Coney Island: New York City & The Lost Photo

I should’ve spent more time on Coney Island when I lived in New York. It’s one of those places that slip through the cracks, not because it’s forgettable, but because you assume you’ll get around to it. And then you don’t. And by the time you realize it, the moment’s already behind you.

When I first moved to the city, I wanted to see everything. Even the places locals roll their eyes at. I wanted to experience the full texture of the city. But some things wore thin fast, like the dance troupes. They weren’t bad, just everywhere: the same routines, same corners, day after day. It made it harder for the one-off buskers to carve out space.

Early on, my mom said something that stuck: “Take mental notes of the little things that are unique to New York, things that’ll eventually feel ordinary.” I did. The first was the steam rising from the sidewalk grates. I remember the feel of it on my fingers, the sound it made beneath the city. It still lives in me, like the hiss of cold water on a hot pan.

I used to wander Times Square just because I could. It was almost always crowded. Most locals avoided it. But those blocks belong to New York alone. I was there when the ticker tape announced Michael Jackson’s cardiac arrest. I watched the coverage on the jumbo screens. Later, I saw footage of us—me and the others—standing near the TKTS booth, watching ourselves watch the ambulance pull away from his ranch.

One night, after closing down Carlow East—our bar on the Upper East Side—we hopped on the subway and headed for Brooklyn. It was almost 6:00 AM when we got off near Coney Island. We walked toward the sunrise and found a spot by the bay. No one said much. We were all sorting through our own quiet.

A fisherman climbed over the rocks, and we took it as a cue to move. I like to think he was making his way to the same spot he would stand every morning, his fishing pole in hand, an ice chest next to his feet. The boardwalk was empty. The breeze was cool. The ocean smelled like salt and memory. The wooden planks creaked underfoot. Something about it felt sacred. We climbed onto a lifeguard stand and took a photo. I don’t know where that photo is now. Maybe someone still has it.

Later, we passed a diner, somewhere near Bensonhurst, I think. We stopped for breakfast. I couldn’t tell you what I ate. That part doesn’t matter. I was tired. A little drunk. But mornings like that don’t fade, even when blurred. They settle in. They stay. I’m looking forward to walking that boardwalk again and sitting on the beach, maybe finding that diner.