The Horror at Ikea*:

Distant ships and giant head seen from Erie Basin Park

Red Hook is arguably one of Brooklyn's best-known neighborhoods, acclaimed for its artistic and literary prowess and shipyards, and most recently Ikea, but notorious for its crime and isolation. Despite considering myself a Brooklyn resident, I had never been there, and felt inclined to check it out. What I saw from the street was an abnormally diverse, unique neighborhood, in both its people and its construction.

The neighborhood is a peninsula jutting out into Gowanus Bay. It used to be bigger than it is now, including what is now Carroll Gardens, until the construction of the Gowanus Expressway separated the two and cut Red Hook off from the rest of the borough. It is difficult to get to by the subway, serviced only by the F and G trains at Smith-9th Streets, a station that bears the distinction of being the highest elevated station in the MTA system, at approximately ninety feet. The station is somewhat outside of the neighborhood. The lack of subway access has further isolated the neighborhood, giving it, for me, an certain air of mystery.

Upon descending the endless escalators in the station, I stepped out onto a heavily industrial street over the Gowanus Canal and headed west into Red Hook. Not knowing where I was going, I opted to mirror the route of the B77 bus, which would loop me along to Ikea, and show me the southeast corner of the neighborhood.

Red Hook in some ways reminds me of my neighborhood, Bushwick, in its mix of still-functioning industrial business and half-rejuvenated, half-decrepit housing. However, Red Hook seems older, more historical, with cobblestone streets, a curious grid, and buildings that just seemed to have been plopped down wherever there was room. There was also a wider mix of people. To be frank, middle-aged white women are a rare sight in Bushwick, and in Red Hook I saw many.

On Lorraine Street, I noticed a stalled condo across the street from the Red Hook Houses, the city's largest housing project. Its balconies would have looked directly onto the red bricks of one of the buildings of the enormous complex, whose high crime rate prompted Life magazine to call Red Hook the "crack capital of America" in 1992.

The amusingly-named Clinton-Bush Park is not named for our former presidents, but for its cross streets. It borders on the sprawling Red Hook Park, where the well-manicured baseball fields are loomed over by a blackened former factory. Across from the ballfields on Sigourney Street is the Red Hook Community Farm, where local kids learn about sustainability while growing organic produce. The farm possesses a jarringly incongruous tractor-crossing street sign.

In front of Rocky Sullivan's Tap Room on Dwight Street, I introduce myself to Cheryl, a middle-aged black women walking her Yorkshire Terrier, Sam. She has lived in Red Hook for fifteen years, so she has seen some changes in the neighborhood, some good, some bad. She does like the Ikea, though: "I bought a lamp there that looks good in my kitchen," she says.

I finally make it to Ikea, that shining beacon of civility and efficient Swedish design. It is built right on Erie Basin, which is home to still-functioning ship repair docks. A thoroughly modern park is around Ikea extending out onto the former docks. Inside, with nothing to buy, I have a delicious dinner of meatballs, mashed potatoes, and lingonberry sauce while looking out at the Statue of Liberty.

Mmm, meatball!

*This is a reference to the H.P. Lovecraft story "The Horror at Red Hook." Hilarious joke!