The Adventures of the Oblivious Manhattanite Part One: St. Gumbo Awaits Us

The Adventures of the Oblivious Manhattanite in the Other Borough are true accounts of spontaneous excursions by a natural explorer distantly descended from a Montauk princess and an infamous Dutch family that helped settle New York. Here, in the vein of Diedrich Knickerbocker, J.K. Van Tassell shares her feral tales in the Brooklyn. Some names of Kings County’s charming burgs and establishments are misnamed because she is dyslexic and oblivious. In her expeditions she is always accompanied by Sophie Dulac, another oblivious character from France, and the sometimes present and much needed Frampton, their Brooklyn Sherpa. The Oblivious Manhattanite lives near City Hall and very rarely goes above Canal Street. Her view from this humble abode is of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges which beckon her constantly, along with a chorus of hyped up articles that appear in New York Magazine and the New York Times about rejuvenated places like Blowanus and Yellow-Blue Hook.

Part One: The Road From Greenburgpoint to St. Gumbo and Cider Hill

I set out for Greenburgpoint from Lower Manhattan in the snow, on board our small yet dignified crossover vehicle with Sophie Dulac at the wheel. Her nephew Andre from Corsica and Gwen, a very large Argentinean Mastiff, were in the back. It snowed heavily as we crossed one of the three bridges that I often stare at from my Lower Manhattan window.

We were on our way to attend a surprise birthday party somewhere off of the BBQ and on a mission to return Gwen to its home in the same, Soho-imported loft.

Due to heavy snowfall while crossing the mighty East River, we missed our desired exit of Mortimer Avenue and decided that Guinness Street was a safe bet to get us near Gurney Road. However, my iPhone GPS failed to mention after we made a left onto Nautical Avenue that it becomes a one-way street. Without panic we carried on. Though a MTA bus (they have those here!) honked repeatedly at us, we simply turned onto another road and sadly I do not recall its moniker.

My foursome arrived to number 87 and we were greeted by Brooklyn types. As we peered around the lobby I was surprised to find only one tiny human carrier with a slumbering baby inside. After a two floor ascent the elevator doors parted and we tumbled into the party like a car full of circus clowns. The party was nice and we took smoke breaks on the balcony, ate scary cheeses and drank champagne. Most of the guests spoke French, and I realized I was clearly in the tiny arrondissement of Brooklyn known as Willieville.

It was two hours into the party when Sophie suggested that we take an expedition over to Cider Hill to explore. Sophie wanted to dine at The Cider Hill House, a place that my bible, New York Magazine, recently likened to Manhattan eatery Freeman’s. I said yes…but how?

We turned to our host and asked him to direct us to this Cider Hill that is supposedly near St. Gumbo. In English he said, “Why the F do you want to go there?”

“We want to seek out new lands, eats and people,” I told him.

Our host shrugged but warned us of the amount of snow accumulating outside. We assured him we would be safe in our crossover vehicle that could handle any snow-covered hill in any distant land.

He gave us very good directions to Cider Hill, accompanied by spot on descriptions of neighborhoods by local attire. He said to head south of Willieville on the road along the water and about a mile down the road Chasidics would pace sporting shtreimels. There, he told us, we should make a right towards the entrance for the BBQ but don’t take the ramp.

Stay on this street, he continued, and then you shall see the ones who wear North Face coats like yours and they shall help you if you are lost.

And he was right, they did. As we rolled up to a red light, I lowered my protective glass and leaned out into the blizzard to ask two lovely ladies in North Face how to get to Cider Hill. One of them stared at me with her mouth wide open, they other just laughed.

“I have never ever heard of that neighborhood,” she said.

“Oh um, I know its near St. Gumbo. Can you tell me if we are headed in the right direction?” I asked.

A huge smile came over her countenance.

“You’re not far at all,” she said. “Ten blocks down Murky Street and then make a left under the BBQ.”

At last we spotted the ominous power plant stacks of Cider Hill. We were only a few blocks away from heaven.

Next: Part 2 The Snowcapped Capers of Cider Hill and St. Gumbo

tags: Babylon Brooklyn, Boho Brooklynites, Class War, Manhattan Migrants, The Oblivious Manhattanite, Vinegar Hill, Vinegar Hill House, Where White People Live