Come head on, full circle...Stay with me, go places.

Walking down Bedford Ave after four am on a Saturday night is a walk of endearing education. You start around McCarren Park and see the random drunks stumble around, trying to hail a cab in the worst spot on the street as every taxi will have been taken at 7th. You also spy the homeless beginning to find their benches to sleep on and the corners they can crawl into where they will get the minimal amount of harassment by the police.

Next is 11th. People are still clinging to the bar in their after-hours attempt to get drunk. It is usually under the pretext that they know the bartender through the groom at their brothers’ cousins wedding so “Bro! You have to let me have one more!” or you just happen to be a loyal customer that the bartender values enough to let you chill after hours. Either way, these people have something you do not. Clout. So you walk by, jealous.

Then you get to 7th and you are in the crazed world of people trying to get the line of taxis that are waiting at the corner, desperate to get back to (most likely) the city, but possibly also Queens. It is also the entrance to the Bedford subway so there is a hot press of bodies passing each other uncaringly, attempting to get into the subway before the L train arrives, knowing that at this time of night they take twenty to thirty minutes to arrive each way and they really don't want to miss it. The vendors know this is the hot corner so they set up stands of the most delicious tacos you can possibly have in New York. The locals, tourists, and suburban refugee weekend partiers know this is the spot. So a line around the corner after three just means twenty minutes until a piping hot beef taco full of the most lethal deliciousness enters your mouth. But when you are bypassing this maddeningly enticing smell on your way home you have to dodge the dozens that are drunkenly waiting for it. This is also, of course, the corner all the bodegas are on. Entrepeneurs know where to sit their stakes. And these predominantly Middle Eastern owned stores line the street. You will hear a mixture of Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic, Iranian, and so forth being yelled into phones clipped to their ear while they ask if you want mayo on the sandwich that they are rapidly making for you so they can get to the next order and maximize their profits.

While you fight the crowd for a bottle of water in the bodega you get to see all of the people who desperately want to continue the party. Even when the bars have cut you off. This is when the bodegas shine because they ignore any sort of law and sell beer until the wee hours of the morning. There are throngs of people who know this and are congregating around the coolers, trying to decide what to buy for the (ultra awesome) after-hours party they are attending. This is where newcomer models and the boys who pay for their drinks before they get to the top go. You see a lot of gorgeously dressed, beautiful women hang on the arms of average looking men drunkenly agreeing to a six pack of Cornoa. This is the corner where you have to fight through throngs of people just to get to the next traffic light.

Sixth. This little nightmare-on-elm street is the one that has the dance clubs and high tourist traffic bars. These are the flashy dance clubs with the half clad bartenders and throbbing music that attracts the tourists to New York, more specifically, to this part of Williamsburg. Particularly Europeans. This corner is chock full of people shouting to each other in German, Polish, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, Greek, French, Swedish,,,the list goes on and on. The amount of drunk Europeans that have stumbled into cabs on this particular corner is insurmountable. The more interesting nights are when one Brit is yelling to the other Brit, “Come on, mate! D’yknow whattim-et-is? NO AFFTA PARTAY!” You have to understand that his mate is more than likely gripping some (possible) woman in the throes of passion while trying to sneak a tall boy under his jacket. Europeans party HARD.

Then you move to 5th and it is people walking their dogs who live in the neighborhood and enjoy this quiet street in the Burg that contains little to no bars. They are buying early morning groceries at the always open Duane Reade so they can have a bagel at home while they read the paper before going to work. And the super morning people that should not be allowed to live in New York because they make us self-respecting home-at-dawners feel like shit. These are the people that pretend 4am is the new 7pm. Seriously?!? You’re jogging?!? At 4:30?!? Fuck off.

For several blocks it is quiet as there are no bars to attract tourists in this area. Once you get to Grand there are a few bar options, but by that point they are also closed with their regulars chilling and enjoying their beers from a generous bar staff who ignores rules for their favorites. The only sports bar in Williamsburg (of any consequence) is on this corner so you may occasionally spy a very chemically inconvenienced Yankees/Mets/Giants/Jets/Islanders/Rangers/Knicks fan still wandering around and continuing to get drunk long after their teams game is over. Just avoid that corner because it usually smells like piss. And if the patrons of this areas team has lost that night you will find ornery sports fans stumbling about looking for a fight. I love sports. Truly and deeply. But sports fans in general can be dicks. New York sports fans are the black studded dildo cocks of the sports world. God love em.

From there it’s mostly local bars. True non-Wllimasburg dwelling Brooklyn kids know these bars, but it is mostly people who live in the neighborhood and are on a first name basis with the bartenders. Once again they are only peppered with the closed gate privileged crowd who have an excuse to be there. Everyone else, locals mostly, are drunkenly planning for after parties on the street or negotiating which blocks they can take home so they can walk together. There’s a phenomenal corner deli that makes the best sandwiches you can get for under six bucks in the Burg. Unfortunately unless you get there between 1:30-2:45 you are fucked. You will,after that, be waiting at least thirty minutes. Sometimes it’s worth it though. Thin sliced bacon over crisp lettuce and freshly sliced tomatoes on a roll with mayo can seem like nothing of a wait, if you want it bad enough. It's also a great spot to make random conversation with other Burg residents while you wait where you get to hash out all of your New York bitterness about tourists with other locals.

Then you hit the Latino side of Williamsburg. At this time of night it is quiet but this is an area that is dominated by the culture that used to exist in Williamsburg. The decades old roots of the neighborhood have stayed here. And they maintain a community that thrives amongst themselves, co-existing with the trendy, hip side that has overtaken their neighborhood. This is where they open the fire extinguishers to wash their cars during a balmy, summer afternoon. You cannot walk by a corner without music blaring from cars while people hang out with their neighbors drinking beer as if the street is their party spot. They sizzle delicious hot dogs on the grill from every corner on the Fourth of July that you have to walk around for awhile before you choose which looks the plumpest. From ever store, restaurants, café, bar there is a display of so many flags from so many football teams that you cannot even keep track of which place supports which country after awhile. Kids openly play in the streets because traffic just goes around them. Even the ever volatile cab drivers respect this family area. People yell at each other from across the street in rapid fire Spanish as if they were standing next to one another. This is one of the most alive parts of Willliamsburg you can be fortunate enough to stumble upon, as it tries to stray away from the high traffic parts of this part of Brooklyn. (Wander into a random deli on a side street, though, and get an amazing heap of beans and rice with herbs that you'll never understand, or pronounce, and you will never want to leave this neighborhood ever again.)

On this particular night I am a little too exhausted and, admittedly, drunk to wander past Broadway on Bedford. But on the few occasions I have I am met with an old country world of the Hasidic Jewish community that is one of the largest populations of Hasids in the world. Walking into the area feels as if you have entered another region. Families of women clad in head to toe dresses and men with long curls peeking out from their large hats. Rabbis wander the street, carrying their copy of the Torah, occasionally stopping to speak Yiddish or Hebrew to a passerby. A society that few understand and that none who are not born into will ever penetrate. Alongside this conservative culture thrives a black community that has learned to co-exist with neighbors that both sides deem alien. Their children all but ignore each other on the playground.

From here it's a turn down the road and there is my sanctuary from the cold. Across the street from a public school. Right now it is ghost quiet and bathed in light that makes me realize it is far too late. I can see the silhouettes of the children that were playing there earlier in the day when I left my house and the teachers scolding them. Years of rubber lines the courts from many basketball games and dodgeball tournaments. Their happy cries usually accompany me on my walk to work. Now all is peaceful.

I get home, pull off my heavy winter boots, and feel like I saw a dozen worlds colliding in one. And that’s just the walk to my house.