Return Of The Native

By Marc-Yves Tumin

These are the dog days of summer: Time for a good think, to wander afield, to indulge the sea fever.

What better place to rove than the splendid isolation of the Forgotten Borough? Sweet respite, far from the madding crowd. "Ah, wilderness!"

A sojourn to the South Beach boardwalk, Historic Richmond Town, and across the great hills to the northeast suits my fancy.

The trek leads to Brighton Heights, a battered slumping wall, a narrow flight of steps, some trees, and the rags of time.

Fort Hill Park was a British outpost during the American Revolution, a redoubt in the heady days when the Declaration of Independence was read aloud in the Rose and Crown Tavern in New Dorp.

That document was a statement of principles, a confession of treason, and a call to arms.

Fort Hill reminds us why the Founders were at pains to ensure the Second Amendment trod on the heels of the First, after freedom was wrested from King George.

The heat and the acclivity prompt a demarche to the nearest saloon. Thos. Jefferson had his beloved Raleigh Tavern in Colonial Williamsburg.

A public house by the seafront is the ticket for mere modern mortals.

Centuries after the war, Staten Island is rich in history, and steeped in the gospel of God, family, country, the Boy Scouts, the Knights of Columbus, the American Legion, and parochial education.

Here, character is built through hard work and sport, from Pop Warner football to cross-country running and Little League baseball. And, despite rapine overbuilding, it's incontestably the city's most physically beautiful borough. It's also the most neglected, but I repeat myself.

Though derided as a cultural backwater of blue-collar provincialism and reactionary politics, Staten Island can be a heaven for the freethinker. Too bad the press can't write a decent page about it.

Bus service is spotty. The train runs on two tracks: north and south.

Catch the last boat, if you pine for nightlife. On the other hand, if you're content with a modest home, and a view of the distant city, it's this side of paradise.

Returning to the Upper Left Side is always a shock. Everyone's rushing to an appointment: the gym, a club, a concert, a tenant's meeting or a protest. One is reacquainted with nodding acquaintances in place of neighbors.

This is the realm of bespoke anarchists, outré academics, and soi disant auteurs, cineastes, attorneys, and activists, proud, open, involved, evolving, outspoken, informed, committed, consenting, nonconformist, nonjudgmental, politically engaged, funny but irreverent, imbued with attitude, bereft of grammar, unusually sensitive, especially to camera angles, and as perplexed by the plethora of cafés as by the sensibility of the ancien régime.

This is the Gold Coast of bagels and cream cheese, pacifists, and pet spas, tanning salons, flotation tanks, healing crystals, croissants, goat cheese, health food, halfway houses, drop-in centers, chess, squash, cappuccino, fortune tellers, bodybuilders, cat psychics, and musicians, masseurs, vegans, soignée bluestockings, and prêt-à-porter radicalism.

This is the Dance Belt, demesne of soothsayers, mystics, and socialist brahmins somehow prone to anorexia, depression, panic attacks, and bipolar disorder. Lattes, and vitamin water wash down the Lithium and Prozac. Relationships hinge on realtors, imported pastilles, and whether to use unbleached paper towels.

This is where conspiracy theories are seasoned with chipotle sauce. Republicans are classified as eight-legged freaks. And petitions are proffered with power shots, smoothies, hot blends, organic shakes, and enough wheatgrass juice to save the planet.

Strolling from Broadway and 72nd concludes the nostalgia tour. Verdi Square is jammed with folks recovering from the subway. The resident loonies, charlatans, and grifters are buzzing. A guitarist regales pedestrians: "Smoke pot. It's cheaper! I love your hair."

A man explains suicide bombers to his daughter. Dogs and doggesses tow their minders.

Two women, smoking cigars, lead the way for their milquetoasts, one pushing a baby carriage. A "Kerry for President" sticker still decorates a true-believer's window.

At the Beacon, students ask: "Do you have a minute for gay rights?" "Do you have time to save the environment?" "Would you like a free personality test?"

As the new age sails blithely on, one clings evermore fervently to the remnants of ancient wisdom.

Ah, yes, in Jefferson's tavern, over the mantel of the Apollo Room, is a gilt motto: "Hilaritas Sapientiae et Bonae Vitae Proles," which means "Jollity, the offspring of wisdom and good living."