Here’s an interesting and nicely done account of Coney Island as related by a writer from the Times-Union in Jacksonville, Florida. We came across thanks to Rapid T. Rabitt on the Coney Island Message Board:

Coney Island’s appeal is largely in the eye – and nose – of the beholder. You can smell the fried delights of the boardwalk long before you see its planks. And as I settled into a green plastic patio chair and watched the people, shore and dark water beyond, it stirred my patriotism. Yesterday’s hot spot or not, it’s good to get your hands dirty in these highly-textured pockets of Americana. Hot dog country. World famous Coney Island.

And so I watched the quirky parade of authentic characters march past our table while I fed on pizza and Heineken. Directly across the boardwalk a man showed off his supersized bubble wand, inducing childhood wonder into even the thuggiest teen or grumpiest old man. Must. Burst. Giant. Bubble.

Then there are the boardwalk regulars, silver-haired men with expansive guts, hides of derma-jerky and chains of gold rope. Now and then one rises from his patio chair and shuffles to a food stand for a sausage and pepper sandwich, which he is able to consume in four concentrated bites. Imagine how many sausages a man like this has consumed over the years. Thousands.

The local retired broads favor the monochromatic look, dressing from head to toe in beige. Salmon. Lavender. Whatever feels right. Lots of fitness folks flash by on bikes or in jogging shoes. And the tourists like me are even easier to spot: over-dressed, over-groomed, over-sunglassed, bobble-headed and documenting the day via video, film or notebook.

Even goth types brave the light to come to the boardwalk. Sure, their black velvet blazers say, “I’m gloomy,” but heir 8-inch tall twist ice cream cones beg to differ.

“Do they still have that great corn?” my Grandpa Sal asked me when I told him and Nana about my trip. My Grandparents, who spent their early lives as Manhattanites, frequently took day trips to the Island, apparently, I’m learning, for a corn fix.

“Yep! They still sell it,” I gushed. “All the kernels are the exact same size, shape and color; I don’t know where they get that stuff.”

Nana adds, “We’d go for the whole day and then ride the subway all the way home in wet bathing suits. We didn’t care. We thought it was great.”

The characters, the authenticity, the street food, the step back into simpler times and the beachfront leisure; I second Coney Island’s greatness.

Even in its diminished state, the writer hits the nail on the head. There is a “greatness” to Coney.