I'd been told that the famous opening sequence of Saturday Night Fever—where John Travolta runs work errands and buys pizza like no other mortal—took place on 86th Street in Bay Ridge.  I'm all ready for the elevated train, the working-class vibe, the pizzerias, the inevitable statue of the guy in mid-strut on the sidewalk.  Instead I get a boring—sorry, Bay Ridge—series of houses.  I go inside a corner shop and was told, by someone who looked like he'd been asked before, that the scene was actually filmed closer to Bensonhurst or Bath Beach, outside the neighborhood limits. 

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Or "Little Odessa," as they call it, because it's actually a mix of Russians, Ukrainians, and other former Soviet citizens who have come to call the beachside community of Brighton Beach home.  This is the extreme south of Brooklyn; Greenpoint, where you can find Little Poland, is at its extreme northern point.  Which, really, is probably for the best, if not a clever ploy to invade New York's most populous borough in a dreaded Slavic pincer movement.

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The Coney Island Museum is a lovely little one-floor upstairs deal in an old building at Surf Ave. and W 12th St.  Sideshows go on down below, in the same rooms where they began back in the early part of the twentieth centruy.  Because the appeal of bearded ladies, mermaids, and sword eaters has been a constant since humans first learned to mock and subsequently admire.  So this museum is full of old, sometimes very old, Coney Island memorabilia--like old rickshaws and bumper cars and plaintive, wholesome postcards.  The best part is the docuentary on the island's history.  Ric Burns made it; he's Ken's younger brother and he makes his docs in the exact same style, which is good for now. 

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You kids may not know this, but back in the day the Flatiron Building used to cause a tremendous wind tunnel right by the entrance.  I'm not making this up!  The wind had a habit of lifting those enormous dresses then in fashion, and inevitably a bunch of fin-de-siecle perverts took to lounging against the Flatiron Building for some look-sees.

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The Meatpacking District at night is an endless montage of pressed shirts, huge bouncers, tight dresses, heels, etc. You know the deal; I guess the outsized gentrification of this area is old news. I'm taking a breather, very aware that I won't be entering most rides in this carnival of sleekness, when a huge guy in a hardhat and a sign sits next to me. "Give me money so I can get drunk so two women can molest me," it reads.  I'm really barely paraphrasing.

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