Almost as soon as I posted the last soppy entry on Brooklyn love, I got this message from a charming man I met on a boat in Burma last year.
Thursday between 11 and 6 would be super. Do you mind terribly coming to Manhattan? I don’t mind travelling the world, but I have a thing about Brooklyn. Psychological, one assumes.
I’m including it in the interests of balanced reporting.
Dervala.com 
Mee thinks this man may well be charming but perhaps a wet noodle?
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Normally I’d scoff with the zeal of a convert, but for a man who can manage Tibet and Ladakh, I’m glad to go to Chelsea.
I was surprised he even asked, as it happens. Never occurs to me to ask Manhattan friends to come out here. There’s a warp in the universe that I used to experience when I lived in midtown: distances from Manhattan to Brooklyn are an order of magnitude larger than the reverse. And while you can’t get lost on the little island, you can flounder here in the badlands for hours. I’ve done it.
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It’s times like tonight that I considering telling people that “I have a thing about Brooklyn”. At three in the morning, an hour and half door-to-door from Park Slope to Union Square on an “express” train full of vagrants is really unpleasant.
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