Letter From a Jilted Lover
We're through. I used to like you. Hell, I used to live with you. But after flirting with Manhattan for the last six months and dealing with you over the weekend, I don't think we should see each other anymore.
It's a damn shame. I used to defend you to all my friends. I would tell them about Barcade or the Brooklyn Brewery or McCarren Park. When friends of Manhattan badmouthed you about how remote, inaccessible, and boring you were, I insisted you were nearby, easy to reach, and pretty damn fun to be around.
But you've done me wrong. Friday night was the last straw. I was fooled into believing that because there were no service changes on the L train, I wouldn't have any problems taking the L train. But, my dear Williamsburg, after having a blast with you, the L train decided to stop running to Manhattan because of a "switch malfunction." Now I was trapped with you, in the pouring rain, with three broken ATMs on one block, and no open cabs to be found. Worst of all, I had to pee really badly. This was the nightmare that all the Williamsburg-haters have feared, and it was happening to me.
You wouldn't let me leave. I was soaking wet and a twenty-block walk from the nearest train to Manhattan. I had to walk down deserted streets, across seedy parking lots, through bus depots, and under highway underpasses. I had to wait on a cold, unsheltered elevated subway platform for fifteen minutes. I came back to Manhattan drenched, cold, hungry, and dejected.
Williamsburg, you've let me down for the last time. I think should really see other people. I hope we can still be friends. I'll remember and cherish the times we shared and every time I drink a Brooklyn Lager, I'll think of you.