I grew up on this Island in a house less than a mile from the sea. There were gulls which would land in our backyard. The boardwalk alongside the orange sand is long and large. The benches have the grey color that comes when wood and salt meet for a long time. But if I brought you to the shore first we might not go anywhere else because the sea is full of stories and I would hope you would stay through the tide turning with me and walk all the way down and back again. I wouldn’t tell you how many miles it was until after, because it is better not to expect to how far our steps would be. I would try to talk you into watching the sunset and if the weather was warm enough and the lifeguard chairs were out, I would most certainly wake you against your will and take you and some fresh coffee there. We would have to watch the sun rise. Then I would let you go back to sleep until a more reasonable hour. But of course one must be practical, so let me show you other things first and save that one, the most interesting of all if you ask me, for another day. And hope that one night would spill in such a way it would close with the sun, and my idea wouldn’t be so odd at all and I wouldn’t have to rumple you and your raised eyebrow out of bed. Likely we would be at the diner from the end of somewhere else and talk while we looked at the music selections on the juke box and watched the boys mop up the other room because not so many people would be there at half past three. And we ought to share something because the portions are too big but quite nice. I wouldn’t share my pickle with you though. And please tell me to have tea not coffee or I will never get tired. Then we could sleep all of Sunday because nothing much starts till eleven anyway. I’d show you the Bridge in the dark when the Verrazano looks like a great gateway back to Brooklyn. We could go there for a night out because Bay Ridge is somewhere with faster steps and more things to do. The El and 86th street are like cities of their own. And the rumble of the trains above used to scare me in the most exciting way as I stood under them where it was dusty and dark, the traffic signals were painted green and the big cars would go by. Brooklyn still has corner pizza shops with window service and zeppole that are hot and wonderful. I remember when I was small that the world there smelled of oregano and little grocers with big wooden cartons full of plums and nectarines. There were lots of Grandmothers with little metal push carts taking home bread, milk and things from the butcher for dinner. I would take bits of sawdust in my pocket and get in trouble after the laundry was done. And sometimes we would go to the Williamsburg bank which was like walking back into 1930. The tellers were behind these brass little partitions and there was a large worn marble floor. I always wanted to go down into the vault because it had a door thicker than my arm was long and you had to sign things twice to get in. But we haven’t gotten to Brooklyn yet. So first I must take you on the train to somewhere else. I would point you down to the Boulevard and tell you we have to go “above” it which simply means to cross the street. We would walk up the metal stairs painted in tan and brown to the train tracks that run along Railroad Avenue, North and South each of which are one ways. But then we would have to stop again. And I would show you New Dorp Lumber and Mrs Rosemary’s Dance Studio which is still in a little yellow building and they teach girls how to stand straight and learn to be graceful. Although then I would have to stop here for a bit more and take you to Andrew’s Bakery which has been there for forever as far as I know. I would point out the Lane Movie theater which seems only to be for rent and inside is art deco but no one has been quite able to save it yet. I would show you the side streets along New Dorp Lane where the Sycamore trees are so thick they break up the sidewalks like little rolling slopes and you can’t even put your arms all the way around them. We could walk up to Richmond Road past the church and the old telephone building with the new sign. But we must come back to the train and get to where we are going. There is a destination, though I rather like taking you on so many short little tangents like excursions into dead end streets. The train is a little four coach car that runs all the way down to the ferry, and that’s how we could get into the city. The boat is wonderful at night because you kind of forget the molded plastic seats, the paper bags and newspapers on them and have a nice view of different parts of famous places and I would mix up the names of the bridges and hope you wouldn’t notice. The ride is only thirty minutes though. The boat is solid and heavy and goes across the water like a steam roller flattening the waves. There were wooden slips and carved copper walkways. But they have changed it now for a free ride with lots of cement and smooth steel and LED signs. And the city, like my Island, is old and new and terrible and perfect depending upon where you chose to stand. That is why I will only take you between places. When I walk in straight lines, acid keeps scraping my eyes with black grumbles full of briars.