If you are a hipster and you come to New York City, you will undoubtedly go to Brooklyn. You will descend into a Manhattan train station and board the subway going downtown. The soothing scents of urine, bagels, and human sweat will pervade your senses. You will ride, carefree, until the sudden pull of the subway stopping thrusts you forward. You are off balance. When the subway doors shut, you will hold onto the cold, metal pole tightly. Your knuckles will glow white. 

Next to the door of the train, you will notice a woman seated in front of a subway map. You put her in a position of discomfort as you read the map behind her. Are you heading to the right place? You reach Brooklyn. You will exit the train at Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, Gowanus, Park Slope or Williamsburg -- no deeper into Brooklyn, of course. 

You will walk through the turnstile, stepping out of the subway station and onto the street. You admire all of the beautiful buildings - brownstones, old brick buildings, and warehouses. You notice the way that the people who live in Brooklyn dress. You blend in with their uniform: white-washed jeans and contrasting black shirts (men add beanies, high-top sneakers, and gelled hair). As you walk, you notice that people wear vintage clothes -- probably to reduce their carbon footprints. You saunter through Brooklyn proudly, now affirmed that you are a true hipster.

You will poke your head into a few boutiques, gourmet food markets, and gift shops. You marvel at your surroundings, saying “Look at how quaint these small buildings are!” or “This is such a refreshing change from the skyscrapers in Manhattan!” The stores’ familiarity will comfort you. You will see the occasional small business or “mom and pop” store and think, “how nice.” 

Ten years ago, if you had walked down that very same street, you would have only seen small businesses lining the sidewalk. Ten years ago, when I was five years old, I lived on President Street in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. Every morning, I climbed onto my dad’s shoulders and we began our morning routine. I steered my dad to our destination, tugging on his right ear to turn him right and his left ear to turn him left. We passed Monteleone’s classic Italian bakery and the Carroll Gardens fish market on Court Street. Eventually, we reached the intersection of Court and Union. We walked into Joe’s Diner. 

Many mornings, we went out for breakfast at Joe’s Diner. We always shared a Western omelette. We sat in the same green pleather seats in the corner of the restaurant. Later known as pleather, naugahyde was the first rubber-based artificial leather invented. From its place of origin in Naugatuck, Connecticut’s rubber factory, naugahyde was imported all over Brooklyn to line the seats of many neighborhood diners. 

We always sat by the entrance to the kitchen. As we waited for our meal, we smelled pancakes and bacon from the kitchen. If we breathed deep enough, we could smell the lemon scented disinfectant on the naugahyde seats. We made small talk with the waitress, Flo. She had a thick Staten Island accent and a jet-black pixie cut. “Good morning! Are you looking forward to seeing your friends today at school?” she’d ask me as she leaned in to give me a hug. Her perfume was as thick as her accent.

As I shoveled mouthfuls of gooey western omelette into my mouth, I watched the patrons of Joe’s Diner come in and out. They were all portly, older Italian men who had been living in Carroll Gardens since birth. Noel was a rooftop pigeon whisperer. He belonged to a club of pigeoners who raced their birds three seasons of the year, just as they had done in the city of Bari in Italy. During the turn of the 20th century, Italian immigrants arrived in Carroll Gardens. Most worked on the Red Hook docks or at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Italian-owned businesses and statues of the Virgin Mary reveal their influence in the neighborhood.

When I was seven years old, my dad and I stopped going to Joe’s Diner. For a while, I did not notice its absence as I continued going about my second grade life. After some time, I realized that I had not seen the green naugahyde chairs or smelled the lemon scented cleanser for a long time. I asked my dad why we no longer went to breakfast at Joe’s Diner. He shrugged, and explained that they had gone out of business. Most likely, Joe’s closed as a consequence of the neighborhood’s increasing rent, but it may also have been a result of the owner’s arrest for money laundering and racketeering.

Carroll Gardens is nothing like it was ten years ago. Once an eclectic and lively Italian immigrant neighborhood, it has transformed into a haven for big box stores and overpriced coffee. Now, Flo and Noel are missing. Flo does not hug me and ask me how my friends at school are anymore, and Noel no longer describes his pigeon races to my dad. They have been replaced by nameless, faceless hipsters with no determining feature besides their white washed mom jeans and black shirts. The old Italian immigrants and diners with naugahyde pews are gone -- leaving only the hipsters with their fine Italian leather sneakers.