Well, now I have no excuse not to update: the internet is back in my life. Stolen wifi, while free, is fickle. For so many months I was fortunate to be able to check my email.

What’s new? In April I moved out of the Upper East Side apartment I shared with Sam and moved to Washington Heights. I’m living with a coworker, Melissa, and her friend from college, Max. It’s a 3-bedroom with exposed brick, a big kitchen and plenty of light during the day. It’s pretty quiet up on the fifth floor most of the time, but there’s a middle school across the street so, you know, teenagers yell when school’s out. It’s a lot cheaper than the UES (coffee and a big doughnut for a $1.50?!) and since WashHeights is primarily a Dominican neighborhood, there’s salsa music on every corner.

Melissa and I have finally discovered Trader Joe’s for cheap groceries. Our first night in the apartment, Melissa bought one bag of basic groceries from Whole Foods for $50. Last week we brought home two bags from TJ’s for $60, and it’s just a short train ride away. Now I just need to remember to bring the cloth grocery bags.

What else has happened? I caught a bad flu a week before moving (so, late March) and am just now feeling like a normal person again. The fever and whatnot subsided within normal flu-time, less than a week, but the cough persisted. For a month. I found a doctor a few blocks from the new place and he told me to use a Nettie Pot. The next day, before I could even get a Nettie Pot, let alone let it work it’s magic, I coughed so hard I pulled muscles in my ribs. Back to the doctor, who gave me prescription pain meds. My cough eventually started to subside (but not before I could pull the muscles even more, naturally), and sleeping on my back to stretch the muscles has helped tremendously. Now I’m only a bit sore on my right side, to the point that I’ve been forgetting to take the meds.

But anyway. It’s warm out now. Well, most of the time. Went to see the Punch Brothers with Piotr a few weeks ago, of course on the one day of torrential rain in the past few months. Chris Thile and Co. were in top form as always, starting out with a cover of Beck’s ‘Sexx Laws’, playing new songs and old favorites and putting on a great show throughout. I just found out Thile collaborated on an album of traditional bluegrass songs with musician Michael Daves. They played a show together Wednesday night that I could have gone to had the IRS not billed me $157 dollars for a miscalculation on my taxes the day before. Oh well.

That’s all I can think of for now. I’m visiting Hawaii in about three weeks for a friend’s wedding and my mom’s birthday. Good timing too, I’m a little homesick. Until next time, I’ll leave you with  pictures of the new (still messy) place:

Christmas in New York. Sam bought some simple ornaments to decorate our tree. Then my mom sent a small portion of ornaments from home. Then Sam’s mom sent us more ornaments and somehow we got them all onto our small tree. I got sweaters (which will come in handy for work, see next paragraph) and records and other good stuff.

The holiday season at The Strand was insane. I’ve never worked retail before, so working in a popular book store at a popular location in New York City for the past few weeks had been a sort of blur. Not to mention, cold. The store itself is pretty warm, but the registers are right next to the front doors and so many people coming in and going out let so much of the cold in. We have to dress in layers just to keep warm.

And then there was the blizzard. When I left for work it was snowing and windy and it didn’t stop. All throughout work there was talk of closing the store early. Once it was dark outside the wind picked up even more and snow was blowing horizontally pretty continuously. Then we saw lightning and heard thunder. Soon after the front doors (both of them) blew open and snow blew inside the store. Then we asked, “Can we go home now?” We closed a whole half hour early, at 10 pm. By then at least two feet of snow had fallen everywhere and no cars were on the road and only a few people were wandering the streets. One customer had described it as a “wasteland.” He was fairly accurate.

When I left my apartment for work the next morning (Monday) I noticed that most of the cars on my block had been buried in snow. Not a half-foot layer like most of the other cars in the immediate area, but buried like it could have just been a large pile of snow. Again, there were very few cars or people out and about. I think I actually got to work faster on Monday than I usually do. Some of the sidewalks and streets had been relatively cleared of snow and my trains weren’t too delayed.

Today, Tuesday, the snow has somewhat melted, the sidewalks are almost all cleared and the streets and intersections have turned to brown slush. A few cars are still buried and others are blocked in by small mounds of snow that a plow has pushed off the street. Sam and I saw a stoop knee-deep in clean, undisturbed snow. When that family gets back they’re going to have a fun time getting indoors, dragging their suitcases up those steps.

Thinking of being indoors, it’s time for dinner.

-amelia

P.S. Now I better understand the term “winter wonderland”: Sam says I look like an excited child walking around in the snow.

I work until 10:30 four nights a week. Most customers who find out that Strand is open so late every night are surprised, and sometimes grateful. This is because, despite what you may have heard, New York is not the “city that never sleeps.” Indeed, I can’t even get a slice of pizza from the corner shop when I get home Sunday nights.

Since I haven’t completely broken the habit of being asleep before midnight—and I am a creature of habit—I am left with only three nights a week to go out and enjoy what nightlife NYC has to offer (and that I can afford). I wasn’t able to get the 21st off to enjoy the Punch Brothers once more, but they live in NYC, so I’m not too bothered by it. But this past Saturday (when I only work till 6:15pm) found me in Brooklyn at the Southpaw venue (incidentally where the Punch Brothers are playing their show this week).

The band was one of my discoveries at the Newport Folk Festival in July. I hadn’t gone over to the third and smallest tent at the festival on the first day, so on the second day Sam, Vina and I decided to check it out. On stage was Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three, from St. Louis, Missouri. The 26-year-old Pokey plays old tymey ragtime blues in a way that makes the music accessible to a new generation. The music is peppy and danceable, and when I saw them at NFF he joked that all his songs were about murderers.

For his show at Southpaw I dressed in my incomplete Dr. Who Halloween costume: A blue button-up, light gray skinny-slacks, boots, and red suspenders. I fit in somewhere between the casual audience and the people who were really dressed-up in their old-tymey garb. Sam and I met her co-worker and friend Ben and a few of his friends at the venue. Only a couple danced despite Pokey’s numerous attempts to get people onto the dance floor.

Overall, it was a fun time and hopefully I’ll get out more often. I’ll update on the other shows and events planned out.

-amelia

Usually I hand-write these things before posting them. The thought is that I can proofread and edit while typing them up. This one is just going to be written on the spot, if only because it’s been forever. I actually do have a post written up in my notebook, but even that’s two weeks old already and kind of boring. Also, the internet I’ve been stealing has, for whatever reason, decided to toy with my head and only work on every other website.

I’ve been mostly working, which has been good. There are several shows coming up I’d like to go to, but I work some of the nights they’re scheduled for. (See? Right there is an awkwardly worded sentence that I would fix with editing, but I’m just too lazy for it right now.) This Saturday is Pokey LaFarge, the 21st is Punch Brothers, the 23rd is DeVotchKa, Halloween is an Adam Stephens solo show, Sufjan Stevens is playing on Nov 14th and 15th, Cinematic Titanic on Nov 27th, and Weezer announced their Blue album / Pinkerton tour dates for NYC: Dec 17th and 18th.

Of course, even if I can only get to half of these, it’s a much more exciting schedule than anything in Hawai’i. Even the weather is more exciting. It seems like half the time when it rains there is also thunder and lighting. And hail. And a few weeks ago in Brooklyn there were two tornadoes and a macroburst. Storms didn’t get that severe even when I was living in Texas during tornado / hurricane season.

I also want to go out to Centralia, PA, again to explore the place more thoroughly. Maybe in a month or two when it gets cold and the steam can be seen in the air. I think I know where the abandoned hwy 61 is located now, not that I’m 100% certain I’d want to walk down it. Sam has a zipcar membership now though, so getting a car would be a lot easier than it was last time. Also, we’d have less trouble finding the place and hopefully next time a trailer won’t run over three cars causing a traffic jam of Los Angelian proportions.

Anyhoo, I’m at the library now and running out of computer power. Since publishing multiple pictures on these posts is usually a huge ordeal for one reason or another, be sure to check out my new tumblr (a link is in the sidebar). It gets updated about as often as this does and most of the photos already posted there are not from my time in NYC (indeed, a few were taken years ago in Hawai’i or on past trips), but I did just post two recent pics from the past week or two, so deal with it.

-amelia

September 2, 2010

Goodbye, New Jersey. Hello, Manhattan.

About two weeks ago Sam and I went looking at apartments in the city. We went with a realtor, Matt Allen of Century 21, and saw three or four studios. The first was the biggest and the nicest, with a large window letting in lots of light, and separate kitchen. After that the rest were subpar. Allen was a Bro if I’ve ever met one—abnormally affable, talkative, honest, everyone’s friend, and it seems to be entirely genuine. He got our application for the first apartment in before the competition, and there was plenty of competition. The next day he told us we got the apartment.

The following two weeks Sam packed or threw away all of the stuff in the Jersey place. Since I only moved 3 months ago, my stuff was still more or less packed up. I never entirely settled into the Jersey apartment because we thought we’d be moving before the end of the year anyway. Initially “before the end of the year” was probably November. Luckily it turned into September 1, so I didn’t have to unpack my winter clothes.

Bouncing back and forth between Hawai’i and Texas the past couple of years, and this year packing for a permanent move to NYC, has steadily increased my resolve to someday live a minimalist lifestyle. It doesn’t have to be now since I feel like I’ll be settled in NY for a while (barring any life-altering circumstances), but I feel like moving into a studio apartment with another person… well it can’t hurt to start living simply. Once I figure out exactly how much room I have to work with I’m going to be (again) selling and giving away clothes and things I don’t need.

The new place is pretty nice as studios go. It’s more spacious than it looks, and even has a bigger bathroom than we had in the 2-bedroom apartment in Jersey. We have two books cases to use as a separator between a “living room” and a “bedroom.” The commute to work is about half the time, as long as the train isn’t delayed / re-routed by “construction.” And I don’t feel weird walking home from work at 11pm.

The only weird part is telling co-workers that I moved to the Upper East Side. That, combined with the information that I am originally from Hawai’i, might give one the impression that I’m proverbially “living off daddy’s money,” which is not the case. Granted, the only reason I was able to save money in Hawai’i was because I lived with my parents and didn’t have to pay rent / bills. That said, since leaving home I haven’t asked for, nor received any money from anyone. The only reason I’m able to live on the Upper East Side is because I’m with someone who makes way more money than I do. And, realistically, the only reason she’s able to afford living here is because I got a job right away and am able to bring that extra little bit of money to the table.

Of course, sitting here in a coffee shop wearing cowboy boots and looking more like an American Apparel ad than I’m comfortable with doesn’t exactly help my case. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

-amelia

So what do you do here? You live, breathe, and socialize! The funniest thing about moving from Island, to city, to small town tucked away just beyond the rolling hills of Shenandoah wine country is that well…there you are. This Volcano is overflowing with charm. The surrounding area is all rolling hillside reminiscent of French country side at least what I have seen in books. With in the town the buildings remain as standing landmarks of the California gold rush era. The local hotel built-in the 1800′s continually rotates owners giving the building itself almost a personal quality; a stubborn desire to exist not matter what. A modern-day real estate sign resting upon layer upon layer of pealing white paint being a reminder of the longevity for things that matter. The Union motel rests amongst the Church, the old mining station, a granite Bavarian brewery covered in creeping ivy, and the town bell which screams at me to ring it but I refrain. There is also an outdoor amphitheatre the runs plays throughout the summer. Other then eating or drinking it is the towns only other dusk recreation. This town sleeps early. For work I’ve been cutting down trees. When in Rome to the fullest!

A major thing I have noticed is how this industry sustains the community itself. You live in the forest so things need to be cut down to protect lifestyle. Then all through the winter what was once a fire hazard becomes a savior. When you break society down into smaller bits it seems easier to understand the point of living is less about thinking and more about doing and in between it all just enjoying each others company. Small town beauty would be a great lost.

With that being said it would be very easy to stay here and continue to live day in day out just doing and being. In all honesty though I think im too damn young for that. There is beauty to be found in everything but there is also a time and place for all things to exist. Observe, absorb, and evolve. I didn’t leave an awesome job and amazing friends to settle in this little paradise amongst the trees. It would be easy to stay but I think I need to get myself off the back burner and on to the hot line. We shall see what comes to a boil. Based on all these culinary references I think im ready to get cooking.

I have a job prospect waiting in Portland. Currently its being left to fate seeing that the position could be filled before I am able to leave. Whats life without risk though? Bland and stagnant like an island stuck in the middle of the ocean. Kidding, I love you Hawaii. I have never had to test for a job position before so this will turn out to be interesting. “You will be evaluated after an interview, cooking knowledge test, a stage or two, cooking test and knife skills test” is not a statement I like having to wake up to but hell nothing worth anything is ever easy. So that is where I stand. Taking a risk, leaving a good paying job to do what I came to do. Though I would like to state for my loyal reader/readers if the two of you get a chance to see this, nothing is set in stone, pass on that resume!

Im off to go express myself in the form of hitting things with sticks now. It has been much to quiet. A bientot!

-Mezmon

On Monday one of my managers at work said, “How’s life in the big city? I was thinking about that the other day.” Perplexed, I asked back, “What, life in general? Or my life in particular?” He confirmed he had been thinking about my life specifically because I have “traveled farther than most. I mean, it’s not like you moved here from Pittsburgh.”

Despite the fact that I’ve moved 6,000 miles to a city I had never before stepped foot in, AND I have a blog detailing the venture, I’ve kind of neglected thinking about the differences between life in New York and life in Hawai’i. I speculated about the possible differences before arriving here, but have largely ignored them since. Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to do this.

My first week here was defined by relief and frustration. I was relieved that I’d finally made it, that something I’d thought about for so long had become a reality. I was frustrated because, as per my reasons behind moving here in the first place, I like to be more in control of my own life. Being in a brand new city does not allow that. I wasn’t in control of anything at first. I didn’t even know how to get out of my own new neighborhood. I just had to keep reassuring myself that all this would pass with time. Obviously I don’t know how to get anywhere or even know of any places to go. I JUST GOT HERE.

And of course that feeling has passed. I recognize places and can use the subway reasonably well now. Having a full-time job gets me out of the house five days a week, and even though I’m going to the same place everyday I see new things on almost every walk to and from work. Still, I can’t give anyone directions worth a damn.

Besides the natural irritation at not knowing how to get anywhere initially, I don’t think I’ve felt any serious pangs of culture shock. It took me a couple days to get used to all the pedestrians crossing the street against the light, but I realized that if one stops at every light in NYC it would take forever to get anywhere. I think my having done a bit of cross-country traveling has helped me go into new a different environments with ease.

One aspect of independent living that has yet to hit me is the financial burden of living in the city. Sam had refused rent and food money from me until I started getting a regular paycheck. Now that I have three of them, she still is reluctant to accept money from my savings until those paychecks are deposited. Which is fine, she doesn’t really need my help until we move out of Jersey City.

Soon though I will need to get used to not being able to save money like I did before. It shouldn’t be too much of a burden though since I had saved my money specifically for moving, for traveling. Now I have moved, now traveling outside the state is cheaper and easier. I’ve already been to four states besides New Jersey and New York.

I haven’t been slacking either. Not only have I landed an awesome full-time job with the promise of benefits, but I’ve been working on my writing and photography as well. And, for better or worse, I’ve kept up this blog longer than any journal or diary I’ve ever had.

Here’s to life in the big city.

-amelia

I think Lollpalooza and Coachella could learn a thing or two from the Newport Folk Festival. Now in its fifth decade, the festival offers its patrons such luxuries as re-entry, decent and affordable food, and proper restrooms. (Although, I will say I find Sasquatch Festival’s use of Honey Bucket porta-potties simultaneously hilarious and gross.) There are also an abundance of artisan booths, the allowed use of “professional” DSLR cameras, and the weather’s great to boot.

Sam, Piotr, Vina and I left the apartment at about 7:30 AM, went through the expected traffic, and arrived at the festival grounds shortly before 1 PM. We each went exploring in search of food and met by the main Fort Stage’s sound tent just prior to Brandi Carlile’s set at 1:40. I like Carlile’s music, but I think her real strength lies in her lyrics and especially her vocals. She has a sort of sweet, but growly, voice that doesn’t sound like anyone I’ve heard before. And the fact that she can rock out a Johnny Cash tune is a major plus. What made her rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues” even more memorable for us though was the fact that during the song a bee attempted to pollinate the flowers on Sam’s sunglasses.  I held on to them while she and Vina, both terrified by everything creepy and crawly, squirmed and huddled together a few feet away. I sang along with Brandi and laughed at them.

At the Fort Stage, patrons prone to taking pictures are allowed into a small barricaded area right in front for the first three songs of each band’s set. You have to be taking pictures and you have to get out after the third song. One of my favorite bands, Calexico, was on after Brandi Carlile, so we made our way up to the front for prime spots in the center. This was my third time seeing them live and they never disappoint. Joey Burns is as charismatic and engaging a frontman as one could hope for, and as a band their love for their music and their audience is palpable. They played one of my favorite songs too, one I had not heard live, called “Guero Canelo.” Better than on the record.

Next up was Doc Watson, folk guitar legend, at the smaller Harbor Stage. I persuaded Piotr to join me and I do believe he’s been converted to Watson’s traditional and soulful music. He played with two other musicians, on bass and banjo, during the first part of his set before going it solo for a time. Between songs they told stories about haunted stoves, among other things.

The last set of the day was another folk heavyweight, John Prine. He took the Fort Stage a little late, but made up for it by, well, just playing his songs. He also came back for an encore, bringing with him to the stage Jim James from My Morning Jacket. Prine also played a slightly slower version of “Angel from Montgomery,” which was all I really needed to hear that entire day.

Earlier in the day, while walking to Doc Watson’s set, Piotr and I ran into the walking band, the What Cheer? Brigade. They are, essentially, a street punk marching band; just imagine Gogol Bordello and Beirut going back to high school to shake things up in band class. They start playing and people start dancing. What Cheer? is infectious. After Prine wrapped up the day, they were entertaining everyone waiting for the busses to take them back to the parking lots. Indeed, most people, including us, ignored the bus line and gathered around the Brigade. While playing they mixed in with the audience, once asking everyone to lay down and create a human “puzzle” with them. Unfortunately they had to leave before we did, and so we spent the time in the dark and cold waiting for busses that were caught in festival traffic. (Note to self: bring a jacket the next time you go to this festival.)

Our hotel was across the state line, technically making Massachusetts my 29th state. It was nice to able to shower and sleep in a real bed. (My last festival was 2009′s Sasquatch, a three-day, two-night camp out with shower lines so long it wasn’t even worth it.) We left earlier in the morning to get good seats at the Harbor Stage, where the Punch Brothers were slated as the second act.

Piotr and I walked over to the Fort Stage to check out some of Tao Seeger’s set. He’s the grandson of Pete Seeger and his music isn’t half bad. One song had a distinct Latin influence . . . and he sung it in Spanish, which kind of gave it away. When they shooed out the photographers we went back to our seats, saved by Sam and Vina, and caught opener Cory Chisel’s performance. He and his band played well and had some good songs, but nothing that really grabbed my attention. I also felt like Chisel lacked charisma and a real connection with the audience, which is unfortunate considering it’s a small stage with close proximity to the audience.

This was especially evident once the Punch Brothers took the stage. In the middle of a tour in support of the their album Antifogmatic, they looked understandably worn out while sound-checking. That weariness was forgot though as soon as they started playing. By their second song, band leader and mandolin player Chris Thile had broken a G string. They cracked jokes and moved with the music like they hadn’t been playing the same songs every night. Thile waltzed (while playing) during their song “Next to the Trash.” My opinion? They were the best band at the festival. Two standing ovations can’t be wrong.

And then I met them and got a picture. Maybe I’m a little biased.

The rest of the day was pretty much wide open for wandering since I didn’t know any of the other bands playing. Sam and I got crepes (Crepes! At a music festival! Fine dining!) and with Vina we checked out the third, and smallest, Quad Stage. Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three were in the middle of their set. They reminded me a little of local Austin, TX, band The White Ghost Shivers, except LaFarge and band were decidedly more old-tymey and less, I dunno, crazy pirate. I liked it.

Next, Vina wanted to check out the Swell Season at the main stage. The frontman is Irish and therefore his banter was hilarious and his songs melancholy. I think that’s the way all Irish singer-songwriters are. Except for Bono. He’s never funny.

The final act I caught was last-minute replacement Elvis Perkins in Dearland. I’d heard one of their songs and liked it, and now I’m really happy I went to see them. Not only was their set fantastic, but they were joined at the end by the What Cheer? Brigade. And, as they are wont to do, ended the song by walking offstage and into the crowd. Elvis Perkins joined them as they led a small parade around the courtyard surrounding the stage. At the end of the song, they paused for a few minutes to let the Magnetic Zeroes finish their set at the Harbor Stage. They then proceeded to lead the audience in a march back to the middle of the festival grounds. This march took us through a brick tunnel where their brass and drums echoed tremendously. I couldn’t have asked for a better ending to a better festival.

Many of the (whole) sets can be heard or downloaded for free at NPR. Of course, I highly recommend Punch Brothers, Calexico, John Prine, and Pokey LaFarge.

-amelia

Pennsylvania, Part Two

When I planned to go to Centralia, an abandoned town destroyed by an underground coal mine fire, I didn’t expect that I’d be spending the night in an even creepier place.

After Centralia, instead of driving all the way back to Jersey City, Sam and I decided to sleep at her aunt’s house in Harrisburg, PA. Her aunt whom she had not seen in four years. The house looked normal enough when we pulled into the driveway: medium-sized, nice lawn, white picket fence… giant flame-painted motorcycle? Alright, maybe not every house has one of those, but who am I to judge? We enter through the side door and immediately the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face. This may not be significant under everyday circumstances, but considering I had just spent the afternoon in a town that is literally leaking carbon monoxide, I think it is now. Dirty air is dirty. Once I am able to take in my surroundings, I see two over-full refrigerators, a whole cantaloupe on the dining room table, and a hefty-looking baroque clock sitting prominently on the kitchen counter.

For dinner Sam and I dine on leftover flat noodles with Italian dressing. I suppose vegetarians are rare in Harrisburg. We would have had corn on the cob, but Sam dropped the industrial-sized tub of butter onto the floor. The spill probably wouldn’t have been that bad had the tub not been sitting on the hot stove, for who knows how long, days maybe, and had all turned to liquid. All of it. So we spent the after-dinner conversation simultaneously wiping up the greasy floor and almost thankful that we could avoid eating anything else.

And that’s just the kitchen. Upon entering the living area, one is presented with an obstacle altogether stranger. First, let me back up by saying that the house has an interesting layout. It consists of three uneven levels and a basement-type room. There are two stories on one side of the house, the kitchen being the lower of the two, with the bedrooms upstairs. On the other side of the house is the office, which makes up what I’ll call the “middle” level. There is a small set of stairs leading from the living room/kitchen to the office, and then, after a U-turn, another small set of stairs in the other direction, leading from the office to the bedrooms. Now for the aforementioned obstacle. Between these two sets of stairs is a sort of indoor waterfall situation, except instead of a peaceful trickling of water flowing gently over gray plastic rocks, there is a collection of porcelain dolls haphazardly cascading in such a fashion that you cannot stand anywhere near the thing with one of them staring at you.

The middle level of the house is where the proper front door is, and where Sam’s uncle had his office, which looks like it hasn’t been touched since he passed away four years ago. Papers are strewn about a large old typewriter on the desk, and on the other side of the room is a wall-mounted air conditioning unit that looks like it’s been defunct since the Nixon administration. Going up the second set of stairs one finds four bedrooms, all of which are lined with either dark red or blue velvet wallpaper, and a bathroom with the same odd red-and-blue color scheme. And for a bathroom that is frequently used by a multitude of grandchildren, it is surprisingly devoid of soap. Every single bottle sitting in or near the shower is shampoo or conditioner. No body wash in sight. And the bath mat half-covers the drain so that an inch of water builds up around your feet while showering.

And did I mention the floor throughout the house is slightly sticky? It is. Both tiled and carpeted floors. And the porcelain dolls don’t end at the stairwell. There are dolls and various estate sale collectibles on every flat surface, horizontal and vertical. Those dolls and creepy old knick-knacks hang on the walls. In the bedroom Sam and I slept in—the only one with a fan—there were clothes hung not only from the closet, but from rods placed along one whole wall. And clothes creeping out of the dresser aligning the adjacent wall. Of the two windows in the room, one didn’t open properly. When we tried the other window we discovered that it framed a compelling view of a brick wall. And I mean like in cartoons, when the character opens a door to find a brick wall instead of an opening.

When she spilled the butter, Sam had got some on the only pair of jeans she’d brought, so we took advantage of the basement room’s washer and dryer. It’s dark down there, obviously, but there is no light switch. Or, rather, there is a light switch, but it’s located in the living room. There is also a cat litter box down there, filled with cat litter. A perfectly normal place to put a cat litter box, except that in the entire twelve hours we were there I saw no sign of any cats. Also, I’m fairly certain the basement door was closed when we went down there, making the litter inaccessible to any hidden cats on the premises.

Naturally, in the morning before we left I went through the house quietly taking photos of everything I could. I needed to prove that I had spent the night in a house that is totally comparable to the one Augusten Burroughs spent his childhood in. All this house is missing is the personal electro-shock machine, and for all I know there could be one tucked under a bed somewhere. For all I know, Sam’s aunt could have been snacking on dry dog food while we weren’t looking.*

Hungry from the lack of a decent meal and sleepless from a night having a doll stare down at us in bed, Sam and I left as soon as we were able. Ten minutes away from Harrisburg is the town of Hershey, Pennsylvania; Land of Chocolate. The street lamps are shaped like Hershey Kisses. Being the chocolate freaks that we are, of course we stop for a candy run. There actually isn’t much to tell about the experience, except that we got to Hershey Park early and had to spend the few minutes before it opened avoiding small children and the poor employee charged with the duty of entertaining said children dressed as a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Once inside we each bought a handful of chocolate and got the hell out.

We spent the afternoon walking around downtown Philadelphia in 100-degree heat. We saw the Liberty Bell and sweat a collective ten pounds off in the process. We got onto the NJ Turnpike and drove home. We went to sleep. The End.

-amelia

*Don’t take this statement the wrong way. If you’ve read Burroughs’ Running With Scissors you’ll know perfectly well to what I am referring and totally get that it is ridiculous. Sam’s aunt has had a rough time of it since her husband passed, but I am trying to make commentary on the crazy house, not the woman herself. She was sweet.

In 2007 I began my love affair with the travel writing of Bill Bryson. That summer I read A Walk in the Woods and had to stifle potentially loud bursts of laughter while reading in public places. Released in 1998, the book chronicles Bryson’s intermittent misadventure through the Appalachian Trail. At one point he stumbles across the abandoned coal-mining town of Centralia, Pennsylvania. When Bryson details the town’s history—how an underground mine fire had continued unabated for more than thirty years, despite numerous attempts to put it out—I was interested. When he went on to describe the then-current condition of the town—how the government offered compensation to those who wished to relocate, but a handful of citizens decided to stay where their roots were, in a deathtrap of a town, and raise children there—I was hooked.

I researched and read everything I could find about Centralia on the internet. For my English 100 class I wrote a profile of the town, borrowing the one library book I could find on the subject. In a creative writing course I wrote a short story set in Centralia. The town was at the very top of my list of Places to Visit Before I Die, if only because I knew it wouldn’t be around for much longer.

Moving to New York afforded me the opportunity to at last make the visit. Luckily Sam had also read A Walk in the Woods and was interested in seeing the long-lost town. She planned a weekend off work and rented a car for two days. The Google-mapped three-hour drive took the better part of six hours, thanks to a massive, inching back-up on I-78, the only highway in the area. (A tractor trailer had totaled three cars.) Sam’s Blackberry GPS didn’t help matters by doling out one wonky set of directions after another. That kind of thing is to be somewhat expected though, since Centralia doesn’t technically exist anymore: the town’s zip code was revoked in 2002, and all the buildings there are condemned.

While driving aimlessly around Ashland, one of many rural PA towns that does not seem to condone labeling their streets, we found a sign with the name “CENTRALIA” pointing the way. A few minutes out of town we found Locust Ave and one of the four remaining cemeteries. A man walking around with his girlfriend told us, “I don’t know exactly what it is you’re looking for, but… this is basically it. This is Centralia.” We drove back down Locust, which intersects with Hwy 61, and went up the hill to the church, prominently displayed at the top.

The church at the top of the hill.

The church was small, with steep stone steps, and a look that did not in any way say “abandoned.” A house stood nearby and, although it could have used new, not-moldy curtains, the bowls of fresh cat food sitting at the back door also gave the impression of being inhabited. We drove further up the hill and found ourselves in a small, prosperous-looking neighborhood, complete with children’s toys, cars, gardens, and white picket fences littering the lawns. Clearly this wasn’t Centralia. But why let a neighborhood thrive so close to one* that was condemned? (*Actually two; another, smaller town called Byrnesville was completely destroyed by the fire. The last of its homes was demolished in 1996. Only an overgrown miner’s washhouse remains.)

The overgrown Brynesville washhouse.

We drove back down the hill, to the intersection of 61 and Locust. That’s when I saw it. The first without-a-doubt sign that we’d found what we were looking for: the Centralia Borough Municipal Building, housing the town’s ambulance and fire truck. I had read once that if one were to walk into the station, the still-humming emergency radio could be heard throughout. That detail makes me think of the immensely quiet, tense, suspenseful moment of the movie, a hum that is a small reminder that people called this place home, right before the zombies attack. Upon closer inspection of the building though, the emergency vehicles looked too shiny and cared for, and the personal belongings strewn about did not look like they’d been there for ten or twenty or more years. According to Wikipedia, the municipal building is indeed still in use; I can imagine they rescue the, say, three remaining residents from land subsistence and carbon monoxide poisoning on a daily basis.

Centralia’s ambulance and fire truck.

After a quick photo shoot with the municipal building, we drove, again aimlessly, down the busted, overgrown slabs of asphalt that used to be neighborhood streets. We came across two of the supposedly five remaining homes in Centralia, the uninhabited buildings being finally torn down in the past year. They looked exactly like the pictures I’d seen on websites dedicated to the town: two-story, quaint, and thin, leftovers of a series of “rowhomes.” Since their companion homes had been torn down years ago, several chimney-like red brick supports were built up one side of each lone home. These will not, however, protect them should the earth beneath them subside into a 150-foot deep, 1000º chasm, which could totally happen.

A lone rowhome.

We plan to return to Centralia when the air gets colder so as to actually see the toxic steam rising out of the ground and numerous pressure-release vents. I also want to research the hell out of the town again, since it’s been a while, and find the old Hwy 61 route. It was blocked off years ago because it has a giant, gaping crack down the center of it that you can burn logs in.

Hopefully it will actually be a three-hour drive that time.

-amelia

P.S. Stay tuned for Pennsylvania, Part Two!