L if I know

This afternoon I finally went to Williamsburg. I say “finally” because a friend of mine kept raving about how “cute” it was and how much fun, and I kept telling her I would check it out sometime soon. So today I went.
For those of you who don’t live in the area, Williamsburg is not some sort of Colonial tourist town where people dress up in those horrible George Washington and Benjamin Franklin get-ups and re-enact the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Please. That kind of stuff actually nauseates me. But the Williamsburg I visited today — a section of Brooklyn that is reached only by one subway line, the “L” — was just about as thrilling, but without the scratchy outfits and wigs.
I don’t know, kids. I just don’t know what all the hubbub’s about. Maybe I’m, like, jaded. Maybe I expect too much from places or situations. Maybe I’m hard to impress. It’s just that I read and heard that this place was up-and-coming, a fun and funky place to visit, and I went there expecting to want to come back some day … I guess I just don’t fit in among the derelicts and 20-somethings posing outside or inside one of the many coffee shops that line Bedford Avenue. Maybe I’m more of a snob than I’ve given myself credit for.
As I was about to leave, I decided to have lunch at Bliss, a vegetarian restaurant a few storefronts from the subway. At first I thought I loved my food (vegetable/tofu curry), but I think it was just infatuation, given that I was so hungry that my maple-tint lipgloss was starting to look good. Or maybe the experience was tainted because one of the restaurant workers was slumped over a table in the back (if there is, indeed a “back” — the place is tiny) receiving a loud “karate chop” sort of massage, the vibrations from which I could almost feel on my own back.
I won’t be … back.