Sorry for only managing one post yesterday. The internet ran out in Durham, which was completed to the backdrop of High Force waterfall. I know how to live.
I also knew that because the Guardianista writers at the New York Rough Guide are so sniffy about Coney Island was all the more reason to spend Day 4 of our trip there.
Coming to America, as Eddie Murphy knows, and not doing Coney would be like visiting England and not doing Blackpool.
And we had to get value out of those $31 Subway passes.
I’m not sure I saw anyone on the Subway wearing a tie; office workers must all drive to Manhattan. It was a motley old crowd on their way to Coney beach as temperatures topped 30 degrees. We’d missed Saturday’s Mermaid Parade, for better or worse.
Old-fashioned but very clean, it’s nowhere near Blackpool size, more like Southend. But, heh, Southend in 30 degrees with cold beer !
Mrs RM and Matt went for a dip in the sea. Those images were confiscated at JFK under terrorism laws.
I took James for a stroll down the spotless promenade ins search of the real Coney, which seemed a bit gentrified compared to my mental images derived from Ramones and Lou Reed songs.
But the main image now was of giant, and frankly ugly, retirement apartment blocks. And a stroll along Woody Guthrie’s Mermaid Avenue that had James genuinely on edge, a nervousness that only abated when I bought him donuts from Dunkin’.
We gave the boys a few dollars to find a rollercoaster and a hot dog, and Mrs RM jumped at the chance of a beer at the eponymous brewery, integrated into the local baseball stadium.
Well, this was magical.
You can trust a place playing The Strokes and with a sign like this;
If I had a dollar for every tweet or comment telling me I should have gone to x or y brewery in New York I’d have enough dollars for one of those beers.
The IPA was the best we had all trip. My notes say we spent $25, which sounds cheap, as Mrs RM was total p****d when we left.
I only know that as I heard Matt say “Mum, you’re p****d” ten minutes later as we met up again on the beach, loaded up with pizza, curly fries and a cup of Brooklyn Summer Ale.
It was that last item, paraded by me down the boardwalk, that had James shouting,
“DAD, DAD IT’S ILLEGAL TO DRINK IN PUBLIC THEY’LL SHOOT YOU”
Grief, what a weird country.