It’s entirely possible that I have visited Coney Island before. It’s not like the place is as remote or as less-visited as Antarctica, evil machinations of property developers aside. If I have been there before this past Friday, though, I don’t remember.
It was a proper excursion. There were no other tourists, although I did come across about five other photographers. The occasional jogger (with a soft “j”, according to Will Ferrell) attempted suicide by trotting past.
The FMA and I wandered the desolate boardwalk and gawked at brightly-painted signage, not really protected in the slightest by our umbrellas as we were assaulted by a storm. Temperatures set a record low for the day, or the day following, but the weather is sort of irrelevant when Atlantic gusts are scaring off everybody but the insane and the seabirds.