I woke up in my dark dungeon of a motel room. If my window had faced the outdoors rather than a cinder block wall, I would have seen a bright sunny day. My feelings about moving on to Pennsylvania were mixed up in a mess of tangled contradictions.
I was a bit nervous in general to be leaving New England. But I was sick of Connecticut. It had its chance with me. I would have left sooner had I not thought that things would get more interesting there. I still think the state is a friendlier place than I'd had the opportunity to see.
The plan at this point was to find the Stamford Amtrak station and then search for a way to spend the 30 hours until my train left in late morning, the next day.
I dropped off my key at the front desk and faked a smile to the same woman who, incidentally, changed the price for rooms with each person in line ahead of me the afternoon before. She ignored me and went back to tapping away on her cell phone.
The Americas Best Value Inn was located at the top of a steep hill that led into the city. I'd been down it the evening before to buy a couple beers and some supper. The area was rough. Except for a hand full of liquor stores, some Mexican and Asian markets and many blocks of very low rent apartments, there was not much to see.
Near the bottom of the hill was a road construction project that bottle-necked the traffic along what seemed to already be a very dense rush hour mess. This time is was morning commuters who honked and swore at each other. I could tell though that there was very little anger. It was more like a morning driver's tradition or habit.
I once watched a huge line of evening rush hour traffic stuck in Boston's China Town area under similar conditions. It seemed to be socially expected that each driver there should beep her/his horn just for the hell of it. People just sat there, smiling, swearing and honking. Stamford was obviously under this same mindset.
When I'd broken past the snarled construction area and was finally walking toward midtown's taller buildings I blanked out and lost the direction I was supposed to head in. Ducking into one of the major hotels I met a very nice woman who was already busy, but took the time to explain how to get to the train station. As so often had happened already on this journey, people spoke only in terms of driving time – “...it's about three minutes away...” - translated to walking meant 1 mile away (that be 20 minutes).
Even with her very kind assistance I left the desk clerk still feeling a bit confused. Walking back out into the cold light of day, nothing seemed to be where she said it was. I made a few false starts down the wrong streets. I found myself getting that uncomfortable feeling again of being lost, but so near where I needed to go. Providence and West Bridgeport were still fresh in my mind. But fate smiled down upon me and I just happened to stumble upon the street that led to the Amtrak station.
The railway siding.
The Thomson Reuters Building across the street.
Near the entrance.
When I walked in the door, up the stairs and through the lobby to the ticket window, there weren't very many people there. I bought my ticket to Philadelphia. The train was scheduled to leave at around noon the next day. Now I had to kill about 24 hours. Train stations are interesting for about the first hour. Then they get old quickly. I decided to explore some more of the city.
I got in a long line at the Dunkin' Donuts counter. They had a tip jar with a few pennies in it. And, that gave me the idea of lightening my own load of change. After paying for my coffee, I put the backpack down and unzipped the front pocket, pulled out my bulging bag of coins and dumped them all in.
Activity stopped for a moment... Then the enthusiastic young man behind the counter said, “Wow! Thank you, sir!”
I said, honestly, “I'm happy to do it. You guys work very hard, but it is also for me. I just lost about 3 pounds of weight!” The woman behind me, huffed and puffed a bit, rolling her eyes and tapping her foot. I withdrew to the side to readjust my pack. Then I let the toe-tapper through. When she got to the counter, I was on my way out the door, but I heard her say loudly, “WELL! So this is what the front of the line looks like!”
I was dreading having to spend the night at the station. Otherwise, I felt pretty good to finally be moving on from New England to the Midwest the next day. It was just one more night, after all. There was no way I could afford another motel room after buying the ticket.
The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was a balmy 48° F outside. Having only about $20 on me for the foreseeable future, my options for entertaining myself in Stamford were a bit limited.
I decided to find the nearest McDonald's to do some work online. It was easily located, right down in the middle of the city, on East Main Street.
I walked in and was greeted by a full house. I wanted to delay buying anything until I knew I could get online. A few times I had spend my last few dollars on something, only to learn that the Wi-Fi was down.
I got all the usual stares as I took off my vest and backpack—complete with the tarp and blanket tied on top and the walking stick attached to the side. The looks from these folks didn't bother a bit anymore. But I did attract the attention of the first restaurant rent-a-cop I'd ever seen in person. I had (maybe?), heard of it, but never witnessed this rare creature for myself.
He was short, heavy-set, dark-skinned guy with a fake-gold “McDonald's Security” badge. I swallowed my urge to laugh. He walked up to the table kind of sideways as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to talk to me or not. By the time he got close, I looked up and he found himself apparently forced to slide up and stand next to my seat.
He asked, “Can I help you?”
I replied, “Nope, I'm all set. Thanks for asking though,” and smiled.
“Will you be buying something here, sir?” Apparently the questions were going to continue...
I involuntarily ground my teeth. “Yep.”
He said, “Well, you have to buy something to in order to sit here.” He wouldn't look me in the eye.
I'd been doing very well at keeping my sarcastic, forked tongue at bay for all of this journey so far, and I didn't want to ruin my perfect record. He was standing so close to the table that I wondered how I could buy anything anyway. I asked him if I might be able to stand up.
He furrowed his brow at me while still looking away, “Why?”
“To purchase some food?” I seethed about having to both buy the food before I knew if I could get online and also have to sacrifice a good chunk of my $20.
“Course...” he generously allowed, and stepped back to his dirty corner of restaurant.
I looked around as I waited my ten minutes in line, noticing another security guy at the other end of the room. And then, astoundingly—I thought, I saw a third one pacing around the perimeter outside.
What was this, a riot zone? I kept a close eye on my backpack with the laptop partially sticking out of it over there in the booth. People everywhere, but I had no reason to be suspicious. The other customers cared less—or so I thought. Besides, with McDonald's finest keeping an eye on everything, what could possibly happen? Standing with all of my stuff back on was not an option.
When I received my quickly thrown-together cheese burger, cold, tasteless fries and mostly-un-carbonated Coke, I made my way back to the booth. Pulling out the laptop and finally getting a chance to use it calmed me down. Then from behind me I heard a voice say, “Shouldn't a left that out in the open...”
I turned around and saw the large, black, kindly face of a woman, obviously on her lunch break, sitting there in the booth. “I know, I know...” I said.
“I lost my laptop in here.” She stated blandly.
I acted surprised. “Oh? I'm really sorry to hear that.”
She continued to munch on her fries, so I turned back around to face forward. Of course that is when she spoke again,
“Juss shouldn't do it, all's I'm sayin'...”
I turned back halfway around, “Yes. I agree.”
Things were quiet for a moment while I focused in on which network to access.
“Nope, nope, nope...” I heard her say very softly, “...juss don't do it...”
I sighed as I tried repeatedly to get the AT&T Wi-Fi that McDonald's uses for all of its locations to stop timing out.
“Don't wanna do it...” I heard from behind me.
I was having no luck with the laptop. It was time to turn my attention to eating. I chomped down the food, while trying to do anything I could to capture a signal, eventually trying every down-town wireless source that showed on my screen. It was moot.
This happened sometimes. The signal would display the internet status on the laptop as “Limited” instead of “Online.” I found out later on that this is usually because the router simply needs to be reset in the back room and no one complains, since just about everybody who goes to McDonald's is only in there for less than a half hour, especially a restaurant this busy. In fact, at this particular restaurant the notice of a 35 minute limit hung on there on the wall plainly saying as much.
I'd had enough. I'd been there for a full hour and felt like I was going to be thrown out on the street if I stayed much longer.
I packed up and put all my stuff back on, leaving through the door closest to the first guard. I stood there like a post in the middle of a human river. The people were hustling by me and the cars were beeping and peeling out at green lights—at least that's how it seemed to me. It became just another Connecticut day; cold, impersonal and long.
I made my way back to the Amtrak station. It was busier now with mid-afternoon trains arriving and departing. The chairs were continuously filling up and then emptying. I would sit in one, then pick up all my stuff to visit the bathroom, and the seat would filled when I got back. I believe I ended up sitting in every section of the lobby.
I used the bathroom and then went outside again to take some pictures of the city at night, when I suddenly realized my walking stick was missing. I couldn't remember seeing it for hours and got that sick feeling. I asked the doorman if there was a lost and found and told him what I lost. He stood their with a searching look on his face and then said, “Yes. I think we do and I think I saw someone bring it by. He led me through a double door marked “Employees Only” and over to a series of lockers. He fiddled with his key chain, unlocking the closest one. And, there it was—my stick; all lonely and forlorn. I strapped it back on the backpack and felt complete gain.
The station's Wi-Fi was pretty reliable. I was able to work online. I also did some writing off line. The hours dragged on until sunset. Then time seemed to move a little faster. It was getting cold out—down to 31° F. Homeless folks began coming in. One police officer would gently usher a guy out, and then he'd be back in with another coat or hat on to make himself look different. These guys were swapping clothes outside.
Around 11:00 pm, I asked another officer if the building was going to close, and what time that might be. I told him I had no place to stay and was leaving in the morning.
He said that in that case, as long as I had my ticket I should be able to just hang around the premises and show it in case I was asked what I was doing there. He went on to say that the cleaning crew usually comes in and the lobby might be closed from 2:00 am to 5:00 am. He confided that it would probably be OK for me to sleep in the breezeway of the entrance area, or downstairs in the heated hallway.
That wasn't too bad. Bitter memories of Boston briefly came back. Thankfully it looked like there would be a couple options besides sleeping (or standing) outside. There were less people now. Around 12:30 am a train came in and about 30 people walked through the gate into the lobby. They were hammered off their asses.
Three 20-something friends sat talking directly across from me. They laughed about nothing and would say one key word and then crack up again. Their 1 hour layover seemed to go on forever, while they joked around and tried to engage other people in their foolishness. I got up and stealthily scrambled to the other side of the room. I could still hear them but was at a lessened risk of having to talk to them. I heard one of the women (there were two women and one man) start swearing about the train being late—even though it wasn't. The other woman told her to calm down in a slurred Southern accent.
Then she said, sarcastically, with an even thicker drawl, “Remember, tomorra is the dayee of the Lard!” They all exploded in laughter. And then there were different versions coming out of each of them. It was one of those things that friends find funny and then add to their special “friend language.” The “dayee of the Lard” devolved into “the lard of the dayee,” and ended resting on that being a menu item at some restaurant I can't remember the name of.
Mercifully, the Lard sar fit to send their connecting train screeching into the station about 5 minutes early. I practically crossed myself.
When 2:00 am rolled around, like the fulfillment of a terrible prophecy, the cleaning crew arrived and immediately went to work, pulling the rows of seats around while they swept and mopped. For about a half hour it looked like maybe we (the four or five homeless city residents and I) could simply move from the uncleaned areas to the cleaned ones. Then one of the guys fell asleep and fell over on his side snoring.
That was it. The station police came over and the officer who seemed to be in charge loudly said, “Alright you guys! You're here every night! You have to find another place to sleep--we're closing like we always do. You know the routine...” I went over to him and showed him my ticket, asking if there was some way I could sleep inside until my train came in the morning. He looked skeptical, not even reading the ticket. 'What do you have all this stuff on for?” he asked.
“I'm hiking across the country and...”
He interrupted, “Hiking? Then why are you taking a train?”
I said, “I occasionally take other transportation.”
He laughed and said, “...so you aren't really a hiker.”
I was getting really tired of this. I hadn't had any sleep, I'd been questioned by “authority” enough that day. “You can call me anything you want. I don't have car and I'm going to California by land. I am leaving for Philly tomorrow, will you help me or not?”
Seeing that I was probably telling the truth, and that he'd probably played with me long enough, he did that cop-thing that they do when they realize you're right. He added a few more ridiculing comments about my journey and then pointed to the breezeway. “You can sleep out there if you want or go downstairs. I had no idea what these people were talking about—“downstairs”? I'd been all around the place and there was no downstairs that I was aware of. But I cut my losses with officer friendly, thanked him and walked out the door; the last person to leave the station that night.
I found the “breezeway” to be cold, but not as cold as it was out on the side walk. A large fan blew warm air into the space every few minutes. Two other Spanish speaking guys were out there. One of them had been the sleeping snorer. I walked to a far table and sat down, pulled out my blanket, rolled it up and laid my head down, nearly too tired to even sleep.
I'd start to drift and one of the guys would yell something out loud, or they'd both laugh at the same time. I almost made it to sleep, but I heard a beer can crack open, looking over from my table/bed to see them pass it back and forth. Would the night ever end?
At about 4:00 am, I decided to search out this mythical “downstairs” area. I put all my stuff back on and went down the three flights of stairs, seeing another stairway I'd never noticed before. I took it and sure enough I found a heated subterranean maze of white halls with giant red numbers at the head of each. No one was there; no employees, no homeless folks, except for one sleeping in the corner I would have chosen. It was surreal.
I set my watch alarm for 5:00 am and walked deep into the strange labyrinth. When I felt I was in a place where no one would disturb me, I took off the gear and simply collapsed to a sitting position, then drooped into a half-hunched position, with my head on the curled up blanket, which was atop the backpack. I fell asleep immediately for that last precious hour.
The next day would be another long one, with a huge amount of walking. I would be totally broke for another two days. And, plenty of Midwest adventures lay just ahead...
The Amtrak Station - My Sleeping Place
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