May 29, 1999
Back to NYC index

I live in Brooklyn.  By choice.
	-Truman Capote, 1959

A few people have inquired of my feelings toward New York City. It's a bit early to have arrived at a permanent conclusion, but so far I find it to be a dirty, expensive, and hyperactive place. The city is interesting, to be sure, but it's difficult to find a quiet place to rest in Manhattan.

And that is why I adore Brooklyn Heights. The first neighborhood after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, it is one of the most charming places I've seen. Rows of brownstones and historical houses stand proudly on narrow streets lined with trees, and on warm nights children play baseball on Pineapple Street. Three blocks from my house is a promenade with a view of lower Manhattan, the bridge, and the Statue of Liberty. I've made it a Sunday morning ritual to purchase pastries at a nearby bakery and then eat them at the promenade while watching the city wake up.

Perhaps Truman Capote sought peace here too; he lived in Brooklyn Heights during the late 1950s. So, forty years after he wrote "Breakfast at Tiffany's" in Brooklyn Heights, I decided to track down his former home. Although I expected the search to last all summer, it took only two days of actual sleuthing. After I read Truman's essay "The House on the Heights," it was a fairly simple task to find a large yellow house on Willow Street. On a balmy evening this week, I walked down asked an elderly woman if she had lived in the area for a long time.

"Oh, yes, I've lived here all my life," she said with a smile. I explained my situation to her, and she directed me to a house down the street. "I don't know if it's the right one," she offered, "but I wouldn't be surprised." I thanked her and walked o ver to the house, studying it as if I could somehow tell if it were the sort of place Truman Capote would choose. Tall, wide, and painted the color of butter, the house was impeccably maintained. I rang the doorbell, hoping that the current residents wo uld be kind enough to tell me if this was indeed The House.

A man in his mid-thirties answered the door, looking rather perplexed. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you," I began --and I really did say that, sounding really suave for once in my life-- "but I was wondering if this was once Truman Capote's house." Wel l, yes it was, I learned. This knowledge alone would have been more than satisfying, so you can imagine my amazement when the man invited me inside for a small tour. I stepped inside and took in amazing sights: a large spiral staircase winding up, up, u p. Jefferson windows that slid up into the wall. A white Southern-style porch. Not one, but two kitchens. Truman's breakfast nook, his bedroom, and on and on. And I kept thinking, how could anybody ever be unhappy to come home to this house? Not jus t because of the Truman factor, but because it was the kind of place that simply made me feel safe and happy and peaceful.

I did not stay long, as it would have been rude to linger; I felt incredibly awkward for bothering this man and his family, yet he was kind and perhaps even a bit amused by my amazement. With giddiness and awe, I thanked the family and went on my way. As I strolled down to the promenade, reflecting on the kindness of the strangers in that yellow house, I honestly believed that Brooklyn, not Disneyland, was the happiest place on Earth.