Greenwich Village, in New York City's West Side, took shape around 1910.
It was home to many writers, artists, and so-called idealists. With colleges and universities nearby, young students often liked to gather there.
Most of them behaved eccentrically and dressed to stand out, as if deliberately proclaiming their distance from conventional society. They represented another way of life: America's counterculture.
At first, Charles hadn't been keen on renting a place there. He was always worried that the "musicians," "painters," and hippie-like groups on the nearby streets would be too noisy. But the convenient commute to New York University and Raven's fondness for the area's atmosphere eventually won him over.
Every day, Charles walked past nearby Blake Street on his way from home to school. It had the characteristic architecture and appearance of Greenwich in England.
Its rows of three-story Victorian brownstone townhouses featured French Baroque designs and mansard roofs.
Charles had considered the houses on Blake Street early on, but they were all too large for him and Raven.
The first chill of autumn had settled in. Charles Xavier wore a gray, double-breasted trench coat with a stand-up collar, hands in his pockets as he strolled past the largest townhouse on the street. Two strange men in brown suit jackets stood at the entrance, looking around.
For some reason, their manner and movements reminded him of the professors who taught Eastern philosophy at school. One was a short, stocky, yellow-skinned old man who kept one hand behind his back, stroking his beard and nodding repeatedly.
Charles shrugged. It was perfectly normal to see people in bizarre clothes or behaving oddly around here.
He took one last look at the younger white man, who was holding a brass-colored metal plate shaped like a compass and circling 177 Blake Street with