My Twisted Brigadoon
Is a dream that recurs worth repeating?
In my dreams I bike or drive all over New York City. Through the Bronx, where I spent the first 7 years of my life, and around Manhattan, where I lived for a time and know the best of all the boroughs. Sometimes my rides take me to familiar sections and sights, but they are fictional places I supposedly visited in a fictional past. T
hose places always stir up a strong, lovely sense of happy memories. It matters not that the particular memories associated with that particular place never happened or that the place itself does not exist. My subconscious always feels it as a confirmation of the sweet fondness I have for my early childhood and the love I felt from my parents, grandparents and siblings, despite the occasional hurt I carried far longer than necessary.
But there are also the dreams of places in New York that exist in my fictional present. These places don’t raise sweet nostalgia, but some other conglomeration of feelings that are hard to describe. There’s the huge, wild nature preserve at the extreme north of Manhattan, heavily fenced off from human entry, and containing lions, monkeys and lesser apes, bears, and a variety of prey animals. Usually, I just see it as I drive up the West Side Highway, acres and acres of meadows and woods, feeling the thrill of contained danger and gratitude to city officials for their caring and foresight in establishing such a sanctuary. 
Once or twice, I unfortunately found myself in the preserve, having somehow made my way beyond all the signs at the edge of a public park, also fictional, that warn “DO NOT ENTER. WILD CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS.” I always survive and get out in some way, but not without first having to hide, run, use my wits and get scuffed up in the process.
There’s also the section beyond Battery Park that becomes a sort of Fire Island paradise, where residents in large homes on large plots with gorgeous water and marsh views off sandy drives are the lucky descendants of people who acquired the land some time, long ago, and who, by consequence of having the wits not to sell, are sitting on the most expensive and the most exclusive section of New York City there is.
But the part of New York in my dreams which disturbs me is the one my unconscious brain named Charles Town. I’ve only stumbled on it twice, when the entryway to it somehow magically presented itself to me during bike rides in lower Manhattan.
The first time I saw it, beckoning as a left turn onto a broad avenue, complete with trestlework bridge over a narrowed section of the East River, I did not take the invitation. But I understood what I was seeing, saying to myself “Ah! That must be way to the legendary Charles Town I somehow know about!” I’m sure the trestlework bridge I knew from my years living in Boston, which sat right next to the building where I worked and which beckoned to that actual Charlestown, site of the Bunker Hill Monument, (which also beckoned), was responsible both for the name of this New York Bridgadoon and the appearance of the bridge as well. And there, the parallel ends.
That first time, what did I know about New York’s legendary Charles Town? Well, I knew that its entryway was not always available. I knew that it was a supposedly a special, magical place, rumored to be architecturally rich and studded with old trees, filled with a certain variety of New Yorkers who wished to remain secluded and yet needed the occasional link to the Greater New York City for goods, city revenue and geographical, if not, geopolitical annexation. Its mystery both attracted and repelled me, and I did not make the left. Instead, I woke up.
Recently, I found myself at the entryway once again. This time, I knew I had to find out what lay on the other side. And so I followed the broad avenue over the trestlework bridge, fighting for my small space among the cars and buses that were also crossing over. Once across, I saw that the few blocks closest to the bridge shared that extreme urban composition and feel one experiences in the biggest cities, but almost immediately that hubbub all fell away to the quieter, neater and quainter atmosphere of a smaller city. One with many old Colonial and Victorian houses mixed in among 3 or 4 story brick or stone apartment buildings, and with only very few moving cars. Apparently, Charles Town was small enough for walking. There were no bike lanes, either, and my movement through the streets drew attention. One after another of the area’s inhabitants looked up from what they were doing or broke off their conversation to look at the unusual sight of a bicyclist weaving through their streets. Despite how enthralled I was by the beauty of the buildings, the abundance of trees, the sprinkling of charming and useful shops that sold yarn, baked goods, ice cream, apparel and books, I did notice the small stir I was creating. Didn’t people ride touring bikes here? Was it my lack of a helmet?
The next thing I noticed was that everyone was white. I was white too, but not dressed or groomed as they were. Everyone was wearing country club style clothing: pressed cotton skirts or slacks, collared shirts, v-necked sweaters. On the few occasions when I stopped to ask someone to recommend a lovely street to ride down, or ask about the age of a certain structure, I was met with polite but careful friendliness, and I saw that the speaker’s eyes swept over my oversized and scruffy leather jacket, my bleached blonde pixie hair cut with dark roots poking playfully through, the small diamond stud on my nose. I became self-concious of my accent, a Bronx-Manhattan hybrid, which sounded nothing like the light lyrical tones coming out of their mouths. I also understood that a dawning realization had begun to show in my face. What started out as my natural, curious wonder, which could at least be tolerated by the locals, was morphing into a quiet horror that I had entered a world suspended in time, or someone’s imagination, 
and I understood just under conscious thought that my judgment would not be countenanced. I determined to avoid talking to anyone, and simply rode around taking it all in. Churches, a college, beautiful parks, long tree-lined avenues of house after house with porches and small lawns, all here, part of New York City! And yet, apart. Where was all the color, the differences, the pulse, the cacophony, the life blood?
As the sky became dusky it occurred to me that I wanted to, needed to get back to that New York that was mine. But I was completely disoriented and without knowledge of the area. By that lucky coincidence which often makes itself available in dreams, I saw a small mini-bus loading passengers, and I asked one of the women in line, a little old lady with white, finely coiffed hair, whether she could help me find my way back to Manhattan. “Oh, dear, we are riding to Manhattan, for an evening at the Southpoint Club, and why don’t you get a ride with us?” This seemed like my only way out, so I accepted and, by way of her introduction of “this nice young lady” was able to gain passage along with my bike. One of the men on the bus challenged me, however, saying “Wait a minute? Do you have an Adam’s apple? Let me see!” I showed him my apple-less neck, and smiled sweetly, having decided that it wasn’t the right time to take on gender politics, or mention that I am bisexual and gender-fluid as well. No, I summoned up my softest, most appealing expression, and played the part of that well-meaning but misguided boundary-pushing rebel who is very nice after all, harmless, really.
The little old lady told me when we were back in Manhattan, but things didn’t look right. We had taken different causeway than the one I had crossed earlier, and it led to a section at the tip of Manhattan I had never seen before. A place adjacent, apparently, to the paradisiacal, lush-lawned and marsh-speckled neighborhood from my other forays. We had arrived at a grand country club, with a huge club house and restaurant, white tinkling lights strung up along walkways bisecting rolling green lawns, an outdoor stage area surrounded by tables and chairs, and white gloved attendants everywhere. I thanked my white-haired benefactress and rode off, looking for the way north. If only I could find the one rope which marked the final boundary. It seemed, however, that my straying so far from the others, and on a bicycle no less, caused an alarm, and a few people started running toward me, trying to warn me or tackle me, I wasn’t sure, but contributing in any event to my absolute certainty that I had to find my way out of there.
Well, I made it to the final rope, and as I ducked under it, dragging my bike, all of Southpoint Club disappeared. I was at the tip of Manhattan looking at the cars coming up from the battery tunnel, the large traffic signs hoisted by steel posts traversing the streets, and the smell of car exhaust, the sounds of the engines, some people milling about in all shapes, colors and manner of dress. A balm to my soul.
http://gabubumon.tumblr.com/post/145150322429/new-york-state-of-mind-billy-joel It was as though my afternoon in that Charles Town Brigadoon had never happened, but it had, hadn’t it? Only I saw now why it would remain hidden from sight and continue to exist. If I tried to tell anyone, they would think I was crazy. They’d say it was only a dream. And the ones who knew it existed? They’d deny it too.
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