Revision: Travel Essay

It was gray everywhere.  Overcast in both weather and demeanor, and not looking good for tomorrow either.  I disliked it here; even the air tasted of grit and sadness and fear.  It wasn't always like this.

The windows of the lime green cab were clean, as was the inside.  A small but pleasant surprise. I gazed out the window as we passed over the parkway. Tall buildings, earmarked with occasional muted lights pocking their face. Abandoned mills and boarded up houses everywhere you looked. This was the first ever planned industrial city in the United States.  Hamilton had a core belief that, even then, the United States needed to reduce it's dependence on imports and develop it's own industries and capabilities. I wonder what he would think of his life's work now, I mused.  This now moth-addled Silk City.

The saving grace of Paterson, of Passaic County, is the Great Falls. At 77 feet high, it was one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in the country, which  of course meant it had to be harnessed by man. These falls literally powered the Industrial Revolution. Ironic, I thought, that most people, even it's own residents, weren't aware they existed.

I had wondered if I would feel a connection to this city, this city I was born in, the  place I grew up. So far I felt no attachment to the sights and sounds, only a wistful ache for the rapidly vanishing clan that are my blood. The same ache that is my reason for being here - another funeral. Traveling on the MLK, we pass the old Colt factory.  Paradoxes everywhere.  I wonder if Samuel Colt would feel guilt about this city's violent disposition.

Long before I was born, this city had been vibrant and alive; during the Gilded Age upper- and middle-class families had flourished. The wave of immigrants had been tremendous; in fact, my ancestors were some of them. My great, great grandparents bounded a steamship, five young children in tow, and headed for the promise of a new (and ostensibly better) life. Galway was bleak and desperate, and to them, the American Dream was alive and fat with promise, and accessible to anyone who worked hard enough.

I glanced out the other window of the cab, across the Passaic River.  Even at this early hour, it looks dark, dirty and uninviting. Maybe it's just me, I thought.  Maybe I'm projecting.  I think of the days events ahead.  Check in at the hotel, find my bearings, locate some decent coffee, then call Maureen.  Maybe meet for some lunch.  Wake tonight, followed by the obligatory drinking and eating, and more drinking that are part of the Irish tradition of delivering a loved one to the afterlife. I'd best make sure to have ibuprofen and bottled water handy.

The hotel is a chain place, and the rubber-stamped entry and furniture are alight and tired. The weary desk auditor seems curious and dispassionate that I have traveled from Maine to this war-torn city. There's only one reason I would return here, and this would be my last visit.

I loved my Grandfather's family, as cracked and sometimes scary as they were.  They were incredibly interesting and unique - from hardworking and miserable Great Great Grandparents, who apparently couldn't stop breeding, to their daughter who was a burlesque dancer and a son who was a  well-known boxer to the members of the local Irish and Italian mafias.

But there weren't many of them left.  In fact, this funeral marked the end of not only an era, but closed a door on New Jersey for me.  I had already lost my Grandparents, Godparents, various Aunts & Uncles....my Great Aunt was the last of the clan that I had been remotely connected to.

Now in my room, I walked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the city.  Everything I can see is  brown and gray and black, dirty...the colors of fear, discouragement and irrevocable helplessness. I'm not looking forward to these two days. Wakes and funerals are not pleasant on their own; feeling like an interloper at them is worse. Everyone will be drunk and loving tonight, tomorrow's headaches will bring a harsher, more frigid reality.

Daring to walk the Fourth Ward on Martin Luther King Boulevard, I'm struck by the quantity of eerily battened windows of the long-closed establishments, now powdered and rouged with the autographs and warnings of malcontents. Overgrown trash-strewn lots and foreclosed and forlorn homes abound, interspersed with alarmingly busy alleyways. I keep my eyes ahead, briefly noticing movement in my periphery. Gone are the days of children walking to school and leisurely afternoon strolls to the market. Here, public family life is a veiled enigma, quietly situated behind deadbolts, iron bars and bulletproof glass.

I'm happy to see the coffee shop.  The nature of these businesses means they are bustling at this hour, and the smells and sounds are a welcome respite. I wait in line behind harried business people checking their watches and cell phones, and order my coffee and a scrumptious looking croissant with pecans. I look around for a spot, and take up residence in the corner away from the windows, with my back facing the wall.

Taking a long sip of the molten coffee, I steel myself and dial Maureen.