Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 6 - Dighton, MA to Johnston, RI - Paul Rianna

This would prove to be a good day and it marks a new direction for this blog. Whenever I meet new people as I did on this occasion I will title the post after them.

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Things were getting easier as I passed southward through Massachusetts. My feet were acclimating to the weight of my pack and the weight of myself. My shoulders were less and less sore each day. My back was getting stronger. It was good that I had done so much long distance walking in my life back in Maine. I knew how to deal with the psychology--the monotony of the these treks.

Also, I was more confident about relying on my stick's compass for navigation. When I'd first started out I had trouble trusting it, because of its size. Sometimes I would be facing the sun at noon (which meant I was facing south) and the compass would read north. But a few gentle taps of the stick on the ground would send it to the correct reading. There is a little bubble in it which I thought at first was just a manufacturing defect. But, I realized that it was actually a level indicator. When the bubble was resting directly in the middle of dial I knew the stick was straight up and down. Consequently, if the dial stuck on the edge of its well, I would notice, loosen it and that would adjust to read correctly.

Good old Route 44 was becoming as familiar as Route 138 had been. Because I didn't have a cellphone or GPS, I had to rely on my sketchy memory of the towns I'd seen when online with the Google Maps mental images to gauge just how close I was to Rhode Island. This kind of memory was rarely reliable. It did, though, usually serve to trigger the image of the map for me whenever I saw signs upon entering new towns. I'd see the name of a town on a sign and suddenly the map image would also appear in my mind.

Certain things made me laugh as walked along. The signs that store owners came up with to attract customers were a never-ending source of amusement. Today there was "The Adult Toy Store on Route 44!" and "Not getting enough grease? Stop in for Bubba's 'Famous Bacon Burger'!"

The sun seemed to zip across the sky while I walked. In the mornings and evenings time moves much faster than it does at midday. The hours from 12:00 pm to about 3:00 pm always drags by. I guess it is like that for me even in my non-journeying life, but I didn't identify the phenomenon until now.

Just after about 3:00 pm I came over a hill, around a bend and there it was this sign...

The first sign that told me I wasn't in Massachusetts anymore.

I stopped and stared at it for a moment. A strange feeling came over me, like a vision but purely mental: I will complete this journey. There was something about having walked through my first state that meant it was possible to do it in any state. I wasn't deluded enough to think that some states would take perhaps weeks. The states will get a LOT bigger. My friend Frank in New Mexico wrote in an email that it made him laugh to read my stories of going from state to state in New England, "LOL  I forget how small the states are back there.  My concepts are so western.  lol  I have never been to Maine, VT, RI, NY and all that."

I was famished. The first of the PayPal contributions had finally come in that day, and I was ready to have a big meal. All the quintessential stores and restaurants of the big city edges began to emerge into view. The beeping and jostling for position increased among the drivers as I watched the rush hour take hold. 

I had wanted to go directly to Connecticut. But, I had no choice once I headed south out of Boston. I didn't know what to expect from Rhode Island. The last time I was there was when I toured with a band in college. But that was on the coast only. And, I never really did get to meet any people.

A mini mall centered around Stop & Shop had ten businesses in it, and since it was the first place I saw, I read the sign carefully. The word "Buffet" stuck out. My stomach can lend a hyperfocus to my eyes when it wants to.

The New Buffet - a Chinese place which looked about a decade old - was wedged into a small door space. But upon entering it, the blue-lit interior expanded out into a sea of empty tables. It was your very typical, industrial Chinese buffet, and then some... 

On the walls were mural-sized pictures of Chinese places, back lit with some of the lights missing. There were two women speaking Mandarin, one of them seemed very hyper, maybe upset? The other mostly sat and nodded interjecting her own comments every now and then. Though there were only two other parties at tables in far flung locations, it took a good five minutes for the excited woman to walk over and ask if I wanted a seat.

She sat me in a booth, and a very friendly waitress immediately appeared and asked what I wanted to drink. I ordered a Coke and asked if there were free refills, being fifteen-miles tired and glistening with sweat. She said "yes," and placed a plate in front of me.

There is something kind of pathetic - no...maybe just depressing - about buffets like this. They are feedlots for people. Their purpose was entirely to make money. Both sides - service and customer - know well that, unlike a really classy place where atmosphere is an important component to eating out, the human aspect of the Chinese buffet is simply a secondary requirement to getting their mutually exclusive jobs done in a rather mechanical way. Food is cooked and if not eaten it is tossed out by the ton. Wasting food has always bothered me, but I've grown to accept it.

Two very young, probably lower income (though I don't want to presume) families came in as I walked to the pile up a plate. They were obviously visiting this place as a special occasion for their young kids. It was like something they had planned well ahead of time. Or, maybe I am creating a pretext that didn't really exist. Regardless, the kids were beyond excited. They were well-behaved and listened to their parents while containing their glee. It was nice to have a bit of spirit flow into the nearly-vacant, auditorium-sized space.

The food was average to somewhat lower than average in quality. Some things were cold, others that should have been liquid had the tiniest hint of a dry skin growing over them. They had "sushi," but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be the kind you order from California, rather than California rolls--with "fish legs" as a main ingredient, or imitation crab meat that won't go bad for three weeks. I skipped it.

I just wanted to eat and it was nice to have something different from cold sandwiches and Dunkin Donuts breakfasts. I went up for seconds and finally had my fill. I sucked down a Sprite and then a large water. The bill was under ten dollars, which isn't bad at all. Perhaps they accidentally charged me the lunch rate instead of dinner? 

When I was ready for the bill, my fortune cookie came. And, not missing the possibility for an auspicious opportunity to occur, I cracked it and found this...

Profundity, for $9.95.

I found myself actually caring what it meant. Am I now succeeding where I had failed before? Will I soon fail but rise up with an ever greater scheme? The possibilities were endless; as they should be when fortune cookie writing is considered. I still have that little fortune. We can play with what it meant when all of this traveling is over.

I stood up and looked down at my ever-present companion, the backpack. It seemed to smile back at me, sheepishly, innocently, like a fat pet that I can't give away, but I am also chained to carry its lazy ass around. I sighed heavily, knowing that I would soon suffer the "Chinese hangover." They did not have WiFi at the restaurant but I was smart enough (for once) to make several screenshots of the maps on Google to examine at a time like this. Providence was intimidating, but somehow compared to Boston it shrank slightly in its ability to overawe me.

I picked up the fat, smiling pet and strained to throw it over my shoulders. I strapped it up, grabbed my faithful walking stick, and headed out into the now darkening night.

The plan was to follow Route 44 across the Providence River and then find a route across the city. Almost immediately upon walking toward the bridge I noticed that I wasn't on Route 44 anymore. I also noticed that the bridge was not connected to the road I was on. Shit! That same old feeling that I was getting used to, of being lost and having to work out a way of becoming "found" again, sank in.

I found myself walking under the bridge at a 90 degree direction (along the river bank) to flow of traffic above. When I emerged on the other side, I saw a steep grassy embankment that ran up to what turned out to be Route 1A, the smaller bridge I'd seen in the map. I took it as a sign that maybe I could get myself out of this current situation.

There was a bike lane that ran along the edge of the bridge and I walked along it to the other side, where I took the exit and checked my compass. I adjusted my direction west and walked down a small unlit road, called Waterman Street, until I saw a Whole Foods Market in all its over-priced glory, shining like a beacon of stuffy, fads-gone-by self importance.

But, how could I criticize? I was happy as hell to find it. Out of all grocery stores it was sure to have Wi-Fi and I would be able to form a Plan B and Plan C.

I was quite tired by then. It had been a good 20 miles since I'd walked out of my last sleeping place. I was beginning to feel the effects of my Chinese over-indulgence, as I felt and heard digested food pour from one side of me to the other. "Ughhh..." I said out loud.

So, first came a trip to the bathroom and then feeling much better, thank you, I bought a 1.5 liter Black Currant Juice (God knows why--instead of water); spending almost as much on it as my bowel-twisting Chinese feast. I downed the bottle, because I had sweat out all that I'd had to drink at the buffet. I pulled the laptop out of my pet-pack and fired it up outside on one of the wrought iron tables. I got a signal right away and talked to some of you through Facebook that night, while examining maps of the city.

Trendy men in shorts and Eddie Bauer jackets walked by from the parking lot. And, every woman was over five feet nine inches, had perky straight hair and skinny jeans or more often black stretch pants on their highly toned legs. Everyone walked with confidence and ease over obstacles without missing a beat, while texting, flicking their hair back and forth and generally looking beautiful in every way. The stretch pant thing itself was ubiquitous down here in Southern New England. It looks good and seems comfortable. But its prevalence was almost like a way to become part of a cloned fashion army. I caught myself people-watching instead of researching routes and shook my head before diving back into Google Maps.

The way was relative clear, or so it seemed. The strategy was to find Route 6A, which led out of the west side of town, eventually joining its mother, Route 6, into a more suburban area where I might actually find a place to sleep.

Reluctantly, and with a teeth-grinding amount of effort I pulled the backpack on again. It felt unbearably heavy, the way it always does when I first put it on. The only comfort I could muster was the psychological expectation that eventually I would get used to it, as I always do.

I walked west and - once again - bared off onto the wrong street. I walked for about two miles and then realized I was way off. These are the times when I begin to get too frustrated. Such a long day, with so many miles already underfoot, and here I stood in another city, lost, as lost as a sleepy child could be in a dark and potentially dangerous forest of concrete and glass.

When this kind of desperate situation begins to fully dawn on me, I simply stumble into survival mode. It is born of the realization that there are no options left but to get out of the trouble I'm in...and nothing can stop me. I believe that if I broke my leg at such a time I would still crawl, dragging my limp appendage, until I could emerge from the Minotaur's maze.

I once saw a movie - can't remember the title - where the main character said, "Once your limited options are gone, then ALL options become available." This was something like that. I resolved to conquer the situation no matter what. After resting on a short but wide concrete wall for about ten minutes, allowing it to hold the weight of the pack. I stood up and started walking again.

Near a women's clinic in god-knows what part of the city I found a woman outside waiting for a ride. She was very kind looking, so I stopped and asked her how to get over to Route 6A. She said she didn't know but that I definitely shouldn't go "that" way, and pointed to a darker part well west of where we were.

We both looked at each other and nodded with psychic agreement. She said, "I'm black and I won't even go there." I must have furrowed my brow a bit, because she laughed and disarmed the awkwardness by patting me on the shoulder. I thanked her and began again, as if in self-forced marching in the opposite direction that she had warned about.

Finally I found a dorm on the Brown University Campus and sat at a wooden table out in front. What appeared to be a group of freshman girls arrived on a campus bus. They giggled and teased each other, screaming in delight and obviously slightly drunk. I was able to hitch onto the dorm's WiFi (which means I'd had to disassemble my bungee web and take the pack apart in order to pull out the laptop).

I checked the satellite images on Google and found the right bridge over I95. I packed up again, pulled on the backpack again, and began walking quickly, with an earnest determination. Not really feeling the strain of it all anymore, flooded by adrenaline, I made good progress out of the largest part of the city.

I walked past people and they occasionally stared, but it was not as pervasive as the attention I had received in Massachusetts. People kept to themselves. I passed through some very rough areas of town, before stopping at an all night Cumberland Farms in the Federal Hill section of town.

There, a nice older woman - the manager I think? - told me how to connect with Route 6A. "You have to walk up a really steep hill. At the top you will see an intersection with a busy road. THAT is Route 6A. Take a right onto it. Further down you will find an all night Shell Station where you will be able to rest and use the bathroom." I was stunned that she would be so concerned about how I was doing. But I thanked her nonetheless, as graciously as I possibly could, and returned to my trail of sweat.

I got to the hill and climbed, and climbed, and climbed. The neighborhood grew more prosperous as I passed through it. Finally, when I couldn't take another step upward I reached the top. There it was, the grand intersection prophesied by my Cumberland Farm guru, and the traffic flowed like high-beamed honey just beyond the Route 6A (also known as Hartford Avenue) sign. I smiled.

I began to falter. I was just physically giving out. My mind would have kept going until the end of the world, but my body was not able to take commands anymore. I sat down on a large boulder by the side of the road in what I would later learn was the town of Johnston. I panted and dripped sweat from the visor of my Maine cap. The pack weight was temporarily held up by the back of the boulder. I saw that there was a string of brighter lights ahead, up the road. I heard a sound behind me, a door opening. I slowed turned to see the silhouette of a man standing, smoking in the doorway and watching me calmly. I said, "How ya doin'?"

He replied with a "...good...good."

Perceiving that I might be on his property, I offered, "I'm just hiking through and need a rest."

He said, "No problem at all. Do you want a coffee or something."

I thought this a strange thing to ask, since it was about 2:00 am. "No, I think I'll get back to the road. I appreciate your offer very much though. Thank you."

He said, "Sounds good."

I got up and felt a bit better. It wasn't long at all until I saw the fabled Shell Station (1396 Hartford Avenue, Johnston). I crossed the road and dragged my pathetic self inside.

There, alone, working hard and energetically, filling coffee machines, cleaning the bathroom, then writing on a piece of paper behind the counter--as if twenty customers were passing through the store, was Paul Rianna, Jr.

PAUL RIANNA, JR.

Paul Rianna working his night shift at the Shell Station in Johnston, RI

My meeting with Paul is where this story changes. He is the first of the growing number of people - my new friends - whom I would meet and actually talk to.

I told him what I was doing, and he was the first person not to call me crazy. He didn't fawn or seem surprised. In fact it was as if nothing would surprise him. I asked how long he'd been working there. I believe he said eleven years (and I will adjust that if I find out differently, because we are now Facebook friends). He has a girlfriend and lives in the area. Paul works a lot--six days a week.

As we spoke he generously offered me a free coffee, this time I accepted the offer of coffee, despite the late hour. A few guys came in and he seemed to know each one--as regulars. He helped them efficiently and sent them on their way, satisfied.

When I realized I still had to find a place to sleep I pulled on my pack and bowed out, very happy that my Real mission had begun in earnest.

People. That is what this adventure was going to be about: Real people living their lives in 21st Century America. I want to get a taste of what they do and what they think. But mostly I want to present them to the world, because they deserve to be known.

Plenty of celebrities, pop stars, supermodels, politicians and corporate CEO's have been highlighted in the media. Now, it was time for the people who actually run the country to be seen. And, there would be plenty more to come.

Rhode Island was a great place to start. I met many people who were kind, plain spoken, intelligent, hard working there.

When I left the shell station I continued up the road a-ways until I found a sleeping place for the night...

I rested in peace that night; exhausted beyond what I've ever known--having walked slightly over 35 miles, but filled with satisfaction and hope for my project. The next days would bring new aspects to the development of this effort, and, on one particular day, a true transformation within myself, and a confirmation that what I was attempting might someday have real importance.

The Johnston Sleeping Place