BROOKLYN CURES
by Tereza Novakova


I am an immigrant. Eastern Europe. Not Russia, not Poland. Not Czechoslovakia. But the Czech Republic. Contrary to what people think, my country is not part of Russia, we are not communistic, you can't get there by a car, and we split with Slovakia 15 Years ago without a war. We had two presidents but one country. So one sunny day the presidents cut a ribbon on the abstract border between countries. They smiled, shook hands and we all got drunk. Together.
Just as I did alone a couple years later when I flew to America. When I arrived, I squeezed my aunt and threw myself on the ground and kissed the New World. After that, I was served vodka everywhere I went. America was a vivid blur. But I remember running on a beach with little flags in my hands screaming."I l-o-o-ve America," firework sparks falling on my head. I remember crying under Niagara Falls. I remember eating the biggest hamburger of my entire life.
And then I remember meeting the beast. Meeting the city.
I was standing on top of one of those tall pointy buildings, the beast breathing and screaming a few meters from my chin. A Christmas scene all year round. Lightheaded, I thought about how much I like Christmas.
A few years later, I came back to America and moved to Brooklyn. I had no talent, I had no looks, I had no ambitions. I came back for the purest reason. I came back for love. I left a groving career, a loving family, my best friends and my roots. For love. And I would do it again. My love is an American. We got tired of going back and forth between countries so we flipped a coin one day and it said that I am the one who is going to leave. This time for good.
When I miss my old continent, I take a walk trough Brooklyn. It lightens me up.
I always get my day blessed around South 5th Street and Union Avenue. And when I dress up, I get my day blessed even more. Then suddenly I'm everyone's "darling" and "mami" and everybody cares so much how my day is going.
On Fridays, I pull my hair back, dress down and walk a few blocks south where I enter a silent black and white movie set. The Hassidic Jews are running around getting fresh challah and hummus. Everyone is in a hurry because soon the sun will set and they have to have everything ready for shabbat. Even the little kids are carrying huge bags with groceries.
When the weather is good, I ride my bike to the artsy part of Williamsburg. To the Bedford area. Where all the bartenders and waitresses are too good to be bartenders and waitresses. Because, really, they are all rock stars and actresses. I spend my money on sentiment and good food. Well, usually the food is sentimental too. I always make my rounds. The Polish butcher on Bedford has the best liverwurst - almost as good as Czech. Tops on North 6th Street has the delicious chocolate my grandparents used to give me. And when I find a Czech porcelain cup in a smelly thrift store, my sadness almost disappears.
Then I bike up Metropolitan Avenue and buy fresh Mozzarella from an old lady with hands as fragile as her life. I ask her how she is.
"Well, I'm jusr thankful that I can wake up and go to work. Every morning when I open my eyes I feel lucky. When I was young like you I wouldn't think this way but now that I am almost 90, I'm glad that I can stand up and go to work." Her eyes are light blue, flickering.
"Thank you." A big wave of warmth hits me.
My eyes are light blue, flickering.
Thank you, Brooklyn.

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