i discovered just this evening that astroland at coney island is closing down at the end of this summer. the property has been sold to be developed into luxury high-rises and shopping, a casualty of the gentrification the area has been experiencing recently

hearing the news, a wave of sadness washed over me – that desolate, bereft feeling you get when something precious to memory has been lost forever. although i haven’t lived there in more than ten years, i still consider myself to be, at heart, a brooklyn girl. and there is nothing more quintessentially brooklyn than coney island.

living in the heart of the city, tangled deep in the web of subway lines and congested overpasses, when the heat becomes an unbearable shimmering blanket hanging over everything, you head for the beach. the well-heeled head for the beaches of the hamptons, and the masses take the subway to coney island.

getting off at the end of the F train, it hits you immediately. the long ramp out lined with souvenir vendors selling plastic tack and stuffed animals. the cloying smell of hot syrup as bits of escaped sugary fluff float about like pollen. the omnipresent sizzle of italian sausages and onions on a flat grill. it’s easy to see the tattered edges of a faded glory – seediness has crept in. the music is too loud, the lights too gaudy, gamesmen hawking in that nasal new yawk accent. it’s hard at first glance to see the appeal. the standard amusement rides are nothing special – a himalaya, go karts, zipper. others are relics of a bygone age: the boardwalk freak show, the parachute drop which closed years ago but still towers above like a decrepit memorial. still, there are some attractions that the newer, shinier rides will never be able to hold a candle to, like the ferris wheel with its free-sliding carriages… and of course, the cyclone, which remains one of america’s scariest rollercoaster by virtue of inducing the feeling that at any second you might fly out from underneath the old-style safety bar and plummet to the tracks below.

after a few bone-jarring rides, and a lunch of sweaty hot dogs and beer, everyone heads for the boardwalk. the boardwalk benches long since comandeered by eccentric fixtures with facial tattoos or mental illness. the beach crowded with throngs of young families and their strollers, along with a contingent of old world russian women and men who swim in their dingy cotton underwear and tan their considerable leathery bellies.

you’d be forgiven for thinking it doesn’t sound like anything particularly special. but coney island is a deep, rich part of new york city history and character. it’s romantic and eclectic and a fixture of summer. it’s a microcosm of brooklyn, and even new york itself – a living tribute to the past, woven through the stories of generations of families. the backdrop for years of engagement proposals, teenage group outings and family vacations. it’s a relic of previous eras that somehow manages to remain relevant today. and if you can see past the cheap plastic prizes, the scruffy paintjobs, and the deep fried food stalls, if you just squint a little and take a deep whiff of popcorn… you can almost see the ghosts of girls wearing poodle skirts and swaggering boys in jackets lining up for the cyclone.

coney island is part of any brooklynites soul, and it’s a sad, sad day when pieces of your soul are sold to property developers for sea-front condominiums.

(courtesy of wally g)

(courtesy of jgmundie)

(courtesy of jgmundie)

(courtesy of jeanettics)

(courtesy of drbrian)

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