Springfield stopover

The train stopped in Springfield at 11:52 AM. I disembarked and made my way into the station.  It was not what I expected: a single, empty room, not at all large, with three ticket windows and rows of chair-benches upholstered in red and blue vinyl. I looked at the row of vending machines along the wall, and thought about the peanut butter and celery sticks and tangerines in my backpack, and decided that I could not sit there for the next two hours and twenty three minutes. The only other passenger in the place, a twentysomething guy in a plaid paperboy hat, was asking the man behind the counter where he could find something to eat that wasn’t fast food. I eavesdropped for directions—“Down the stairs, turn right, then take a left when you get to Fort Street”—and set out in search of some lunch.

I knew nothing about Springfield except that it was in Massachusetts. Seen at street level, it seemed about as common as its name. This part of the city, which I assume was pretty close to the center, was a collection of brick buildings, two- and three-stories high, that probably dated from the turn of last century. I passed a series of quiet shops selling nothing in particular. Perhaps business is poor because of the economy, or maybe it was just the Christmas-to-New-Year’s lull keeping customers away.  A general malaise hung in the air, that dank mixture of decay and discontent that seems to be afflicting so much of the urban Northeast. I felt badly to see such a city, clearly in decline, without having any ideas as to its former prosperity.

The walk to the restaurant took me less than ten minutes. A sign in the window informed me that the deli counter was closed for renovations, but the dining room (just around the corner!) was still open. I hesitated a moment, not really wanting to spend the extra money on a tip. But time was short and I didn’t see any better options, so I figured I might as well go in.

I’m not sure what I had been expecting, but what I found certainly was not it. It was called the Student Prince Café, but it was actually a full-service restaurant. My first impression was of an old Scottish pub: dark wood paneling, tall booths, narrow walkways, and a beautiful antique bar that ran the length of the right wall. The hundreds of beer steins and decorative plates made it apparent that the theme was German. It struck me as the kind of place that my grandmother would like, and actually, I think I was the only customer under 50. Everyone was well-dressed: the women in blazers or cardigan sets, the men in jackets and striped ties and horn-rimmed glasses. I wondered whether they were member’s of Springfield’s aging upper set (if it had an upper set?), or if their fashion was just a quirk of New England culture.

The room buzzed with the noontime rush, but I was seated immediately. Noticing the host’s starched shirt and sharply-creased trousers, I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming in. To my relief, there were several reasonably-priced entrees on the menu. I opted for Lunch Special #2, fried white fish fillets and two vegetables, served with a cup of soup or glass of juice (which struck me as odd alternatives) and choice of dessert and hot beverage. That’s quite a lot of food for $7.50!

I decided to read while waiting for my soup (clam chowder, of course, since it was Friday.) As usual, I had several books going, but I decided to start another one that a friend had lent me ages ago and I should return soon. Its English title is Invisible Cities, and it was written by a twentieth-century Italian author named Italo Calvino, whom I hadn’t heard of but apparently is quite famous. The book’s basic premise is that Marco Polo has come to the court of Kublai Khan and is describing the wondrous cities he has visited in the course of his travels. I’m not very far at all, but I can already tell that I like it very much. Here’s one brief passage that stood out to me:

As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands. A description of Zaira as it is today should contain all Zaira’s past. The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

 

The waitress brought my meal out promptly, and I put the book away. A lot of people don’t like eating alone in restaurants, but I don’t mind, especially when the food is good. Actually, as I was working on a generous piece of gingerbread with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, I realized that I felt happier than I’d been in ages. No, that’s not quite right. I was happy in a different way: because I was traveling, because I was alone, because I was traveling alone.

I’ve spent a lot of time alone in the past few years, and so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what ‘being alone’ means. (Classic Aleithia!) In my experience, it covers a spectrum of experiences, with solitude at one end and isolation at the other. By ‘solitude’, I mean a positive state: when I am most able to take genuine pleasure in my own company. (Sometimes solitude includes a wish to avoid other people, but not always. Actually, I would suppose that in solitude’s purist form, this would not be the case: I would be too content to bother thinking about it one way or the other.) ‘Isolation’, of course, is the converse: when I am aware of being alone in an acutely negative way. When I am isolated, I strongly desire to be in the company of another person (or other people), so much so that the thought of continuing to be alone causes me pain. (This pain is generally called ‘loneliness’, though there are different forms.) Of course, solitude and isolation are extremes. Most of the time I fall somewhere in between. But when I travel alone, I’m more likely to find solitude.

The way I see it, I can find solitude when I travel alone because of my lack of expectations about it. Travel is by nature transitory, and so the places and people I encounter while I am traveling are also transitory, with regard to my experience of them. I’m a curious person, and so I like to explore new places, to see what there is to see. If I find something beautiful or exciting or thought-provoking, that’s great. Now I have a story to share, and I might even try to come back someday. On the other hand, if I don’t discover anything wonderful, it doesn’t really matter, ‘cos I was just passing through. Why should I fear feeling lonely or out of place somewhere if I never belonged there to begin with? If I am afraid of anything, it is not loneliness in traveling, but loneliness at home. For ‘home’ is supposed to be the antithesis of travel: representative of security, stability and permanence. We find our home in familiarity of place and routine, and, above all, in our connections with family and friends and the community as a whole. It is when we seek those things and do not find them—or worse, when we find what we do have to be lacking or inadequate—that there is the greatest danger of loneliness.

I enjoyed my stopover in Springfield. Maybe that’s because I knew it was just that—a stopover. The whole time I was there, all two hours and twenty three minutes, I knew that I would get back on the train. Soon I would resume the journey toward my real destination, Syracuse, where my college friend and his wife would be waiting for me. And other times when I’ve taken trips by myself, even moving halfway across the country or the world, it has never seemed too tremendously intimidating because I remember that eventually I will return to places I know and people I love and who love me.

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