It's a familiar tale: College student arrives in New York, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and finds everything's not the way she pictured it from The Devil Wears Prada or what have you. Today's installment of that story comes courtesy of the Cornell Daily Sun, whose columnist paid a visit to her friends who graduated last year and have since moved onwards and upwards to Brooklyn. At first, things seemed like they'd go well!

Towards the end of a delicious, elegant meal with David's family on the Upper West Side [Obvs!—Ed.], I received a text message from Dave Garman '06: "hey we r @ annex ... free vodka!" Too nervous to take a subway at that hour, I hailed a cab and bit my nails at the change of each digit on the meter. I found the club easily and upon walking in through the doors I was suddenly awash in ear-splitting rock-and-roll, dim red lighting and asymmetrical haircuts. Everyone looked awesome. The band was awesome. Dave and Julia were the lives of the party. It was seriously, seriously cool.

But then the visit started going downhill.

Many hours later, we headed to their home, where I would be staying for the weekend, in the West Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. On this drive westward, my boozy mind became aware, almost urgently so, that these very streets and houses I was cruising by would become my home next year. I too, was very likely to join the post-college stampede to this one borough. Flowing trashcans, bums errant and glorious graffiti would replace the steep hills, unsalted roads and hunched-over students. The significance of alcohol aside, I spent the rest of the weekend as a sponge, absorbing every detail of my afterlife to come.

Now, the West Bushwick thing—as far as we know, there is no neighborhood in Brooklyn called "West Bushwick," even in the minds of neighborhood-naming-happy real-estate brokers. Which leads us to only one conclusion: Instead of saying they live in "East Williamsburg," our columnist's friends say they live in "West Bushwick" because it sounds...cooler? Edgier? Hipster-y-er? Well, whatever. What else did she think of the neighborhood?

Dave and Julia's apartment was absolutely amazing. It was originally a factory, once a strip joint and now a home for the fresh-faced and free. The rooms were enormous, with ceiling-to-floor windows, and just decrepit enough that the resident artists could paint Marie Antoinette murals with abandon. It was the child of Rent and Friends. It had great party potential. However, when I walked outside in the morning in search of breakfast, the scene was slightly different. There was zero traffic, old trash everywhere, spooky lots and the occasional shady passerby. Shaking in my Upstate shoes, I avoided eye contact at all costs (until I got on the subway, the people-watcher's dream.)

I got off two stops later at Bedford Avenue, to see Nicole. The neighborhood was much more inhabited and developed, so I breathed a little easier. However, I found a new condition of living. This neighborhood had a very, very distinct feel. It was hip. Everywhere, there were hip restaurants, hip stores, hip coffeeshops, hip people. Hip, hip, hip. This, I was informed, was Williamsburg, the Hub of Hipsterdom... The entire population of Williamsburg is a big pile of cool. For blocks and blocks around, there are only over-styled hair, ironic tattoos and whimsical combinations of thrift-store treasures. Most other places, hipsters will stand out while people gawp [sic], secretly envying their coolness. On Bedford Avenue, they all looked the same to me, and it looked crazy. It was difficult to imagine settling there.

Now we must pause and recall, for just one moment, when you could look at a place like Bedford Ave. with un-jaded eyes, and honestly and truly think it was hip. Wait, we can't recall that time. Never mind!

The Brooklyn Hereafter [Cornell Daily Sun via Brooklyn Record]