Living in the Kingdom

I just read two articles that labeled Brooklyn as the second most expensive U.S. city to live in, with Manhattan as the unsurprising first. Wow. And here I am, a part time music teacher from Wisconsin. Definitely one of those "What am I doing here?" moments.

The articles painted an unsettling picture of an increasingly divided borough with alarming statistics of income, cost of living, and levels of education. A third article gave a number of bizarre statistics (who really cares if a few jars of horseradish cost $74?) which were all designed to prove a point: the cost of living is skyrocketing in Brooklyn and the lower and middle classes aren't even on the shuttle.

For the last few months Tomm and I have been throwing around the idea of leaving our neighborhood and finding an area more closely resembling our...shall we say...demographic. Also something within 3 miles of a shul I cam stomach. But every time I ask Brooklynites about the preferable neighborhoods like Park Slope, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, and even Crown Heights, they all tell me the same thing: it's expensive and often prohibitively so. I suppose there's a reason they're preferable, though such news makes Boro Park look better and better.

So after being told time and again about how expensive it is to live here, I wasn't entirely surprised by those articles. Still, what was surprising was the disparity which is growing throughout the borough. I suppose, though, that in a world where the 85 wealthiest people have more combined wealth than half of the global population, I should not be shocked that the second most expensive city is also home to massive poverty and exceptionally low reading levels. That seems to be how the world works these days. In fact, I commented to the person who posted the aforementioned articles on Facebook that it's as if Brooklyn is a microcosm of the current global economic trends.

It's scary to know I'm living somewhere where, if I were on my own, I could never survive. It also makes me wonder why someone would ever go to New York to "try and make it big" like all those jazzy musicals about flappers would have you believe. I find it hard to justify spending so much money on rent alone, not to mention food, clothes, and other necessities.  This is probably just me being a Midwesterner, but aren't there more important things in life than spending thousands of dollars a month on a one-bedroom apartment, even if it is only a block away from the coolest bars and a giant park?

Thanks, but I think I'll just take the train.

Open Mic Night at the Tea Lounge

From the outside, it resembles any of the other establishments in Park Slope with its unspoken air of haughty snobbery. It's surrounded on all sides by yoga, sushi, and a food co-op. It's easy to pass by unless you know what you're looking for, with the exception of one innocuous piece of furniture by the entrance: the backseat of an old van where a bearded man sits smoking a cigarette. The sound of indie beats creeps under the crooked door which gives way to a nonconformist's wet dream. Subdued lighting obscures the individuals while highlighting the MacBooks, their emblazoned apples dotting the room like fireflies.

Tonight we are infiltrating a world to which we don't belong. Let's hope we go unnoticed so we can sip our Darjeeling and hot cocoa in peace.

It is a tea house/bar/cafe/artist's haven. On this particular night they are having an open mic and everyone has turned up to hear the singers and comedians perform. Scarves, knitted hats, and unnatural hair color fill the room like nametags at a hipster's convention. The attendees are mostly people in their 20s and 30s, plus a couple token old men who wish they were. Long-haired hippies and modern philosophers, feminists and people with a cause, vegans and vegetarians and the gluten free by choice, and a few straight-laced polo-wearing guys who are here to get their piece of the grungy homemade experience they can't get in pristine Park Slope. And us.

Each wall is a different color, as if every time they had to repaint they only had enough for one can of whatever color was on clearance. The floor is uneven and unfinished, and the furniture makes it look like the sofa section of St. Vincent de Paul's. Somehow, underground Bedouin chic works for this place and the people lounging on every available cushion.

First up: classical Spanish guitar meets Snoop Dogg. It's a Latino with a sweet voice and a classical guitar singing Nelly mashups.

Between acts: "What's your favorite sport?" asks the MC. "Meditation" yells the girl next to me.

Next act: a small, uncertain Asian man standing at the mic with an iPod and an iPad. He sings a song about the subway that makes you wonder if you should laugh at the candor or listen in silent admiration at his belting bluesy voice with the telltale accent of a reformed Midwestern. Sure enough, he's from Ohio.

Third: middle aged man with a turtle neck and Dockers, singing about online dating.

Fourth: a guy approaches the mic with a mbira. Singing and playing thumb piano. Pretty cool, actually. Impressive. Next song he gets a little more traditional with a folk guitar.

In between each set the MC works his comedy on the apathetic crowd. I begin to wonder if laughter is too mainstream. At some point he starts speaking solely to the few people sitting immediately stageside.

Next up: keys and drums duo where the sound feels a little too big for the space and I can't be sure the two are entirely in sync. But they're having fun and it reminds me of the jam sessions I used to have with an amateur band in Israel. Not meant for anyone's pleasure but their own, and in a space like this that's ok.

Sixth: a vocal duo comprised of a black guy wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting winter hat, a busty white girl with thick-rimmed glasses, and one beautiful blend of voices serenading the diminishing crowd.

Seventh: the hip hop freestyler wearing a button up shirt and tie with a black scarf draped around his neck.

Number eight: Jamaican hip hop artist trying to infuse a little more excitement in the room than we have, but we go along with it.

Nine: a bald man who reminds me of James Taylor with folksy lyrics, an easy voice, and six steel strings. A far cry from the performer who proceeded him but a change of pace that feels normal in this hodgepodge home of rebels and dreamers.

Last: like the last performer, but 20 years younger with a sound 20 years newer.

The one thing each performer has in common is the complete and total honesty with which they approach the stage, ready and willing to share their passion with a roomful of critical strangers. This open mic is bringing out some impressive talent - timid people with big voices and big dreams, probably confined in their own lives until they get to the microphone and set their voices free.

As for the audience, I know I'm being harsh on this crowd of strangers, but it really is fascinating to observe this particular side of Brooklyn in a large group. The fact of the matter is, though, Tomm and I are probably not as far removed from them as we'd like to make ourselves believe.