In the Jay Street station I could smell bleach before I started climbing the stairs out. On the landing halfway there was an MTA employee with a bucket and a mop, cleaning something unspeakable. I walked as far around it as I could and emerged in the pitiless light of downtown Brooklyn, trash blowing down the street.

Google Maps told me to cut down a walkway and across a little urban park, a square hidden away from the streets. There were trees and benches and even a few people sitting. It seemed desolate. Lost and anonymous. A public space you’d find in some Second World city. I asked myself if I liked it or hated it. I liked it.