Crossing the Alleghenies

There is nothing quite as slow and immense as airport time.

I finished my work early Tuesday and was really excited to possibly be getting home sooner than usual for a change.  Of course all earlier flights were booked and I began the death march that is waiting for a flight on a sunny afternoon.  As per the norm, I passed the hours with Sophia at M+E’s, extending the tentative friendship we’ve come to know.  Thus ended (2) uneventful days in DC and Phase I of the project that has occupied too much of my time over the past several months.  I shouldn’t have to return for at least several weeks and I’m strangely looking forward to being back in my office for a while – it seems like forever since I spent a full week there.  I can finally catch up on my TPS reports or whatever it is that I do.

Back in the office, I slept-walked through Wednesday, my mind occupied by a 1:00 meeting for a new project in Altoona, PA Thursday afternoon.  We landed in Baltimore at 9 AM staring down a (3) hour drive up to Altoona.  Why Baltimore?  This is what happens when you let a GC arrange your travel.  Though it certainly wasn’t an efficient use of my time I didn’t complain as I had never driven that part of the country. 

Northwest Maryland is non-descript, forgettable even but the landscape starts to come alive as you cross the Mason-Dixon Line into Pennsylvania.  Speaking of, what the hell is the Mason-Dixon Line doing so far north?  I’m sure this is information I possessed at some point in my life but I’m still confused by it.  I always thought this was the demark between the “north” and the “south”, right?  My travel companion was from Michigan and she thought the same thing.  Having grown up in Mississippi, I can assure you that those southerners do not consider Maryland part of the south.  I’m sure there is some other historical significance to the Mason-Dixon Line but I’m not sure what it is – I think it might have something to do with slavery but I’m not sure.  Either way, I was surprised to discover it this far north.  I guess I had assumed it to be in North Carolina or somewhere like that.  And I call myself a history buff? 

It was a miserable day to be driving; cold, rainy, gross.  The higher into the mountains we climbed the foggier it became.  Later at the meeting, the client joked that the fog had settled in as usual and would lift by at least May.  (I think / hope he was joking.)  Through the occasional break in the fog you could see these misty little idyllic mountain valley towns.  They had names like Claysburg, Roaring Spring and even Pleasantville.  As I’m oft inclined to do I let my mind wander.  What’s it like to live in Roaring Spring, PA?  My guess is that it’s not nearly as perfect as it seems from the freeway along the ridge but I suspended that disbelief, allowing my imagination to picture myself living in such a place.  How could I not with the steeples of white washed churches pushing through the clouds?  I could almost convince myself that I heard a babbling brook meandering through the village square and the laughter of children playing along its banks. I remembered a vague aspiration to hike the AT and wandered if it was near there.  I thought about The Last of the Mohicans and even caught glimpses of Hawkeye and Magua running among the fallen trees on the rocky slopes.  I don’t think my geography is right with that but the landscape was reminiscent.  Though I’m not sure exactly what the history of the area is I sensed that I was surrounded by it.  It was deafening actually and it lit a mental fire inside of me to seek that history out.  When I return, I’d like to know more about that through which I travel.

I typically make these trips alone so it was a welcome change to have a friend from the office along for the ride.  The downside is that there was someone there to hear my random crazy.  I can only assume that I always ramble on like that but there is usually no one there to hear so it doesn’t matter – like the tree that falls in the woods when no one is around or whatever.  Surely, when I’m alone these thoughts at least remain unverbalized but I can’t be sure.  I just might be the guy talking to himself everywhere he goes.  If that’s true, I might have slipped farther than I’d realized.  Oh well.

The eventual client meeting was a bust thanks in no small part once again to GC error.  (I sometimes think the “design-build” form of delivery is more trouble than it’s worth but that is a wholly separate story that I won’t bore you with.)  I did however, prior to the meeting enjoy a fantastic lunch of gravy suffocated roast beef and mashed potatoes in Bedford, 30 minutes south of Altoona.  There wasn’t music playing when we walked into the Bedford Diner but it certainly would have screeched to a halt had there been.  The old guys at the lunch counter stopped and cast an inquisitive if not accusatory glance our way as the bells on the front door jangled, announcing our arrival.  This was perhaps my first clue that life in the Allegheny Mountains might not be as idyllic as I’d imagined.  But I was not yet convinced and allowed myself continued contemplation of residence in said mountains.  The Bedford had a filthy quaintness that I enjoyed and it was straight local.  Complete with handwritten inserts of the daily specials inside of the yellowed ‘70’s menus. 

That night, in a decided effort to immerse myself in the local Altoona culture I ventured into a strange establishment with my (2) contractor buddies and one of the clients.  I think it’s important to see the local animals in their natural habitat when starting a new project.  (That’s at least how I justify my presence in the places that I find myself from time to time.)  Pellegrine’s was a complete slap in the face.  As it turns out, this guy’s ex-wife’s family owned the joint and her (4) sisters were all there when we walked in – and many of their kids as well.  Yup, it was a children-at-the-bar kind of place.  I’ve heard of neighborhood bars and thought that I had been to a few before I happened upon this one Thursday night.  It is actually in the middle of a residential neighborhood and there are no other bars or restaurants or anything else except houses around it.  The clientele was either 20-something or 50+. Mostly 50+ actually and the house band A.X.E. was incredibly adept at ‘90’s cover songs.  It was fascinating to see dudes older than my father with hair longer than mine swigging Genesee beer singing along to Nirvana tunes.

The Genesee reminded me of that Rome, NY project I had way back when.  There was a similar bar there.  I don’t remember the name but it was underneath a tire store and had the same gritty you’ll-never-get-out-of-here-alive feel to it.  The locals will eventually know who we are and at least one cross-eyed patron will be convinced I can get him a job at the new facility. When he finally understands that there is no way I can help him with that he will become belligerent – it almost always happens.   It’s only a matter of time before this scene is repeated at Pellegrine’s so I sat back Thursday night and soaked it all in safely cloaked in my perfect (if fleeting) anonymity.   

The troubling part is that I know that if I were ever to find myself in these circumstances, living in this neighborhood I would be bellied up to that bar with the rest of these derelicts talking about the Steelers or whatever latest business had just left town.  There were some jovial souls in that room but it was clearly a product of the liquid happy being poured by the locally attractive / mildly incompetent bartender.  One look into all of their eyes told the story of a hard life – young and old alike, they all bore the troubled countenance of a beaten dog.  It’s the same look that I saw in the patrons of that underground cluster in Rome.   It’s heartbreaking really what small towns can do to people.

Everything about Pellegrine’s and most everything I saw about Altoona reminded me of The Deer Hunter.  That’s not a happy story – even before they go to the Nam.   Maybe having seen that movie colored my perception of what central PA was going to be like.  Perhaps, art imitates life more than it should, or at least more than we wished it would.  Everything I just said notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live there and if that life is better than this.  That’s a crazy thought, right?  After seeing firsthand the depth of struggle and unspoken despair these fine folk endure I still questioned where I’m better suited? 

Driving down into Baltimore early Friday morning I wished I had some Gillian Welch to pass my time.  I didn’t have the chord to plug my iPod into the rental so I just continued my lunatic ramble from the previous day.  Those beautiful vistas would have been even more emphatic with her soul pouring over them.  Instead we suffered through my disjointed commentary and the (2) radio stations available – one played country the other played everything else all mixed up with no reason. 

At the gate waiting for another plane I was reminded again of the expanse of airport time. Tick.  Tick.  Tick… As I waited, it occurred to me that in some respects I have been crossing the Alleghenies my entire life.  Always contemplative and inquisitive but never quite sure of where I was or where I was going or even where I’d been.  Never quite able to commit to whatever it was that I should commit to – not quite able to leave behind that which should be forgotten.  Loving where I was but forever wondering if there was something better around the corner.  I guess that is something I should deal with at some point, huh?  For the most part I have but I'm sure I will continue to ask the questions I've always asked in my own way on my own time.  That time keeps marching and though it clearly left an impression, I’m fairly certain the answers I seek are not to be found in the Allegheny Mountains.