New York's Smallest Neighborhood is Very, Very Odd

The 'hood that thinks it's a rice paddy that thinks it's a yard sale!!

Hello everyone,

Welcome to Issue #113 of CAFÉ ANNE!

So much to discuss!

First, I was visiting family in Buffalo when NYC got hit with a 4.8 magnitude earthquake. Not exactly earth-shattering, but I was sorry to miss out! These communal events bring out the best in New Yorkers, including our entrepreneurial spirit. This tee-shirt, for instance, was spotted in a Manhattan storefront within hours of the quake:

I was happy to return in time for the solar eclipse. The city’s streets, parks and plazas were jammed with happy crowds sharing cardboard glasses. It’s so great when we can all share something fun together. But I got the biggest kick from my neighbor José when, later that day, I asked how he’d enjoyed the eclipse. “I watched it on TV!” was his gleeful response. “I didn’t even have to move!”

In other news, I realized, too late, that I shouldn’t have published last issue’s feature, “I Ate Nothing But Dog Food for Seven Days Straight!” on April 1st. Many assumed it was an April Fool’s joke. What’s the point of eating kibble for a week if no one thinks you actually did it?

At least some readers took it seriously. “I suggest you stay away from fire hydrants,” my Uncle Ralph wrote in a note.

My favorite response was an email from reader Ritam in Brooklyn: “This is f—ing disgusting, Anne. Respect.”

Meanwhile, my request for good questions to ask random NYC teenagers produced nearly two dozen great ideas from readers. Look for the first round of NYC Teen Roulette in the next issue!

Finally, I was thrilled when my appeal for support produced 39 new paid subscriptions—the most ever in one week!

So here we go: NYC Tulip Mania shoutouts to new paid subscribers Sophie F., Herber, Mark S., Daniel S., Jen, Joslyn H., Anne M., Veronica F., Woodson S., Greg G., Anie, Sarah T., Nancy F., Lee, Felicia, Charla B., Amelia W., Jill M., Daniel S.C., Ava H., JA Moocat, Nancy C., Julie P., Nina R., Alisa B., YY, Ramon, Jen G., Elizabeth B., Valerie S., Juliane S., Ruth J., Lynn M., Krissy F., Jack C., Eric R. Dominic E., Caroline R. and especially Phil G. who sprang for a $100 founding membership. That’s enough $$$ for 170 bodega tulip bouquets!

A few readers, meanwhile, wrote to say they’d rather not subscribe through Substack because they don’t like the platform’s content moderation policies, and asked about alternative ways to support CAFÉ ANNE. So here are the deets on sending donations:

Venmo: https://account.venmo.com/u/AnneKadet

PayPal: https://paypal.me/annekadet

Zelle ID: annekadet@yahoo.com

Check/cash/gold bullion in the mail: 100 Remsen St. Apt. 6D, Brooklyn NY 11201.

I am very excited for this week’s issue, of course. For the latest in my series of community profiles, “The Neighborhood Speaks!,” I journeyed to Meadowmere, a bonkers section of southeast Queens. It’s probably the least NYC neighborhood in NYC, but it’s still got plenty of attitude! Please enjoy.

Regards!

Anne

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD SPEAKS!

NYC’s Smallest Neighborhood is Very, Very Odd

Meadowmere, a tiny neighborhood in Queens which looks like a cross between a fishing village and a yard sale, used to get swamped by the high tide every full moon. These days, it's flooded pretty much always.

For residents, this is both a curse and a blessing. While it's a hassle to live in what amounts to an urban rice paddy, the situation ensures that only folks of a certain character live in Meadowmere, and that's how the locals like it.

I'd never heard of Meadowmere until recently, when writer and photographer Rob Stephenson profiled the community in his "The Neighborhoods" newsletter.

(Mr. Stephenson, by the way, is on a mission to visit every neighborhood in NYC and his accounts—featuring his wonderful, quietly hilarious photos—are a highlight of my week every Thursday. The newsletter is free, and you really should subscribe!)

Last month, Mr. Stephenson wrote about how Meadowmere encompasses just four narrow lanes, six blocks and one store—a live bait shop. His photos depicted a scene I can only describe as Seaside Apocalypse. But as is typical of his accounts, the profile was curiously devoid of people. I knew I had to go there and meet a few locals to find out: what kind of person lives in NYC's least NYC neighborhood?

It's not easy to get to Meadowmere, a tiny triangle jutting into Jamaica Bay east of JFK airport. The journey from my home in Brooklyn Heights took two hours by bus and train.

Nor is it easy to find. When the Q114 bus dropped me off on a dismal stretch of the eight-lane nightmare that is Rockaway Turnpike, I was glad I had directions from Mr. Stephenson. The entire enclave is hidden behind a strip mall housing a pawn shop and a check cashing store. You'd never know it was there.

But it was worth the journey. The scene greeting me when I found my way in was like nothing I've ever seen in New York City. The streets were covered with lake-sized puddles several inches deep. The bungalows, surrounded by chain link fencing, featured front yards crammed with boats, old school buses, traffic cones, propane tanks, cinderblocks and pallets. Perhaps a third of the lots are used for equipment storage including a scrap metal yard offering two horse trailers, restaurant equipment and a rusted Bobcat.

I also enjoyed the schizophrenic nature of the yard signage. Many properties feature plaques warning "No Trespassing," "Beware of Dog" and "Surveillance Cameras in Use," alongside a more cheerful greeting: "WELCOME."

What I didn't see—actual people. Which had me concerned. Meadowmere has just 60 residents, according to Wikipedia, and I’d arrived on a Monday morning, when most folks were likely at work. What if there was no one around to chat?

Then I spotted a man out in his yard, or maybe he spotted me first. "Can I help you?" he asked, approaching from behind his chain link fence.

This greeting can sometimes come off as a polite warning. But Tommy Devanzo, who had taken the day off to work on his boat, was smiling. And when I explained I was writing a story about Meadowmere, he gave me a little tour of his property, a brick cottage overlooking Jamaica Bay's Hook Creek.

Like many Meadowmere residents, Mr. Devanzo owns a motorboat and is a dedicated fisherman: "We got striped bass come through here," he said. "We got flounder come through here, crabs, a lot of bait fish."

But he can't launch the 22-foot Keepin' it Reel from his yard, because, as he noted, there's "too much junk in the way." Indeed, the shoreline was littered with an impressive array of debris.

Originally from Astoria, Mr. Devanzo moved to Meadowmere 24 years ago when he married his wife, who already lived in the cottage: "It's the only brick house on the block!"

He works as handyman and said his neighbors include an electrician named Joe who fixes neon signs, Larry, a commercial fisherman, and a bus driver. But there was likely no one else home in the middle of the day. "They're probably all working," he said.

Except, maybe...Mr. Devanzo walked me through an enormous street puddle and around the corner to a yellow bungalow on the other side of the bait shop. "That's where Mary and Bebop live," he said. "They might be home."

"The one that says 'No Admittance?'" I said, pointing out the sign on the front gate.

He shrugged. "See how you do with them."

Mr. Devanzo resumed working on his boat, and I decided to try my luck with Mary and Bebop. Alas, the gate guarding the front walk was fastened with plastic ties, so I couldn't get to the front door.

Reader, I don't know what got into me, but I crept through the side yard—crammed with a half-dozen motorboats—and approached the house again. Inside, I heard someone running a vacuum cleaner, and by jumping up and down beside the tall fence, I could just make out the figure of a large man in an orange plaid bathrobe cleaning his living room. I waited until he shut off the appliance before I started yelling "Hello!" hopping up and down and waving my arms.

The fellow really should have told me to get off his damn lawn, but instead he stepped out onto the deck and chatted over the fence for an hour.

Bebop!

The 76-year-old Vietnam vet, who owns the bait shop next door (it's closed on Mondays), confirmed that his name is indeed Bebop.

"Nobody calls me Bob," he said. "I used to be dancing around the TV when I was little, snapping my fingers and dancing. That's how I got the name. Mommy said, 'He's a little bebop, this kid,' and it stuck! They still call me that."

"Everyone down here, no one knows their real names because we all got nicknames, like Mousy," he continued. "One guy's name is Mousy, because he's always so quiet. And Shaky, he's always shakin'. Everyone's got names."

I asked what it's like living in Meadowmere.

"It's pretty nice," said Bebop. "Nobody even knows we're down here. You know? If you looked from the highway, you wouldn't even know. And the tide, you get used to it. You live by the moon. Every time you see the moon coming in, you pick everything up."

It was hard to imagine picking everything up. Beyond the boats, Bebop's yard treasure included a two-story children's fort, pallets, a propane tank, a large H&R Block sign, fire extinguishers, outboard motors, a picnic cooler and enough plastic lawn chairs for an outdoor wedding.

The best part about living in Meadowmere? "The crime rate's about zero-zero-zero-point-one," said Bebop. "That's about it. Because everyone knows not to come down here and mess with stuff."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Because after [Hurricane] Sandy, we had to run all the looters out of here," he said. "With our rifles and our shotguns—run them out of the neighborhood! I was standing here, my neighbor was out there with his rifles out, my nephew was there with a pump shotgun. Yeah! We started shootin’ up in the air and said, 'You'll get shot in the butt if you don't get out of here!'"

"So you kind of got a reputation after that," I observed. "Do you ever get strangers coming through now?"

"Once in a while," said Bebop. "I just run them off. I just tell them to get outta here. I come out with the rifle: 'You're trespassing, get out of here. That's the last warning you get!'"

"I'm lucky you didn't come after me with a rifle!" I said.

"Yeah, the neighbors do that too, you know?" he said. "We get a lot of dubious characters coming through. The hippies and the yuppies. Taking pictures, you know? I don't know if they're going to come back, rob the house at night."

He told me a bit about his life. He traps eels in the bay; his wife and grandson help with the bait shop. He hasn't been to Manhattan since 1974. And from his account, it sounds like the war really did a number on him: "I was so messed up from the jungle, I didn't leave my room for three years.”

He still can't get a good night's sleep, but life has its consolations. He writes poetry, inspired by the beauty of the bay, and does his best to help others, hoping to make up for the war.

"I bake, I sew, I cook," he continued. "Stupid stuff, like cakes and cookies. Steaks, sausage and peppers. My first wife and my second wife, they didn't cook, either one. I had to learn to cook for myself!"

Bebop's current wife Mary (who he says is an excellent cook), came out to see what was happening. When I told her I was writing a story about Meadowmere, she shook her head and indicated I should focus on her husband. "He loves to gab—he'll talk all day long."

"Can I ask one more really stupid question?" I said. "If Meadowmere was an animal, what animal would it be?

Bebop answered immediately: "I'd say a honey badger!"

"A what?" said Mary.

"A honey badger!" said Bebop. "Because they're very quiet, but you don't want to poke 'em!"

It was now lunchtime, and I was very hungry. There's nowhere to eat or even sit down in Meadowmere, but there is a little parking lot on 3rd Street, so I sat on a puddle-free stretch of asphalt to enjoy my bag lunch. Then, to my delight, I saw a lady emerge from the house across the way. She was bearing an orange cafeteria tray piled with a mountain of food which she tossed at the seagulls crowding the lot.

I ventured over and asked what she was feeding the birds. "Bread, onion rings, cookies—this is stew chicken," she said, holding up a thigh.

"Do you feed them a lot?" I asked. "They look like they know you."

"They know me!" she said. "Every time I go out in the morning, when I go to work, they are so happy to see me."

Connie!

Connie Kunkel is an accountant. She usually works on weekdays, but took the day off for the eclipse. Her husband, it turns out, is Joe the neon-sign electrician!

Joe moved to Meadowmere first, about 20 years ago, Ms. Kunkel arrived in 2015. "I'm from the Philippines!" she said. "I worked in Dubai, then I'm visiting my family here, and we were introduced, and then me and my husband, we got married."

"I bet you never imagined you'd be living in a neighborhood like this," I said.

"I know!" said Ms. Kunkel. "We always get flooded! But the good thing is, because of the floods, you know, people get scared to live here. We basically know everybody here, so we have a good neighborhood."

Neighbors bring her fresh-caught fish and crabs, she said, and they visit each others' homes for happy hour.

"How long do you think you'll stay?" I asked.

"We're not going anywhere. We're not going anywhere!" said Ms. Kunkel. "We love it here."

I spent another half hour wandering around Meadowmere and taking photos. But with only six blocks to wander, it got a little repetitive. And there didn't seem to be anyone else around. "I should go home," I told myself. But something was missing.

I did another lap, and that's when it happened—an angry lady came out on her porch and pointed at me.

"What are you doing, taking photos?" she demanded.

I gave her my best smile and explained I was writing a story about the neighborhood.

"You can't go around taking pictures of everybody's house," she said. "You know that, don't you? You need to leave."

While she wasn't wielding a shotgun, she definitely had death-ray laser eyes.

Satisfied that I had now enjoyed the full Meadowmere experience, I booked out and caught the Q114 bus back to the A-train, feeling extremely pleased.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

“I was up all night reading to see how the sentence would end.”

—My “friend” Aharon, on plowing through a Henry James novel

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