“East Williamsburg,” said the realtor, hand-waving like at the end of a seminar. “Keep the rats out of Bushwick,” said the trashcans—and me without animal training. We moved in the next month. I still experience a faint jolt of anxiety when people ask me where I live (which name should I use?!), which may be why I’ve heard it portmanteau’d to Bushburg and Willywick, among others. Yet the double-barreled name feels fitting, as the neighborhood itself sometimes seems to exist as two things simultaneously. My block maintains a vibrant Latino community even as we students and freelancers begin to sidle in along the line of the L train. In the open-windowed summer, the sounds of salsa spar with Sleigh Bells while families grill chicken on the stoops and bands play on the roofs.

Bushwick is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Brooklyn, and one with a New York narrative: demolished by fire and looting in the 1970s, plagued by drugs and poverty in the 1980s, it’s more recently been the target of robust restoration efforts. But its increased safety and sense of community doesn’t rob it of an atmosphere you’ll miss on the Upper East Side. Pop up from underground at the Jefferson L stop, U-turn rightwards and you’re faced with a long stretch of graffitied industrial buildings, and baby alpacas peering longlashed out of a surprising, and surprisingly charming, mural. A block or two worth of Saturday amble can lead you past an empanadas joint, an abandoned warehouse, and an organic coffee house complete with twenty-somethings sipping, reading, and donning sunglasses against impending hangovers.

The intermittently empty blocks can give a treasure hunt feel to nights out—you turn a dark corner to find your destination glowing brightly, thankfully, a few steps down. As you might expect from a neighborhood where BA’s far outnumber BS’s, your options often center around art, but don’t expect a sedate Met-inflected experience. Performances range from subversive video mashups to aerial burlesque to bands, and are often held in event spaces that double as creative cooperatives, like 3rd Ward and Surreal Estate. For those who prefer a less DIY-feel to their fêtes, there are also more traditional offerings. The beloved outdoor electronic music party Sunday Best, for example, moved to Bushwick’s Brooklyn Fireproof when it lost its canal side home in Gowanus, and I’m already anxious for its return next summer. (Caveat: it’s much safer than it used to be, but I’d still bring a friend or two for after-dark exploration.)

In the late nineteenth century, Bushwick was home to a massive brewery industry—for a time, it was even known as “the beer capital of the northeast.” Today, the breweries are long gone, but you can repair to one of the area bars—I particularly enjoy King’s County and duckduck—for a locale-appropriate Brooklyn Lager, the classic PBR-and-whiskey combo, or even a more rarified nightcap. I’ve recently enjoyed a cocktail made with beet-infused vodka and ginger at the Tandem Bar, a drink that in its complexity and kick could easily go a round against Manhattan mixologists’ creations. And, of course, if the round’s on you, the Bushwick price will go easier on your stipend.

The culinary chops in my neighborhood are still in the teething phase, but you can’t go wrong with some simple but toothsome Latino street food from one of the many groceries and taquerias (check out Arepera Guacuco). West Coast transplants, take heart. And brunch! The longer I’m in Brooklyn, the more I begin to worry that brunch has become my staple meal—apt for a neighborhood of similar chimerism. The walk west towards Williamsburg proper is tempting, but I often opt for the eclectic but unfussy menu at Northeast Kingdom. The jewel in this part of Kings’ crown, though, is undeniably Roberta’s, an artisanal pizzeria hiding behind an unprepossessing façade and topped by a rooftop garden. On a recent visit, my dining partner bemoaned the lack of heirloom tomatoes in his favorite dish, forgetting that the last iteration was served up in summer, when they’re sourced from right upstairs. Try the guanciale and egg pizza—they cure the pork jowl in-house.

My neighborhood is in an exciting state of flux, right now, a point where an RU postdoc can feel reasonably safe walking home after a late night in lab, but can still experience its change and color, range and edge. I can’t promise what it’ll be like a year from now: it’s kind of like science, where you live on the leading edge of what you know, what you can imagine, what you can predict. Older residents sometimes pass by my porch with a cane-assisted swagger, lamenting that it’s not like they remember. So, come visit, if only so you can one day say you were there ‘when,’ when it was this when, this neighborhood, this time.