In Search of Some Peace and Quiet

So close, yet so far... (or, The Deep End #2)

In search of some peace and quiet, I found myself in a peculiar place. Well, peculiar for some folks, perhaps not you — or me. But peculiar to, hm, I’d say a majority. Living in New York City (Brooklyn as of late, previously Queens), I tend to search for the finer things in life.

Finer, of course, to people living in a different time. Most of my family doesn’t get the need for escape from the city. I’m met with a raised eyebrow every time I try to get someone to join me on an excursion in the outer reaches of Westchester (“Hey! You mean upstate, right? I don’t go upstate.”) Dot dot dot…

Since I’ve moved to Brooklyn, life has been different.

My home in Queens was the perfect nesting ground for a city slicker itching for a way out of the heat. At the crossroads of four major highways, I could be in Long Island, Westchester, and beyond in under thirty minutes. Traffic depending, that is.

Now, in Brooklyn, it’s a daily battle to the death. Blood can be drawn from a number of things.

Parking spots.

Garbage on the sidewalk.

Traffic jams. (The foundation of the BQE deserves to be shot into outer space.)

Who has the best: pizza, sandwiches, hair curlers, vintage-antique soda.

Did I mention parking spots?

Yes, I did, actually. Parking is found at a premium. The commuting individual, such as myself, who needs to drive to work (and YES I actually have to), is subject to harrowing bouts of traffic to get wherever the hell they’re going. Upon their miraculous return, it’s an all out bloodbath. If someone finds a parking spot, they cling onto it for weeks. If you manage to park in someone’s “spot”, you or your loved ones may be entitled to the following:

Garbage flung at your car.

Key marks along the sides of the vehicle.

Nails strewn under your tires.

A few “go f*ck yourself”’s being muttered while walking past the home of a person you’ve never ever seen in your life. Although you may not know of their existence, these people have it out for you. If you take “their spot” you are 100% at risk.

Nowhere is safe.

C-Town. The deli. The gas station. Church.

Midway through the motions of the sign of the cross, as you are quietly standing in a pew, a crucifix is plunged into your heart. Your last dying breaths are stifled. All you can hear is the man’s words to his wife, explaining himself. It was HIS spot, after all. A few churchgoers nod their heads in agreement with him as you nod off into oblivion. You never got to see what he looked like, either.

Where am I going with this?

Not sure.

Oh, wait. I remember now!

I was in search of some peace and quiet. I needed it today. It had been a long week. Overtime damn near every day. Harsh winds and rain in the beginning of the week. Deadlines. A Substack column to write. And a dumpling-making class, to boot. Okay, that last one was pretty fun.

Anyway.

Since parking spots are a premium (see above), I’ve been forced to change my ways. Gone are the weekends exploring the far reaches of all that can be made accessible in an hour drive. Just getting back home to Queens, which is only three miles away, can be a forty-five minute drive at times!

Before you roll your eyes to yourself for me driving in the city, know that the genius inventors of this “great city” never anticipated anyone from Brooklyn or Queens needing to go to either borough. So, to get to Bushwick from Forest Hills (a mere five miles) will take you over an hour on the subway. Thanks, Robert Moses!

I’m not sure if the ghost of Robert Moses is reading this, or if he had a hand in subway planning the way he did in the highways, but I’m using him anyway. It’s my column damnit.

What I’m saying is this. Instead of wandering through stretches of peaceful suburbia, quaint villages, mountains, and farmland, I’ve had to find the escape here. Without leaving this hellscape called NYC. REPRESENT!

Which brings me to today.

The work day had ended. My trek for inspiration was going to lead me straight to Gantry Plaza State Park. Really beautiful. Hands down my favorite place in the city. You may know it as the place in Long Island City with the Pepsi-Cola sign.

Melissa and I got into the car (give me a break), and embarked to Queens, which was about a mile and change away.

Thirty seconds into the drive it hit me.

All the people. All the traffic. THERE WOULD BE NO PARKING, for crying out loud!

My brain started savagely scouring the backlog. Any and every idea it could give me as to what to do and where to go. I needed to get to that sweet, sweet dopamine release.

By now, you may know (it’s OK if you don’t) that I usually take the first thing that pops into my head as a sign and follow it. This time was no different.

The cemetery.

Huh? What?

Yes. The cemetery was where I would go to find that blissful peace that I was searching for.

And I found it there, at Calvary Cemetery.

It’s disturbing that in the “greatest city in the world”, the most peaceful places are found in cemeteries. As disturbing as it is, and as disturbed as I may be for thinking this, it is true.

Not a soul was there. Hopefully they had all eradicated to Heaven by now. Otherwise there would be some bad eggs present. The coast seemed to be clear. The cemetery didn’t project any feeling of sadness. It had everything that one could ask for.

Picturesque views of the city, grass, aesthetically pleasing trees, rolling hills, the beautifully done Kosk-E-osk-Oh Bridge showering the landscape in multicolored glory. As the sky fell and made way for night, the colors in the distance danced in cotton candy and purple hues.

In other words, it was pretty cool. You can learn a lot at a cemetery. For starters, there must have been an insanely rich guy by the name of Johnston who once took up shop somewhere in the city. I’m judging this completely based on the impressive mausoleum that stood on the highest hill in the highest part of the cemetery. We were completely blown away by the sheer size of the structure.

Then you start thinking, who is Johnston? What did he do to amass such a fortune that would give him the ability to swing his, well you know, THING in front of all who enter the cemetery. I mean this thing is big. I’m talking about the mausoleum again. This thing is so huge that I’m sure it could be seen from the aforementioned bridge.

I’d love to know more about him.

Who was he? What did he do? Is anyone still around from his family that can dish me out a nice loan with low interest payments? These are the things to worry about, people! I mean, I need to afford to get out of the city one day, after all.

I’m going to go with the idea that Mr. or Mrs. Johnston was a BALLER. And you know what? In the city that never sleeps, in a search for peace and quiet, he found a place to rest. And for about an hour or so, I did too.