On a positive not, I was able to practice my Russian. Now I may need to learn how to say, "I am sorry, sir, but I am not a hooker" should I ever feel bold enough to head that way solo ever again.
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