In an ongoing attempt to explore every bit of New York City while having an excuse to dedicate days to wandering around residential streets with soda cans of wine in our hands, we found ourselves in a Brighton Beach shop that had magic in the name. As Brighton Beach is very Russian, I had hoped to we were wandering into some nutso old country magic shop run by a grizzled old man who’d drink vodka with us. Instead, it was a women’s fashion store filled with Korean knock-offs with a younger, very friendly proprietor. Him and I watched Phil Collins live in Soviet-era Russia on the TV while Amber tried on bathing suits covered in fireworks. We were officially members of the Boss Club by the time we left.
After saying goodbye, we started wandering through the neighborhood. I’d never seen nor expected a San Fernando Valley-style suburb in Brooklyn. Big ass houses with exclusively German cars parked haphazardly in front. I’d comment on how every single house had fences covered in fake strings of what looked like the stuff fake Christmas trees are made of, but considered the fact that every house had it, I’d rather not piss anyone off. I also never expected this street out in a quiet neighborhood, but I give it a thumbs up.
