Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 2 - Boston, MA to South Boston, MA - First Camp

After more than an hour passed with the rain falling even harder, and with the sky embellishing the storm over the Charles River with lightning and thunder, mercifully, a worker on the inside of the building unlocked the doors at about 4:20 am. The New Yorker and I both oozed into the great hall like melting wax figurines. He looked at me and laughed. I was beyond finding humor in the situation and simply said, "Longest night of my life." He nodded.

I was weak from not sleeping or eating. My hands looked like over-soaked, wrinkled white gloves. I was soaked to the core and shivering. I sat at one of the small iron tables as a stream of restaurant booth workers filed in to open up the Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and Au Bon Pain stands. All I wanted was to sleep; to simply take a nap. The animal urge to rest was causing me to nod off, catching the weight of my head suddenly, as my chin touched my chest over and over again.

I had that shaky-sick feeling. My blood pressure was climbing. To not be allowed to sleep has got to be one of the worst forms of torture. I steeled myself to (once again) accept my sorry state. Over and over again the post-Boston Marathon bombing-inspired voice came on loudly and distorted over the intercom, warning about "packages left unattended" and that "if you see something suspicious, say something."

The line of morning train commuters quickly accumulated at the counter of each food booth. Overly tired and paranoid that the intercom voice would inspire someone to report my unattended backpack, I didn't feel comfortable leaving it at the table to stand in a line, though I really wanted a coffee.

Meanwhile, middle-school-quality videos played on giant hanging flat screen TVs, telling the sheeple how to be alert to the signs of evil bombers, drug carrying criminals and secret alcohol drinking misfits. In a strange and possibly ironic twist, it appeared that Heineken Beer had bought every single bit of advertising space in the station. Giant flags, banners, curtains, and column-wrapping posters filled my sight wherever I looked with huge green beer cans.

The police state propaganda, enhanced with images of one of the most dangerous and deadly of all drugs (alcohol) was scratching at my one, last, raw nerve. THIS was society displaying one of its most hypocritical and completely unquestioned scenes.

Worker bees were gathering to get hopped up on one drug--coffee, used to hold their eyes open, while being exposed to another drug--alcohol, while the disturbing security voice rang through the spacious hall on some kind of digital loop. It was warning about bombs and "drugs," as TV images of smiling law enforcement officers were shown pushing the noses of leashed police dogs into people's crotches and searching black backpacks at random. The scene was really just all too much for me. I felt small and helpless against the machine; the game that was assaulting my senses; the game I had come to despise. Readers know that this is partially what the IWALLK blog has been about in the last three years.

I passed most of the morning trying to get online as the WiFi signals came in and out of my Android smartphone and laptop--working, then failing; working then failing...

Thankfully, my hometown friend Debra contacted me and came to visit, hanging out for awhile. When she left I was empty, feeling alone and anxious again. I hadn't taken my blood pressure medication yet and was experiencing the discomfort of the last 18 hours much more acutely than before she had arrived. I was even more unsure and becoming mentally hazy, especially about what the hell I was undertaking with this so-called Journey.

I faltered a bit and was ready to give up. I left the building and struggled back to North Station, reaching a feverish panic attack--something I didn't recognize as such and mistook for a possible heart attack.

Sitting there, I sent out a desperate email plea for funds from my family. Twenty dollars came in from one family member and I nearly bought the $15 ticket back to Maine.

Then, suddenly, it struck me, cast into reality from out of the blue. If I went back to Maine in defeat, all the reasons why I had left in the first place would still be there, untreated, un-addressed. I didn't want to be that "safe," only to also suffer the indignity of admitting failure, especially after only one day! Was I that much of a coward?

What is the reason for just existing if it means running away from what the soul truly needs to be ALIVE? The strangest emotion I'd ever experienced passed through me like the action of an intravenous drug designed for clarity. It was also a small injection of confidence. There was a voice in my mind, saying something like: When there is no other choice, everything becomes possible.

I willed myself to push through the doubt and physical discomfort and was surprised to find myself more determined than ever to finish what I'd started. I was being strengthened by something not of origin in myself.

As if a light had been turned on behind my eyes, the world became illuminated with new possibilities. I stowed away the laptop and everything else as best I could, pulled the huge pack onto my back and headed toward the exit doors of the station.

When I grasped the bar to open the doors, the light of the outside world blasted into and throughout me like a long and drawn out camera flash. A song I'd written and recorded three years earlier after being on the streets for three months (please see the Odyssey Journey in the archives) started playing in my head. Back then I had finally found a place to live temporarily in 2011 after being on the street for three months and writing about it here. It was as if the soundtrack to the movie of my homeless life in general had been loaded, cued up and ready to go. Upon opening the doors, someone had simply pressed play (click the title to hear the song)...

* * * * * * *

NOT ALONE 

Words and Music by Alex Wall
Copyright 2011. Omega Art and Music.

There's an empty bench in Mill Creek Park
Bring your kids, feed the ducks on the lily pond
I walked for miles inside a song
I want to make my life my own 

And I'm not alone
I'm not alone
And I can wear my soul
And you will see my soul 

I spend a golden coin to find the hope

Now there's an empty space in Mill Creek Park
I'm heading home, the ducks have flown and the path is dark
There's a broken heart inside our world
We've grown apart, we should march as one with our flag unfurled 

We were lost for years inside a dream
And we've forgotten what we've seen 

But we're not alone
We're not alone
And we can find our souls
And they will see our souls
We can make a golden age to call our own 

Not alone... 

I'm not alone
You're not alone
We're not alone

* * * * * * *

The song was majestic, filled with Power. It trumpeted through my soul like spiritual bagpipes across a battlefield. And I marched proudly forward.  I'm not going to keep saying that it was pouring rain. Please just understand that it was for the rest of the daylight hours in this post.

As I walked along, I glimpsed a figure walking beside me on my left, in my peripheral vision. This surprised me and I turned to look at him. He wasn't there. Thinking that it must have been a raindrop in the corner of my eye, I looked straight ahead again and focused on my goal of crossing the river into South Boston. But the figure shimmered slightly and reappeared. I quickly turned again. Nothing. It seemed that someone invisible to my direct sight was moving along with me...somehow.

I would later learn that this was all part of the same phenomenon; the voice at the station, the sudden empowerment I felt, the confidence to move forward at any cost...and now this unseen companion.

I was headed south and went across the wrong bridge (Congress Street) at first. Then realizing something was wrong when it led only to the water, I retraced my steps and back into Boston proper, then took the Sumner Street Bridge, the one leading to Telegraph Hill in South Boston.

Several times when I asked people for advice about getting out of Boston by going this way, they said, "...avoid South Boston and Dorchester..." or "...don't walk through the 'projects.'" At first this advice kind-of freaked me out. Then again, suddenly, I just didn't care about any risk from human beings. What he hell did I have to lose? I wanted OUT OF BOSTON, come hell or high water--since, in a way, I had just suffered through both anyway.

As I entered South Boston, I instantly became a transient "Southie." I entered a kind of 'Little Ireland.' Thanking my ancestors for being Irish at that point, I walked past a bar with one of the most beautiful and elaborate graffiti images of the "Dropkick Murphys" (a Celtic or hardcore punk and hip hop band) painted on it's side. I was now on L Street.

In a way I felt at home. I love all things Irish. The road went on and on. I took a wrong turn and nearly got lost in the maze of small apartment complexes, assuming this must have been what they meant by "the projects." But I relied entirely on my little walking stick and its compass to guide me back to L Street. Let me just take a moment to tout just how wonderful this walking stick is.

I never even considered such a tool before this trip. I thought walking sticks were more for "appearances" than actual practical help in hiking. MAN, was I wrong.

Eventually, I found that it functioned as an extended way to feel the environment at night. Its different heights serve as a way to hang things when I stop for rests. It is an excellent tent pole and theoretically could be used as a self defense weapon.

One of the greatest aspects is that when I loop my hand in the strap it becomes like an arm rest. On long walks fluid can pool in my hands if they are swinging at my side, creating pressure problems. This handhold eliminates that. Furthermore, it does serve an important image-maker. Police don't see me as the homeless wreck that I am and instead automatically think "Oh, look it's a crazy hiker guy walking through the city!" And as I said, the compass is great too--and reliable.

The day was as gray-skied as it could be without being nighttime. The street lights were partially on all along the route Iwallked. When I'd gotten past the turn to Logan Airport, I really felt like I was going to make it out of the densest part of the city before nightfall. It was a ray of hope.

I was hungry. I passed by East Broadway, which ran perpendicular to L Street, and spied what looked like a grocery store off to the right. So, I took that turn and stopped in at a Stop n Shop (713 E Broadway). There at the store, I got the first taste of the curious stares and chuckles that would characterize my time on this Journey.

There I was carrying a large backpack with a plastic trash bag bungee corded to the top of it, a winter jacket over a fleece one (easier to wear than carry them), sweating profusely through my "Maine" cap so much so that it was dripping off the visor and onto the floor. With my walking stick and limping slightly with my staggeringly sore feet, I must have been a hilarious sight for sure.

The kids were the ones who were most accepting, after muttering questions to their mothers about the strange man in their presence. Obviously, this was a neighborhood store where everyone knew each other. I thought about how neat it would be to live around there - as a normal resident - and get to know these folks.

I bought a sandwich and juice. Outside in the parking lot I removed the pack and took a few moments of freedom to eat my lunch/supper. Some guy had parked in the middle of the road, presumably to buy something quickly without going into the parking lot. It snarled up traffic, but he didn't care. I watched him go into the store and then come back out with his groceries, only to (and I'm not kidding) sit there and eat them in his awkwardly parked truck. He kept looking at me in that "you're different and need to pay for it" kind of way. I'm not certain it was him, but when I turned my back I felt some extra heavy water drops hit my head. I turned around quickly and caught him laughing to himself while he drank his bottled water. This, as people beeped and angrily peeled out around his inconsiderate ass. I thought it best not to get pissed and just decided to let Karma do her thing--she always comes through in the end.

After eating I strapped the pack back on and headed east to L Street then took a right and continued south toward Joe Moakley Park, walking straight up to the Curley Community Center. It was a long building that obscured the beach beyond and had the words, "Mens Bath House" chiseled above its front doors.

Once there, again, I went left going the wrong way on William J. Day Boulevard, walking east, but corrected myself when I reached the bay. Making a 180, I made my way back west along the same shore.

The rain had let up slightly and the spray from the wind off the waves replaced the balance of the moisture that the clouds had withdrawn, keeping me just as wet but making the drops that ran off my mustache taste salty. The air smelled like the ocean, but also like fried food (wafting out from local restaurants). It was nice.

Night had fallen and lights dotted the shore. Eventually, I saw dark spots on the horizon. They were separated by bright patches that looked like factories, but turned out to be the lit campus of the University of Massachusetts.

I was wearing down. My shoes were trying to make traction, while on the inside my feet swam in a puddle of dissolved inner sole and untreated blisters. My shoulders and collarbone felt as if they had been fractured. I needed to find a place to just sleep. There hadn't had any sleep at all for the last 48 hours.

This was the first time that I intuitively felt like I would find a place just at the last moment...and I wouldn't be disappointed. I just had to have faith that somehow it would appear. It sure looked like I was screwed though as I accidentally took the long way by going left along Mt. Vernon Street, which led to University Drive, these street led me around the entire campus.

Just when I was literally about to collapse, I saw a spot across from the campus that would probably work as a sleeping place. This energized me just enough to continue on. I reached the small green patch where the yellow arrow is pointing here...

Seeing a way into the trees through the Vietnam Memorial there, I walked up as if I were a veteran myself on a pilgrimage to see my "fallen brothers'" names carved in marble. You have to be willing to act and formulate lies just in case the police or a "concerned citizen" might suddenly descend. In that spirit I memorized one of the names on the wall in case I was asked why I was camping there. Now I've forgotten that name. 

Behind this display of wet marble and bright spotlights was a grassy hill. I walked over it. Further down by the water was a patch of very tall seagrass, dry enough to lay the tarp on. The rain had turned to drizzle and I unfurled my homemade tarp tent for the first very first time, using it more like a bag than a tent.

I unrolled the sleeping bag while leaning into the opening of the tarp tent and removed my shoes. despite my raw and blistering feet, I have to say that crawling into the sleeping bag was one of the most satisfying feelings I have ever had. In the midst of the chaos of my life, my insecurities, personal doubts about committing to my adventure, and the terrible stress of the last two days...I found true peace in that moment. I fell asleep almost immediately. The time was 8:45 pm. 

At around 4:00 am I awoke to what sounded like something foraging through the grass. It seemed to be getting closer, then further away, then closer. For the life of me I could not figure out what was going on at first. Making a mental plan for a quick cleanup if required and grabbing my walking stick just in case I needed to poke at some hungry animal to keep it from munching on me, I realized there would be a lot of times like this to come. Rationally, I knew that the only animals around were probably skunks, rabbits, woodchucks and other small critters who would do me no harm and probably have heart attacks themselves were we to suddenly come face to face. But at the time, in the still of the night, and being so inexperienced in all of this, hearing these sounds set off plateaus of paranoia. Still, out of sheer exhaustion I fell back asleep.

South Boston Sleep Spot