421 CHRONICLESnLetter FromnMinneapolisnby Herbert SchlossbergnGoing HomenThe taxi ride to Manhattan after thenfirst shuttle flight of the day from Washingtonnpuzzled me. Why did scenesnthat should have been familiar fromn30-odd years before seem so new andnstrange? I was the Brooklynite who hadngrown up on the buses (and beforenthem the trolleys) and the subways ofnthe city — and at the same time thenrube from the Midwest gawking at thisnenormous, polyglot, multihued jumblenof humanity. Part of the strangenessncame because much had changed. Innthe early morning haze, I was riding bynendless lines of storefronts with the tinnshutters completely covering them.nSurely they were brought here by immigrantsnfrom somewhere, maybenLatin America. At least they lookednmore like imports from that part of thenworld than anything I could recall fromnthe old days.nThe sense of Central Park’s incongruitynwas different than I rememberednfrom the 1940’s and 50’s. It isn’t thatnthe greenery seemed out of placenamong the concrete, but rather that itsnpristine freshness was out of keepingnwith the decay through which the taxinhad just taken me — decay that wasnpalpably worse than midtown used tonbe. This disjointedness was not lessenednby the awareness of dangers that exist innthe park and the certainty that no folly Inretained so late in life would induce mento enter it after dark.nAfter finishing with my Manhattannappointment I entered the subway atnColumbus Circle and took the train tonBrooklyn. There was a pang of recognitionnas the various stations rolled bynuntil I arrived in a part of town thatnwasn’t familiar to me. The person I wasnto visit there had advised me that thenneighborhood was too bad to walknthrough, and I telephoned as instructed.nCORRESPONDENCEnI waited until a young woman came bynin a blue station wagon. We drove tonthe office, and my guide unlocked thendoor to the building so we could enter.nAt my question she explained thatna woman from overseas had beennmugged on their driveway in broadndaylight a few months eariier. Also,nvagrants looking for handouts were liablento wander in off the streets any time.nMy hosts preferred the bother of constantnlocking and unlocking to the possibilitynof something more unpleasant—nperhaps much more unpleasant.nOur meeting went well enough, andnfor lunch my hostess drove us intonnearby Queens where we ate at andelicatessen under the El. The delinwasn’t quite what I remembered, but Inhad no complaints. I marveled at hownpeople could live in apartments alongsidenthe tremendous racket from thentrains. Then it occurred to me that wenalso live right under the flight path ofnairiiners climbing and descending at thenMinneapolis airport. Yet that doesn’tnseem as difficult to live with.nMy business finished, I had a fewnhours until my flight left, so I followednthe script I had considered for severalnweeks. After being dropped off at thensubway station again, I took the trainnback toward Manhattan and got offnafter a few stops. Then I walked tonUtica Avenue and boarded a bus towardnmy old neighborhood. In a few minutesnwe came to Eastern Parkway, whichnmarked the border of the area I hadnknown well from childhood. The banknwas still there at Utica and EasternnParkway, but the cafeteria where mynparents had taken my brother and menfor the occasional meal out was gone.nAnd the old Robert Hafl store on thenother corner had disappeared, probablynwhen the chain went belly-up somenyears ago. From that point for the nextnfew miles Utica Avenue was almost ansolid line of shops and teeming humanity.nIt is streets like this that make citiesninteresting, and their absence that explainsnwhy suburbs seem so bland tonmany. The old Carroll Theater, whichnnnI looked for expectantly, had become angospel tabernacle. On the right thenWhite Castle, to my surprise, was stillnthere. Further on, the Rugby movienhouse was boarded up. (Later on, in thentaxi back to La Guardia, we passed thenold Pitkin Theater, which is now anfurniture barn. Doesn’t anyone innBrooklyn go to the movies any more?) Inalighted from the bus a few feet furthernon at Church Avenue. On a blazingnJuly day, the temperature was well intonthe 90’s, and the humidity must havenbeen almost as high. That, at least,nhadn’t changed.nThe Silver Rod drugstore was still innplace on the corner, and across thenstreet was the Greek cafe where I hadnhad so many middle-of-the-night platesnof ham and eggs. I walked alongnChurch Avenue and then turned rightnat East 53 rd Street, following the path Inhad taken during the junior high schoolnyears, trudging home from P.S. 232.nThe single-family houses, mostly arrangednin long attached rows with thenoccasional free-standing one, interspersednwith apartment buildings,nlooked just as they would have afternmore than 30 years. I passed by JackienRobinson’s old house—just past SnidernAvenue, believe it or not. All right,nthen, Snyder Avenue.nTurning left at Beverly Road Inwalked one more block and turned leftnagain to gaze at P.S. 244, where Inspent the years from kindergarten tonthe sixth grade. Then back down Eastn54th Street and my old block. I foundnthat most of the neighbors’ names hadnslipped my memory. There was a boynnamed Dennis who had lived on thatncorner. Further on was the house ofnthe Lombardi brothers. And across thenstreet from them stood the big housenwith a spacious lawn in which for antime I had the privilege of playing; itnwas almost a mansion for that part ofnthe city. The name of the policeman’snson on the right I could not recall, andna few houses beyond was where I livednsince my parents bought the place inn1937, when I was two, until I left —n