Cheryl has a daughter in Brooklyn. Now I have a daughter in Brooklyn. What gives?

Clearly, it’s the zeitgeist, that mysterious force that compels young adults to leave their nests and flock to where others of their kind are gathering.

Cheryl’s Julia left for Brooklyn two years ago to be part of a cartooning community. My Jenny flew away on the Fourth of July to be a barista.

I was among the last to know. She bought a one-way JetBlue ticket and lined up a two-month rental on Craigslist before breaking the news to dear old dad.

I didn’t take the news well. I was heartsick. Brooklyn is so far away. While she and Julia are stepsisters, they are not buddies. Jenny would hardly know a soul. And most alarmingly, hadn’t we been through this before?

Acting on a similar urge, Jenny had moved to Portland, Ore., a year and a half earlier. In the dead of winter. In the rain. Unable to get a job, she was back in Sacramento in a month.

I drove to Sacramento to have Jenny explain why she was doing this. Where was the logic? Couldn’t she follow my example and stay in one town forever, finding small pleasures in life’s monotony?

Over lunch in a midtown cafe, Jenny explained that she was tired of working in Sacramento coffee houses. She wanted to shake things up.

More planning had gone into Brooklyn. She was going in nicer weather. A sublet would be a better base for job hunting than a pay-by-the-night Portland hostel.

Jenny accused me of amnesia. Hadn’t I knocked about after college? Why did I seemingly want her to stay put?

Compared to my serving in the Army, living on both coasts, not to mention marrying and fathering her, moving to Brooklyn isn’t so audacious, she said.

I conceded her points. This is America. Everyone has a right to dream. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But Brooklyn?

On her flight day, I heard nothing for the longest time. Then I got my first text message: “The eagle has landed.”

In subsequent texts, Jenny smelled urine on the subway and met her roommate.

I came to learn that Jenny had rented in Crown Heights, a neighborhood of mostly Afro-Caribbean immigrants. She was sharing an apartment with a woman who makes documentary films.

My Jenny among Afro-Caribbean immigrants? Was I hearing correctly?

Her street swarms with exotic people who hang out all day and deep into the night, she said. She wakes up at dawn to the musical sound of spoken French outside her window. Strangers sit on her stoop.

No one pays any attention to a white girl, Jenny said. Surrounded by so much street life, she felt perfectly safe.

It sounded like a multi-cultural scene from “Sesame Street.” I was somewhat reassured. At least Jenny’s summer would not be boring.

As the weeks passed, my cell phone vibrated with text updates.

Buzz, buzz. Jenny was in Prospect Park watching the Kronos Quartet. For free.

Buzz, buzz. Jenny had found the cafe where all the great pastries go to hang out.

Buzz, buzz. Young guys had erected a tower of speakers at the end of the block. The partying had begun.

In search of a cafe job, Jenny ventured all over Brooklyn, with occasional forays into Manhattan. The job market was brutal, she said. Some places won’t talk to you unless you first submit a photo. Is that legal?

Back in Napa, I had my Saturday Jenny ritual. Sitting in her dust-encrusted car, I ran the engine for 10 or 15 minutes. Should she return at Labor Day, the battery would be charged.

As Labor Day approached, Jenny fell silent. Not a good sign. Obviously, she had failed to land a job. Was she despondent that her Brooklyn adventure hadn’t worked out?

When I called Labor Day weekend, Jenny told me about a trip upstate with her roommate. A wind storm toppled a tree 30 feet from where they were standing. Imagine that, she said. She could be dead.

Yes, yes, Jen. Glad you didn’t die. But what about the job search and the end of the sublet?

Good news, she said. She’d landed a job at a French-style bakery-coffee house in Prospect Heights. The search for permanent housing continues.

“I’m now part of the Brooklyn workforce,” Jenny said proudly.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com