Coney Island

Our trip to Coney Island began on a whim on a Saturday morning in early May. Mandee and I were in the middle of breakfast when we made the decision. We had for months been discussing a trip to the famed beach, an excursion we wanted to make before Coney Island was reinvented by the much needed redevelopment. I sent off a message to Erik, who agreed on the condition that we would stop for pizza.

An adventure to Coney Island begins with a rather long subway ride. We met Erik and Amy in Bryant park, and after caffeinating with a double espresso, we boarded the D train. A half hour into the trip we were deeper into Brooklyn than I had ever been. We were on elevated tracks after a few minutes, speeding along above the rooflines of the borough. It is only from this vantage point that Brooklyn’s enormity becomes apparent. In every direction, as far as I could see was a skyline of low rise buildings punctuated by the occasional church spire or glimpse of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Then as the train approached Bay Parkway, the conductor informed us we’d need to disembark and wait for the next train.
We waited on the elevated platform for the next train.

The subway deposited us directly in front of Nathan’s Famous, the original hot dog stand now adulterated with food court franchises. But the original Nathan’s serves a far better corn dog and fresh lemonade then its knock off cousins. After our snack we wandered toward the beach, walking passed the vacant lots that one day may be the high rise development of Thor Equities. The block between Nathan’s and the boardwalk is a depressing sight. There are landmarks of better days of course, remnants of amusements from the last century, but for the most part, the neighborhood of Coney Island is reminiscent of Chernobyl, minus the deadly radiation.

The beach wasn’t much better. The sand had more shards of glass than seashells. Glass of course, did not prevent Erik from removing his shoes. Since it was early spring, the water was frigid, though Erik braved it. Later we wandered down the beach to a pier where townies mingled with tourists with the main difference between the two being sobriety. We wandered down the boardwalk passed Shoot the Freak, a game where some poor sap stands in a yard waiting for people to shoot him with paintballs. We played some Skee Ball, winning enough tickets for plastic bracelets for the ladies, a few paratroopers, and a handful of green plastic army men.

Finally it was time for pizza. Erik had been talking up Totonno’s pizza for weeks, this being the primary reason for the journey. Grimaldi’s Pizzeria in Brooklyn might have a better PR firm, garnering praise from Rachel Ray and Zagat’s, but its Totonno’s that has the better pie. The unassuming building, little more than a shack, is a half dozen blocks from the beach, on Neptune Ave. There are imitations in the other boroughs, but none compare to the genuine article. This explains it all:
Afterward, stuffed on cheese and sauce and crust, we wandered back toward the subway station, boarded our train and returned to the city. Coney Island is a lot like Niagara Falls; its one of those places you need to see, but shouldn't really bother going. Except of course, Coney Island has Totonno's, and none of those pesky Canadian pennies.