Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 17: Far Rockaway to Coney Island
Saturday, 22 November 2025

Today: 33491 steps/25.91 km/16.10 mi/4h 36m
Total: 774963 steps/591.93 km/367.81 mi/104h 30m

I've long wondered what it would be like to live in different neighborhoods of New York City for a month each. Not just the obvious (the East Village, Flushing, Astoria, Washington Heights) but the places less talked about: Gerritsen Beach, City Island, Roosevelt Island, Tottenville. And now Whitestone, which I walked through that first day, almost three weeks ago.

Far Rockaway was never on my radar despite having the extra appeal of being at the end of the subway line and at the very edge of the city. Before this walk, I'd approached the place on foot twice, once from Long Beach and once via Central Avenue, as I did yesterday. But those were at the end of long exploring days, and I never took the time to investigate.

I have another look this morning. It rained overnight, and there's still a hint of mist. The main plaza, opposite the subway entrance, has a large fruit-and-vegetable stand: the city's answer to the farm stands out east. This morning everything is covered as rain protection. There's also a statue of two lovebirds, one black and one white, intertwined, perhaps a suggestion of the harmony we might strive for.

I walk up to the Long Island Rail Road station and can barely find it, tucked away down a side street across from a construction site promising affordable housing. I get there just before the 10:11 is ready to depart. It's a minute or two after the designated time, and the doors have closed. A woman approaches the conductor in the last car and knocks on the window, showing him her ticket.

He motions for her to board at the next car. As she's walking there, the train starts to pull away.

"You didn't tell me you were leaving!" she says to the conductor as he's carried by.

"We're late," he says.

The next train is in an hour. She accepts her fate, and I head back to the plaza to start segment 17.

A few family members are gathering for brunch at noon at the home of my second cousin in Rockaway Beach. I have only an hour's walking to do but almost two hours to do it.

The plaza area had seemed rough, but once I'm south of the subway station, the densely set houses are inviting, with holiday decorations, kids, and dogs. A couple of side streets bring me back to the elevated subway line, and I walk under it for a few stations. There isn't walking space apart from the painted no-driving zone in the middle, but there also isn't much traffic.

Beach Dunes Eats & Arts is part restaurant and part culinary school that sources ingredients from local urban farms. I want just a snack, but I end up with the full breakfast of waffles, eggs, sausage, and cheese grits. It takes longer than expected, but it's all made with love and the staff are friendly.

The remainder of my hot chocolate comes with me to the beach boardwalk, which is separated from the road by a median that includes a playground, a ball court, a skateboarding park, public restrooms, and various other useful amenities. In warmer weather, there are a couple of cafes. It's a lovely use of space.

I pick up prosecco before ringing the doorbell. My cousins have lox sandwiches and Middle Eastern dips, and Karen — the same Karen who's responsible for the Abecedarian Walks in the first place, who found out in 2020 that I was going to walk Aruba and Zanzibar and said I would have to fill in the alphabet — has brought family photos. My mother signed one of them at age five, and there's a picture of my grandmother from 1922.

I continue along the boardwalk until it becomes Ocean Promenade. My grandmother lived here while I was growing up, and all I remember is the red elevator. Karen dug out the address, and I get caught inspecting the entrance to the brick building.

"Are you all right there?" The residents are more protective now than they were in 1980.

"Yes. My grandmother used to live here. I was just seeing what I remembered."

"What was your grandmother's name?" She looks about my age.

"Pearl Ginsberg. It would have been in the seventies."

"I know of Pearl. That would have been before me, but I think she lived on the third floor."

That sounds right to me, too. There was a balcony with a view of the ocean. They've since painted the elevator tan, but it's still the same one, with a circular window, and I can picture myself pushing the button.

The promenade ends and I head inland to continue my progress west on Rockaway Beach Boulevard. After a few minutes I reach the Belle Harbor Jewish Center, where my parents were married. It's marked as Congregation Ohab Zedek on the map, but the letters are still there, plated into the wood above the doors. I picture my grandmother walking over to the wedding — my grandfather had died nine years prior, but his legacy lives on in the photos and paintings he made of New York City and his time in Cuba.

The boulevard fizzles out near Jacob Riis Park (popular with nudists, though not in late November) and it's time to cross the Marine Parkway Bridge into Brooklyn. The Long Island town of Lynbrook was named by Brooklynites who swapped the syllables after settling there, as I learned from Lawrence R. Samuel's "Making Long Island" (I had to get back to him eventually). On the other side, I pass Floyd Bennett Field, a World War II naval station, before taking the path across the Gerritsen Inlet over to Plumb Beach.

The sun sets as I arrive. I walk along the beach, partly because I don't want my last beach memory to be climbing out of a trench. A compact disc attached to a black ball with long laces floats by, as if carried by the wind, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's a dog with a toy in its mouth. It takes a few more moments before I find the owner, coming onto the beach from an unlikely direction.

It's unclear how to emerge from the beach to Emmons Avenue, the road that leads to Brighton Beach. The path I find is barely that, strewn with trash, and I hop a small fence and invent my own route uphill to reach the park in front of the road.

I know Emmons Avenue, which runs parallel to Sheepshead Bay. There's a seafood buffet that I've long wanted to try. Past that is Baku Palace, an Azeri restaurant where a Scottish friend of mine used to perform in the gaudy show. Opposite the restaurants is a marina with for-hire boats in the warmer months.

I take the pedestrian bridge across Sheepshead Bay and make my way to the boardwalk, resisting the temptation to branch right onto Brighton Beach Avenue. The avenue leads to the heart of the Russian commercial zone, past the Kashkar Cafe (specializing in the Uighur food of western China), the Arkadia market (where I often stock up on spreads such as forshmak, made with herring, eggs, and onions), and the giant NetCost Market (good for lox bits and cheese) — and that's all before the main stretch west of the Brighton Beach subway station.

It's officially called the Riegelmann Boardwalk, but I never remember that until I see a sign. There's just the faintest deep-purple glow now, almost an hour past sunset. A few people are on the boardwalk or the covered areas toward the beach, smoking, walking dogs, or chatting. It's about 15 minutes to the aquarium and then Coney Island. The amusement park won't operate again until March, but one frozen-margarita stand hangs on, beckoning with hip-hop music.

Four subway lines converge at the massive Stillwell Avenue terminus, and yet the last ten minutes of the walk are past countless vehicle-repair shops along the dark, ugly avenue. There's scarcely any indication that my hotel is down one of the side streets, where car fixing is going on. But eventually I find the entrance to the Best Western.

My plan all along has been to wait until dinnertime (maybe watch the end of the Michigan-Maryland football game, but it's not on) and then head back to Brighton Beach for a Russian dinner. But I remember that there's one oddball restaurant out of the main zone, and I'm probably staying close to it. I haven't been to Orange Grill in about 15 years, and I have no idea whether it's still operating, but there it is on the map, with recent reviews.

I don't know whether they'll let me in with Hokas and jeans, but I'm welcomed to the bar, the only person to sit there. Everyone else is at tables of 10 or 20, ages 20 to 90, gathered around giant plates of rack of lamb, skirt steak, and sushi rolls. Most, but not all, are dressed up.

The DJ introduces everyone who's having a birthday, which is everyone except me, and they all pose for photos on the dance floor. There's a giant swinging chair for special snapshots.

I have a glass of Beluga vodka and take in the scene. While I consume caviar-topped foie gras, a glorified spicy-tuna roll, and a risotto-stuffed quail, the music gets louder, and people flood the dance floor. The music is a combination of American pop, rap, and Russian and Middle Eastern tunes. And the obligatory "Besame mucho." The service is friendly, and everyone is welcome. No one talks to me except the bartender. I don't mind.

It's another world. Far Rockaway was another world. So was the bar in Hampton Bays. And the three-hour dinner banquets on Dogojima. And my flooded cabin approach on Hiiumaa. And the go-wherever-you-want mentality on Yell. Bloodthirsty dogs on Niue. Impossibly lonely stretches on Kangaroo Island. Threats from Nigel on Zanzibar. Celebrating the new year with a dog on Quinchao.

Strike that. It's all the same world, no?

Go on to day 18