I did it.  I returned to Park Slope, had a great meeting, and enjoyed an epiphany.  “The Old Neighborhood” was just another NYC nabe.  It did not have magical powers.  It could not hurt me.  It was there, available, for my use whenever I wanted it. 

Just like any other NYC Nabe.  Over time, it will continue to change and, as all Real New Yorkers know, this is the way of our City.  The burned out fruit store on Seventh is now a pet supply store.  The former Snooky’s space, after three or so failed restaurants, is now a big bageleria.  Aunt Suzie is kaputsky.  But, overall, meh.  It was a pretty day.  People were out walking.  Delivery trucks were double parked.  Just another day in Park Slope.

OK, it was pretty weird to see the skeleton of the Atlantic Center on Flatbush, arched like the dinosaur in the grand hall of the Museum of Natural History.  Sixth Avenue near the cop house is now a two-way street.  The entire area, though, is about the same.  Some very pretty blocks.  Lots of traffic congestion.

And lots of memories.  But those are transportable.  Those are on the mental hard drive and backed up in the Cloud.  They’re saved, stored, protected.  Park Slope will change and, in time, will have as much relevance to me as this view of Midtown East, as seen from the Queensboro Bridge.  I never would have imagined that the Tin Man would be implanted into the Lego-like big box apartments of this part of the City. 

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I once worked there in that neighborhood, in the A&D building, 150 East 58th Street.  I knew every store on every block.  It was MY neighborhood.  Now?  WTF. It is totally foreign to me.  I don’t know it anymore.

So I had my meeting, re: publication of my upcoming collection of short stories, Home Front (or, will I change it to The Real New Yorkers, as my publishing expert friends advise?) drove around Park Slope, hopped on the Brooklyn Bridge, faded right to the fun, curvy ramp leading to the FDR North — as I had done so many times in my 25 years in Brooklyn.  Only now, instead of exiting at some point in Manhattan, I kept heading North, merging onto the Harlem River Drive. 

And, as I drove on, towards Dyckman Street, I felt good — great, in fact.  Why not?  I was almost back home.