Well, if Williamsburg wasn’t already “over” it certainly is now.
I remember making a phone call to my mother on August 1, 2003 sitting on the step of Northside Pharmacy. I called to tell her I had found an apartment I loved on Bedford Avenue in… Brooklyn. And that yeah, it seemed safe, enough.
Much has changed in those magical ten years — for me and for Williamsburg.
Having just returned from my old neighborhood, which I often still describe as my first true love, I can comfortably say that it was “over” well before the worst coffee in America opened doors at its epicenter.
I recall distinctly a 2010 summer afternoon when I ran into the ever-expressive, Williamsburg OG, Patrick, who, after observing the circus of 22 year-old idiots parading down Bedford Avenue as we sat on a stoop drinking non-Dunkin Donut coffee, nearly screamed, “This place is a joke! And I can’t have all these jokes in my face!”
I moved that fall. But in truth, my heart does still linger there.