From Boston to the Bay- Day 2

I spent roughly 70 hours of my Spring Break on a train traveling from Boston to San Francisco.  The following entries detail my experiences.  For the first entry, click here.

April 12, 2014

We boarded the train in Boston and so far it’s been relaxing.  The streams and dilapidated ruins of crumbling Northeast towns slowly burrow into my memory.

I caught a glimpse of the train as we curved around a bend.  For a moment, I saw the vessel carrying us forward.  In life, we tell ourselves we know what’s leading us, what’s driving us, but, like passengers on a moving train, we have a vague, elusive of what’s pushing us forward.

As soon as I reached for my camera, we crossed the bend and the train was obscured.  The train ride has been like that, brief glimpses of beauty and then onward, rushing through winter-famished trees and grey hills.

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The Northeast is remarkably uniform, but at least there’s been some sunlight.  The light warms and awakens a land ravaged by a brutal winter.  My mind has slowly drifted from the stress and rigor back in Hartford.

We stalled for an hour and a half in Albany, NY.  One more viewing of the ramshackle underbelly of a decaying upstate NY city.  I can’t imagine how life would have changed if my Dad had taken the job he was offered in Schenectady, NY back in middle school.  The brick and shattered glass, the monolithic decay would wear on you.

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Now that the day is over, the sun is eclipsed by consuming darkness. I’m left with my thoughts and the dark, vast expanse of a sprawling land.  Darkness envelops all like a deep lake only occasionally interrupted by the kindred light of a slow-moving houseboat.

I met a man working the dining car counter.  He was in his second week of training.  A dust-colored man of around thirty traded his job at the bank for a life toiling on the rails.  The man had never set foot on an Amtrak.  A desperate stab at a new life.  And then this beautiful song arrived, courtesy of Pandora, and this year, this long train ride began to make sense.

“Longer I Run”  Peter Bradley Adams

I miss the life that I left behind

But when I hear the sound of the blackbirds cry

I know I left in the nick of time

Well this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand

And leave me lost in a far off land

So let me ride the wind tip I don’t look back

Forget the life that I almost had

If I wander till I die

May I know who’s hand I’m in

If my home I’ll never find

And let me live again

The longer I run

Then the less that I find

Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime

Tell my brother please not to look for me

I ain’t the man that I used to be

But if my savior comes could you let him know

I’ve gone away for to save my soul

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Welcome to the weird- The Hartford Chronicles

I moved to Hartford a couple days ago.  I moved to Hartford a couple days ago.  Had to say that twice just to make sure it was reality.  Already this place has struck me as the weirdest place I’ve ever been.  Let me explain.

“Varsity”, a long lost friend from high school, labeled as such for his penchant to show up on nearly every sport’s roster, was in the area.  I was tasked with finding something for us to do.  We set out on foot and immediately noticed that something was amiss here.  Block after block of wide, inviting city side-walks almost completely devoid of people.  We were surrounded by ancient, beautiful brick buildings.  The best way to describe it was a museum or maybe one of those tiny replicas of cities encased in glass.  It was as if we were ants walking in a display case while the behemoth metropolises of Boston and NYC observed us with delight.  The only sounds heard were police sirens and eerie opera music emanating from an auto shop.

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Gorgeous red-brick building…with no one inside

After having had enough of strolling around in post-apocalyptic Boston, we decided to try our luck with the local bars.  The Russian Lady had endeared itself to Yelp so we decided to give it a go.  The place was empty.  I appropriately ordered a White Russian and Tabby, the bleach blonde bartender, placed it onto the “Hammer and Sickle Vodka” coaster along the bar.  “How’s this hammer and sickle vodka?”  I asked without really needing or wanting the answer.  “Terrible”, she replied.  The first glimmer of that Northeastern bluntness I had been so eagerly awaiting.  “So what the hell is there to do in Hartford?”, I asked in a more serious, seeking tone.  The conversation quickly devolved into a stern warning to never, under any circumstances, go into Bushnell Park after dark.  Bushnell Park is the main city park (and, per Wikipedia, the oldest publicly funded park in the US).  I had earlier gotten my tourist fix by snapping numerous daytime pictures of the beautiful park.  However, it’s apparently filled with crackheads at night and, as I learned, sometimes in the morning as well.  Tabby fondly recounted walking her dog at 7 am on a picturesque Sunday morning.  She was greeted with a homeless man attending to the finer things in life directly beneath the iconic arched entrance to the park.

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Not exactly what the esteemed architects of this beauty envisioned

After a couple of drinks there, it was time for dinner.  We headed over to the The City Steamer, a cool restaurant near my apartment that brews its own beers.  The doorman quickly told my friend, “no muscle shirts”.  We both burst out laughing.  Varsity is a tall, somewhat gangly figure who isn’t exactly packing the pythons.  We could, however, sit in the bar area if we wanted.  We found this funny as well, given our recent discussion on the haves and have-nots of Hartford.  Hartford is the insurance capital of the country so, naturally, the haves work in insurance and the have-nots don’t.  White haired insurance executives in the dining area and bearded men in cut-offs in the bar area.  A simple, albeit close-minded, social order.

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A “White Hair”

After an enjoyable meal, we elected to try our luck with the bars again.  This time we found a place much more alive.  Being from Texas, we instinctively gravitated towards The Rocking Horse Saloon.  Decent live country music and 40s of Old English in brown paper bags.  I didn’t even bat an eyelash.  Yep, this is Hartford.

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Yep, they’re up here too