I’ve lived in Manhattan for 10 years and visited Coney Island for the first time a couple of weeks ago.
New Yorkers are surprised when I mention this. “I can’t believe you’ve never been on The Cyclone! Or eaten a Nathan’s hot dog!” These are the kind of people that derive pleasure from vertiginous rides at high altitudes and waiting an hour in line for a suspicious piece of meat.
I am not one of those people.
But this year I decided to venture out to the park known as the “poor man’s paradise” to see my friends participate in The Mermaid Parade– where grown men and women walk down the street in sequins and spandex without apology.
I went down with Vidya, Henri, and his friend Matt. I was excited. I envisioned ferris wheels and merry go rounds, boardwalks full of couples strolling hand in hand, kids holding onto stuffed animals and eating cotton candy.
We exited the station and instead I was greeted by a horde of men in gold spandex, teenaged boys with tribal tattoes and Dragon Ball-z haircuts, and women with saggy breasts wearing tassles. These people looked like they could murder me and then ride The Cyclone for twelve hours.
There were so many people that I could not actually see any of the floats. You would have to at least be 7 feet tall to catch a glimpse of a mermaid. And I’m barely 5′1 so the most I could see were the tops of little kid’s heads.
We decided to walk away from the mayhem and into this little Irish pub where the bartenders were barely 15 and the patrons barely had a mouthful of teeth. There was a small rock concert outside the bar with an aging rocker belting out monster ballads. There was an ambulance truck parked right next to the stage. This was just in case the singer died.
It is astounding how much bad music you can tolerate when you are drinking alcohol. After about 4 coronas we were rocking out to the music. Then we decided to venture to Nathan’s hot dogs.
New Yorkers like to sanctify certain food establishments and insist that so and so restaurant has THE BEST hamburger or pizza. LIke the pizza at Grimaldi’s or the pastrami sandwich at Katz’s deli, the hot dog at Nathan’s is not only considered a classic but a holy offering.
The line is notoriously slow. They take their sweet time getting your food. Oh, and they also look like they could murder you. After waiting in line for an hour we had hot dogs, fries, frog legs (yes, frog legs), fried clams, and beer the size of my forearm.
Afterwards we walked along the boardwalk, trying not to fall through the loose planks and grabbed some more beer and funnel cake. The boardwalk probably has some of the best people watching in the city. I’ve never seen so many mesh shirts in my life. I mean, I know it was the mermaid parade and all but were they planning on catching any fish with those shirts?
The air started to get chilly as the breeze from the Atlantic Ocean tickled our expanding beer and hot dog bellies. My friends thought it would be the perfect time to ride the Cyclone. I don’t do rollercoasters so while everyone went on I stayed behind and carried their bags. Like a mom.
While they were on the Cyclone I decided to hunt around for some soft serve icecream. The people that work at the food booths are either hefty grandfather types or their 12 year old grandsons. Both look like they could murder me.
It is nearly nightfall and the streets look like they are paved with garbage. The hipsters and fresh-faced families who came for the mermaid parade have gone and now it’s just us and the natives. I guess that’s what you call people who look like they are capable of piercing your skull with a plastic spork.
We finally get on the subway and head back into the city, watching the ferris wheel twinkle in a pink and blue sky. There are talks of revamping Coney Island into a Vegas type of destination replete with glimmering casinos and high rises. But the whole point of Coney Island is that it’s the last bastion of freaks and schtick. We don’t want commodified cheesiness we want the historical kind.
Coney Island is for murderers not resort types.
