Kissin’ Valentino by a crystal-blue Italian stream
This morning I dreamed that I went for a long walk in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Pleasingly, it was on the Carribbean rather than the East River. The handsome residents sat at outdoor bar tables and waved as I paddled with my college friend Lisa. We explored beachfront brownstones and found a ramshackle three-story place I liked. I went upstairs and into all the bedrooms. It looked like Red Hook hipster-artistes had lived there recently. Large, splotchy paintings hung on the walls above old fireplaces. The colors were warm.
I tried to work out if I could afford the $125,000 price tag as I walked back to Manhattan across the dunes. I was wary that this deal was too good to be true or that I would screw it up somehow, and I woke up with a vague feeling of regret.
So why wasn’t my house ten bucks? Or ten million? Or made out of chocolate? My dreams just tweak reality, or worse, the Times Real Estate section.