The summer is pretty much at an official end, but yesterday I made a surprising discovery: Brooklyn Bridge Park, a remarkably beautiful swell of grass and wine bars under the namesake span of steel. How had I missed this place before?
Well, it’s pretty obvious: It’s a pain in the butt to get Sasha there on foot. We’d have to schlep to the subway, blah blah blah.
But now we have this fine machine to get us there and back—and wherever else we want to go. Sasha loves it: She cried “Wheee!” as we sailed through the streets of Brooklyn yesterday, and she sang “Old MacDonald” and recited her ABCs. (Note: “Wheels on the Bus” is not a good bike song. Kids love to act out the “up and down” verse.) Today I’ll even be picking her up from school in Manhattan, and huffing and puffing back over the bridge.
Today I’ll also be giving up any pretense of not being a disgusting Brooklyn hipster dad. In the past, I may have denied it, or argued around it, but there’s no point hiding any longer: I’m a nearly middle-aged, skateboarding Jewish travel writer who’s married to an Asian fashion designer and picks up his adorable mixed-race child from a bilingual preschool on a tricked-out Italian bike. Fuck me, you might say. Or, as Sasha might put it, wheeeeeeee!