No Place Like Home

 

A not-so-bustling downtown Schenectady, NY.

Woke up this morning in Eastern Ohio, about half an hour before we cross the narrow tab of Pennsylvania that guarantees that state access to Lake Erie. There isn’t much of a sunrise as the sky is a mottled gray with light drizzle. Standing puddles in the farm fields we race past suggest it has been raining for most of the night.

Mostly today I’ve been thinking, of course, of home. The whole concept of home, especially beyond the construct of four walls, a roof to keep things dry, and a way to stay warm as winter reasserts her dominance in the Northern Hemisphere, has been front and center this trip as in city after city, from coast to coast, we’ve seen pervasive homelessness everywhere we’ve gone.

From the streets around the hotel in Boston on day one, to South Station there, to Chicago, Albuquerque, and especially Los Angeles, the problem spills out from tattered sheets of plastic under overpasses to blue tarp encampments wedged between the railroad tracks and industrial areas. Northern California was no different, neither were the more urban areas of Oregon and Washington State.

Cluster after cluster of these encampments are strewn hip-deep with trash, rusty shopping carts, household goods and furniture designed for interior use sitting ruined, forlorn, dirty, damaged, under open skies. In other places seemingly abandoned vehicles sit tucked into clumps of tired trees or dirt lots sparkling with inestimable pieces of broken glass, unmapped no man’s lands, where one can exploit the private and public jurisdictional voids to remain free from charges of trespass These are the places, and the people, literally on society’s margins.

Except for a couple incidental shots when I was photographing the Los Angeles River, I deliberately refrain from taking photos that include the homeless and their camps. They are not sights on a tour.

Albany New York skyline

The contrast between their world and the one we move through was especially stark on the streets of Los Angeles. As we strolled the Hollywood Walk of Fame along Hollywood Boulevard the doorways and alleyways were often occupied by people curled up inside soiled blankets, flies swarming, sleeping in the middle of the day. Trash bags and bundles stashed nearby contain what amounts to their worldly goods.

I understand there are a myriad of causes for homelessness ranging from financial setback, mental and physical health issues, drug addiction, to employment woes and the collapse of relationships. Still homelessness is pervasive, and widespread in this country and it seems society needs to do more than fly past in cars, trains and on airplanes and say to ourselves “that’s too bad.” Along with the usual fixes of food programs and shelters, there were some hopeful signs. In some towns we saw innovative clusters of tiny homes that those communities built to give folks wanting to get back on their feet some privacy and a safe, central place from which to get a fresh start. But much, much more needs to be done.

Throughout history, the land and neighborhoods lining the railroad tracks have often been the least desirable properties due to noise, pollution, danger, etc. So it is no surprise that anyone traveling by rail tends to see the less, shall we say, refined parts of town. Still, even if the situation is only half as bad as we perceived, it’s out of control.

The one exception to downscale properties along the tracks was in Washington State where the rails run along the banks of the Columbia River through the Columbia Gorge. There, massive mansions were wedged in the 100 feet or so between the water and the tracks. For your millions you get 7,000 square feet of house, an incredible view, and the rumble and roar of BNSF freight trains just 20 feet from your living room 12 times a day.

After PA, the Lake Shore Limited made short work of crossing New York State. At Albany, the train is split in two, per Amtrak’s prenuptial agreement, with one section continuing on to Boston and the other getting full custody of the only dining car and heading to New York City.

Connecticut River at Springfield

As we near the New York/Massachusetts border my eyes welcome the familiar terrain and vegetation of the Berkshires. The Appalachian Trail crosses the tracks just ahead. All we would need is a compass, backpacks, and good hiking boots if we had to get home from here on our own. We transition into New England with a Fellini-like flourish, the locomotives erupting from the State Line Tunnel to begin our descent along the West Westfield River on our way to Boston.

Tired, a bit dazed, and weary of the saddle after nearly 10,000 miles of traveling, we feel like riding stable horses at the end of a long day. The world can tug left and right on the reins all it wants but it’s all head full. We’re headed for the proverbial barn.

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