I don’t know what it is about Brooklyn that stirs me, but something about the place just moves me right to my core.  It always has.  After renouncing New York as my home over 20 years ago, I have always felt like a kind of ex-patriot with a perpetual longing for home. Living in states that I could only describe as “not New York,” tears would come to my eyes when I’d reminisce about my great big Brooklyn family – the gaggle of brothers and sisters, my big bear of an Italian father and beautiful Italian mother, the aunts, the uncles, the grandparents – all of us sitting out on our front steps together on steamy summer nights laughing, eating ice cream, and watching the other neighborhood kids play in the street.  What’s funny and maybe a little weird about these memories is that before last summer, I had never even been to Brooklyn. 

I have neither Italian parents nor a multitude of siblings, and I was raised not in a large Italian family in Brooklyn, but in a Jewish single-parent home in the suburbs north of Manhattan with just one brother and one very small dog.  In my Brooklyn nostalgia, I yearned for a past that was never even mine.  Where did these poignant (albeit cliché) memories come from? Last summer I was determined to find out.   

The inspiration for my mini-pilgrimage to Brooklyn came to me while I was at a nail salon in Los Angeles just before my summer trip to Westchester to visit my family - my real family.  While searching for the perfect summer color for my toenails, I happened upon a fiery red polish with a smudged label.  The first word was illegible, but I could make out the rest: “___ on the Subway.”  A message from the universe!  The illegible word seemed inconsequential at the time; “subway” was all that mattered.

As the “Something on the Subway” polish was being painted onto my athletically overused and under cared for toenails, I formulated my plan.  On the last day of my summer trip, I would forgo further visits with my family and take the subway from Scarsdale to Brooklyn.  I knew a guy who had a Tae Kwon-Do school in Bay Ridge and I’d been promising for years to get down there for a class.  This would be the perfect excuse to uncover the mystery of my faux nostalgia. 

Throughout the days before my big journey, during long visits with my mother, brother, sister in-law, and nieces, I was hardly present. My mother and I went to see “Movin’ Out” on Broadway.  I took the kids to the Central Park Zoo, to the movies, and out to Carvel for ice cream.  One day we all went out on my brother’s boat and traveled up the Hudson from Croton to Kingston.  On our last night together, we ordered pizza from my favorite place - undoubtedly the best pizza in all of New York.  And the whole time, all I could think about was Brooklyn.   

I had my route all mapped out – commuter train to Grand Central, S train to Times Square, R train all the way to Bay Ridge.  The night before my trip, I let my mother in on my plan.  The conversation went something like this:  “You’re not taking the subway to Brooklyn.”  “Why not?”  “No one takes the subway anymore.”  “That can’t be true.”  “It is.”  “Why don’t people take the subway?”  “People die on the subway.”  “People die on the subway?”  “Yes.” “Really?”  “Yes.”  “How do they die?”  “They get pushed onto the tracks.”   

Gulping down bursts of laughter, I finally erupted into an uncontrollable fit of giggles so compelling that it even forced my mother to laugh.  She still had not lost her Jewish Mother’s knack for employing the most drastic measures to try to keep her daughter out of harm’s way.  But there was no stopping me, and we both knew it. For just a flash I did think of the nail polish, but quickly rejected the idea that the missing word could be “death”.  “Death on the Subway?” 

The day finally arrived.  My excitement was, to be honest, a little ridiculous.  As any true New Yorker knows, there are innumerable romantic, alluring things to do in New York, but riding the subway to Brooklyn during the evening rush hour definitely is not one of them.   

As I was leaving my mother’s apartment, she handed me a small umbrella and raised her eyebrows one last time to say without words, “Are you really doing this?” This to my mother meant the whole thing – are you really wearing that, still doing Tae Kwon-Do at your age, going all the way to Brooklyn to do it, and, to boot, taking the subway?  Yes, I was really doing this.   

My stomach flipped as I boarded the train at the little commuter station in Scarsdale. 

In no time I was in Manhattan.  Grand Central was more majestic than ever.  I was dizzy with joy.  Trying to look like I knew where I was going but unable to hide my astonishment, I stood perfectly still as crowds of commuters swirled purposefully around me.   

As I regained focus, I glanced around and furtively made note of the signs leading me to the S train.  “Don’t look lost, pretend you know where you are going, watch your purse” the voice of my fearful suburban mother kept reminding me.  I made it onto the S train without incident and, only moments later, I was off the S and on the R. 

I relaxed into the clickity clack of the metal tracks and the subtle turns that made my body sway back and forth ever so slightly, and loosened my grip on my purse. Every now and then I would glance at the subway map directly behind me for just long enough to get a sense for where Bay Ridge was located, but never long enough to, heaven forbid, reveal that I had no idea where I was going.  Finally I was so relaxed that I even let my eyes close. 

Just before the train reached Canal Street, the subway conductor’s muffled voice came over the loud speaker.  “Muffle muffle, rain, muffle, flooding on the tracks. Canal Street, something, muffle.”  My eyes flew open and my heartbeat quickened.  My mouth got a little dry.  I looked around to see if anyone else had heard or cared about what was said.  No one seemed concerned.  The balding man across from me continued to chat with himself quietly.  A touristy family sporting Bermuda shorts and brand new FDNY tee-shirts talked excitedly about their day in Manhattan.  Only a very thin, pale middle-aged man looked concerned, but only mildly.  I seized the opportunity. 

“Excuse me; did you hear what he said?” I asked.

In a thick, authentic Italian accent, the man said, “I not hear, we listen next.” 

“Okay, I’ll listen,” I stammered through my dry mouth.   “This train is going to Bay Ridge, right?” 

The man’s kind eyes flashed briefly with impatience.  “I go to Bay Ridge.  Yes.”  

I felt a bit better after the exchange, but not completely.  I finally gave up my pretense of knowing where I was going and turned around to study the map.  The subway started to move again.  I looked up from the map.  A bridge?  Here it was!  I was actually going over the Brooklyn Bridge! Wait, was the R train supposed to cross a bridge?  (I later learned that the R train never crosses any bridges at all; it travels only through tunnels.  We must have switched tracks and crossed the bridge to avoid the flooding. The Manhattan Bridge?) I squinted to try to catch a glimpse outside, but sheets of torrential rain obscured my view.   I felt around in my bag for my mother’s umbrella. 

Underground again, the train soon came to a stop.  The muffled voice: “Dekalb Avenue.  Flooding on the tracks.  Muffle muffle.  The R train will take the route of the Q and the W train now.”  I felt all the blood drain from my face.  I turned to the map to find Q and W routes.  Nowhere near Bay Ridge!  I shot up from my seat and noticed that the Italian man was also standing.  I looked at him with what I am sure was a totally frantic look.  “I NEED TO GO TO BAY RIDGE!” 

The man nodded his head.   “I go to Bay Ridge.  You stay with me.”  I nodded in agreement.  We both moved towards the door of the train and waited.  Finally the announcement came:  “This R train is now the Q train.  Please exit if you do not wish to ride the Q train.”  The Italian man looked at me and nodded that it was time.  We hopped off the train just before its doors closed and it pulled away. 

As we hit the platform, a blast of hot humid air smacked me in the face.  The station was thick with abandoned R train riders and the heat was suffocating.  For just a moment I started to talk myself into a little panic attack.  “Oh my god, it is too hot, what if I faint, I’ll never get home, where am I, I have no idea how to get out of here, I am getting claustrophobic …” And then, total calm.  All of these strangers stuffed into an unbearable situation, and they were just waiting there, quietly and calmly. My Italian stranger stayed close to my side.  I was stuck in an underground subway station and I felt safer than ever. 

About seven Q and W trains later, I realized that the R train was no longer running at all.  The Q’s and W’s were packed so full that I couldn’t even imagine taking one, even if they were going my way.  By this time my Italian stranger and I had befriended another abandoned R train traveler who also was en route to Bay Ridge.  This guy was maybe a few years out of college and his purpose, either in life or on the train, was not at all apparent.  He was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, carried no bags, books, or briefcase, and did not seem at all bothered by his new predicament.   

My two companions continued to stare patiently into the southbound tunnel, willing the R train to appear from the darkness.  I no longer felt calm.  I had to get out of there.  I offered a proposal to my two optimistic friends:  “Share a taxi with me to Bay Ridge.  I’ll pay.”  Even before all of the words were out of my mouth, we had run up the stairs of the sweltering station and onto Dekalb Avenue.  Soon we were hopping puddles and trying to hail a yellow cab.  Not one of them stopped. 

Finally the Italian hailed a dark blue, very old sedan - a gypsy cab. It didn’t exactly look like a cab, but had some of the trappings, like the Plexiglas that separated passengers from driver and a few peeling, official-looking stickers.  The Italian waved us in.   

After a ten-minute ride and a brief exchange of loud, nasty insults between the Italian and the cabbie, some in English and some in Italian, our rate was reduced from $40 to $20, which we actually split three ways despite my initial offer to pay.  Finally I was out of the cab, waving good-bye to my companions.   

I was so filled with the travails of my trip that I almost didn’t realize – I was there.   The skies had cleared and I was walking down a quaint Bay Ridge street on a hot summer night.  Tall trees thick with green leaves lined the wide street.  Couples sat outside on their front steps watching the evening set in.  Kids were even playing in the streets!  It was just like I imagined. 

To my surprise though, instead of longing for my imaginary Brooklyn childhood, I flashed back to my own childhood at the apartments in Scarsdale.  I  thought about how all of the kids, sometimes numbering from 25 to 30, used to meet outside every summer night and play hide and seek all over the vast complex until well past our bedtimes.   Family by family, from our hiding places tucked deep into dark, mysterious places, we’d hear our mothers calling us inside.  I could even smell the damp earthy smell that permeated one of my favorite hiding places under a cluster of bushes. 

I finally made it to my friend’s class.  During the workout, I kept expecting something totally memorable to happen, something so poignant and so Brooklyn; something that would make me feel like I had come home.  But really it was just an ordinary Tae Kwon-Do class – a great class for the students who made their home in that cozy little corner of Bay Ridge, but not a great class for me.  I had not come home at all.  

As I walked back to the subway praying that the R train would be running, I again was overcome with nostalgia - real nostalgia.  I remembered evening swims in the pool being interrupted by the sound of the ice cream truck jingling its way up the hill.  I remembered racing my brother to the truck, both of us dripping wet, and he always making sure I had enough money to buy one of those vanilla ice cream pops with the surprise candy bar inside. With sticky hands and faces, we’d sprint back up to pool and cannon ball ourselves right back into the deep end.  After a night of endless hide and seek and swimming, I’d climb into bed, sometimes with hair still wet from the pool, and fall into the deepest of sleep with my little dog curled into my belly. 

Soon I was on the R train making my way towards Manhattan.  The whole way up through Brooklyn, I reminisced about those summer nights.  And I thought a lot about my family; my own little family that actually isn’t really so small anymore.  And for the first time in 20 years, I realized that I truly missed home – the home of my youth and the home of my family.   Soon I was off of the R and onto the S, and then back on the commuter train to Scarsdale. I was going home. 

I finally found out the name of that OPI nail polish – the polish that inspired my subway pilgrimage.  It was called “Marooned on the Subway,” and it has been discontinued.

Allison Ober is a research coordinator for the RAND Corporation and an aspiring writer. She grew up in New York and currently lives in Los Angeles.