Last weekend my friend
Joan and I visited The Twilight Zone. We hadn't planned
to. We thought we were going to Bronxville, New York, posh habitat
of the privileged, to attend a book signing party for a writer
friend, Joseph Papaleo, at Bronxville's prestigious Sarah Lawrence
College.
We first felt something
was amiss when no one in town could give us directions to the
bed & breakfast we had reserved. Our queries were met with puzzlement,
disbelief, even horror. "You must be mistaken," we were told.
"There's no such thing as a B&B here." Fortunately, we had an
address and we eventually located the street-a long, steep, curvy
lane lined with mansions. Near the top of the hill, we found the
number we wanted. It was attached to a domicile that at one time
must have been grand, but was now somewhat seedy and a bit less
imposing than its neighbors, its grounds less manicured. The sculptures
scattered throughout the neglected front garden seemed uncomfortable,
misplaced—as though they were accustomed to classier surroundings
and wondered what had brought them here. There was no sign on
the lawn or over the front door identifying the home as an inn
of any kind.
We rang the bell. It
was answered promptly by a friendly maid, who introduced herself
as Marilyn and told us that the lady of the manor was busy but
would greet us later. She led us into the great hall, which lived
up to its name—a beautiful, huge, high-ceilinged room with
a wall of large windows at one end. At the other end, a graceful
double stairway, thickly carpeted in crimson, curved upward to
a four-sided balcony overlooking the great hall. Very impressive.
Things were looking up. While Joan and I were gazing at the grandeur,
Marilyn effortlessly scooped up our bags and asked us to follow
her up the stairs, refusing our efforts to relieve her of the
luggage. She led us to a corner suite—a large main room with
a four-poster bed, a fireplace, two lovely upholstered chairs,
a desk, and bedside tables. A door led to a smaller twin-bedded
room, less grandly furnished but comfortable. So far, so good.
When Marilyn left,
we brought our suitcases into the walk-in closet to unpack. At
one side of the closet an empty rod stood ready. On the other
side hung dozens of garments—musty, outdated dresses; once-glittery
evening gowns, now tarnished and frayed; a matted fur jacket…castoffs
from another age. On the shelves, various battered boxes vied
for space with an old portable typewriter, scruffy hats, a rusty
lamp and other assorted decrepit bric-a-brac. A large hole decorated
the end wall of the closet.
The bathroom held more
surprises. Since it had only a pedestal sink, with no vanity or
counter space, I opened the medicine cabinet looking for space
to store my toiletries, but the shelves were already filled with
various outdated medications; a bottle of Helena Rubenstein lotion
for blackheads, probably forty years old and thickly coated with
dust; a squished box of bandages; two splayed shaving brushes,
circa 1930; and—an even bigger surprise—a grimy, half-empty
split of champagne, probably long since fermented to vinegar.
Who keeps champagne in a medicine cabinet? Creepy. I was beginning
to wonder if Blanche DuBois might be languishing in a corner bedroom,
or if Mrs. Rochester was chained in the attic.
We needed fresh air.
We had a couple of hours to kill before the book signing we had
come to attend so we decided to check out the town—or, rather,
the village—the much less plebian designation that New York
uses to identify its municipalities. Before our trip, I had learned
through the Internet that Bronxville boasts enviable train service
to Manhattan's Grand Central Station. Trains leave every half
hour and whisk passengers to the Big Apple in less than thirty
minutes, from early morn to the wee hours. Great! We could stay
in Bronxville an extra night and spend a day in New York City,
without the hassle of driving into the city.
Good plan, right?
Wrong.
On our exploratory,
pre-book-signing trip downtown, we discovered that all-day parking
is available only to residents with special stickers. I asked
a woman who was waiting for a train how visitors can take advantage
of the train service if they can't park their cars. She said we
could take a taxi to the train station from wherever we were staying,
and she pointed out a tiny structure abutting the depot. It was
the taxi office, she said. We would not have known this otherwise.
It bore no sign or identification of any kind. Nor was anything
so crass as the word "Taxi" painted on any of the sedate black
sedans parked at its door. Come to think of it, we did not see
a policeman anywhere in the village, nor a police car. Are plain
clothes and unmarked vehicles the rule? We wondered how they disguise
their fire engines and ambulances.
A visit to the Village
Hall proved fruitless. No, they had no brochures and no information
about area attractions or interesting village sites. Inquiries
as to the location of the Chamber of Commerce were equally unsuccessful.
Personnel in three real estate offices, a hair salon, and a dress
shop on Bronxville's lovely main shopping street had no knowledge
about the Chamber of Commerce. Hard to believe. Then finally,
success! A clerk in a stationery shop helpfully pulled out a telephone
book and looked it up. What do you know? Though he, too, was completely
unaware of the Chamber, it turned out to be just across the street,
above a gift shop. We thanked the clerk, crossed the street and
went upstairs where we found several law offices and a door marked
"Chamber of Commerce." It was locked. There was no sign indicating
office hours. No one in any of the law offices could tell us when
or if anyone would ever show up. Strange.
We drove out of the
village and into neighboring Tuckahoe where we got lost before
we realized it was time to get to Joe's book signing. Another
problem. We asked three people for directions to Sarah Lawrence
College and were rewarded with blank stares and shrugged shoulders.
We couldn't have been more than three miles from the well-known
school, but we might as well have asked for directions to the
moon. Stranger still. Fortunately, through trial and error, we
finally found our way back without help and arrived at the book
signing in time to enjoy the party.
We returned to the
B&B rather reluctantly. Despite our misgivings, we had a comfortable
night. The next morning, as we nibbled the meager breakfast that
had been set out for us in the gloomy dining room crammed with
massive, ornately-carved mahogany furniture, Marilyn appeared
to ask if we had everything we wanted. She was now dressed in
an ankle-length, full-skirted cotton dress, covered with a long,
bibbed, starched white apron and a bandana around her head.
We gulped our coffee,
grabbed our bags and fled, fearful that Scarlett O'Hara, or a
demented Carol Burnett wannabe, might materialize on the staircase
in the great hall enveloped in a ball gown improvised from the
velvet drapes, complete with curtain rod. It was definitely time
to get out of town.
