A Few Weeks After A Summer Ride

Lambent sun rays flickered through leaves and skittered on rippled water.  I pedaled languidly along the canal path after wandering nearby streets, stopping near a steel footbridge to munch the cheese, bread and tomato, and drink the bottle of water, I picked up along the way.  Flirtation ensued:  I won't say whether they or I instigated it!

Afterward, I wheeled the bike to a cafe and enjoyed a cappuccino--and more flirtation.

You may have guessed, by now, that I was in Paris.  (Did the flirting give it away?) I achieved, without trying, a perfect--or at least postcard image--day in the City of Light. It was all but impossible to think about death, let alone any carnage leading to it.

A few weeks later, however, darkness descended.  On this date (a Friday the 13th, no less!) in 2015, the deadliest and most infamous terrorist attacks struck the city.  Just a couple of tables away from where I enjoyed my cappuccino--at Le Carillon--other patrons, possibly sipping on cappuccinos or cafe espessos--were shot dead.

Even though I've suffered two accidents and injuries just weeks apart, I am still fortunate.  After all, I'd been cycling for about half a century--including that perfect summer day by the Canal Saint Martin-- before my misfortune struck. If only those patrons at Le Carillon could have continued their journeys!

On Bastille Day, C'est Une Vie De Chien

I've cycled around la ronde of the Place de la Bastille more than a few times.  The first time, I did it because, well, it's the Place de la Bastille: As I circled around la Colonne de Juillet (July Column), several years before the Bastille Opera house was constructed, I tried to imagine a mob storming a prison and leveling it--and the Marquis de Sade escaping, even if that part of the story isn't true.

So it's not hard for me to associate bicycles with Bastille Day.  But a chihuahua?  

Hmm...Chihuahuas bark in Spanish, right?  So it couldn't be too hard to get this fellow to bark, "Joyeuse Bastille, mes amis!" 

Thank Billie Valentine for that adorable image.  Bikes and chihuahuas: at least they aren't tanks.

A Bike Ride As Preparation To See A Master

I've known and ridden with cyclists who could or would not ride by themselves.   Whether they went on organized treks with clubs or impromptu sprints with friends and acquaintances, they simply could not conceive of a solo spin down their local streets or in a faraway locale.

If you've been reading this blog, you know that I am not that kind of cyclist.  And I have never been.  Oh, there are times when I like to ride with one other person, or in small groups. (I haven't done a big organized ride like the Five Boro Bike Tour in a long time.)  But I am also content when my ride is simply me, my bike and my surroundings--whether that backdrop is a winding lane in the hills, a road along a seashore or a boulevard in a fashionable (or not-so-fashionable) part of a city.

The last clause in the previous paragraph describes the riding I did this morning.  I rode down arrow-straight residential streets near my hotel to rondeaux at la Place de l'Opera, la Porte de la Vilette (where African immigrants waited for contractors to hire them out as day laborers), la Bastille and la Republique before heading down to the Boulevard Haussmann in the 8th Arrondisssement.  You can't get much more fashionable than that.

I did not, however, go there to be seen--especially being dressed the way I was!  Instead, at the suggestion of Jay and Isabelle, I checked out a museum that I now cannot believe I never entered in my previous visits to (much less in the time I was living in) Paris.  It was like going to la Musee Cognaq-Jay (which I visited two and a half years ago), only on a much bigger and greater scale.

The similarity is this:  the Museum is a mansion , like the Cognaq-Jay, named for the people who lived, and collected art, in it.  Edouard Andre came from a prosperous French Protestant family and developed a love of art.  Nelie Jacquemart, on the other hand, came from a Catholic family of modest circumstances.  She became a painter of some renown who made portraits of some powerful and influential people of her time.  Andre--who was known for his taste as well as his means of acquiring art--commissioned her to do his portrait.

I know this sounds like a period-piece romantic comedy movie script, but they got married.  Whether he was taken by her portrait of him, or she by his taste (which may have included said portrait) was never made clear.  What is known, however, is that they shared a passion for art and artifacts and, never having had any children, spent the rest of their lives travelling to acquire such pieces, and promoting the work of artists and musicians who were their contemporaries.  As a guide said, "They made their lives a work of art."

He died about two decades before she did and he left everything to her with the stipulation that she would be prudent with their heritance.  Her will, in essence, stipulated the creation of the museum.

I can't help but to wonder about the artist who was featured in a special exhibition.  Their collection consisted mainly of late-17th and 18th Century artists, which collectors were starting to favor a century later, during Andre's and Jacquemart's lifetimes.  

The artist featured in the exhibition--which will run for the rest of this month--did this painting:

The man in the picture is with himself, reflecting on the state of his soul.  It's hard to see in this photo, but there is a crucifix in the background which is even hard to see when you are face-to-face with the painting.  And, unlike other portraits of saints, this one has a halo that's barely visible.

One of my regular readers (hint:  he lives in Finland) surely knows the creator of this image.  I am sure that some of my other readers do, too.  For everyone else, I'll tell you his name:  Michelangelo (no, not that one) Merisi, better known as Caravaggio.

Contrary to what you may have heard, he did not invent the "chiaroscuro" technique of painting, in which the subject is set against a dark background, so that there are no "props", if you will, to distract the viewer.  But he probably used it to greater effect than anyone else.  One of the best examples of it, in my opinion, is the painting of St. Francis in meditation I showed above.

Some might opt for this one, of St. Jerome translating the Bible.  I wouldn't try to change their opinion:

or the opinion of anyone who prefers this one, of a young John the Baptist with a ram:

or either of the Mary Magdalen portraits he did:

Somehow, I think he could have done some very interesting portaits of cyclists alone on a mountain pass or the Boulevard Haussmann.

A Market, A Canal, A Church And A Fountain

My bike ride today took me to alternative universes in Paris.  That's what they seemed to be, anyway.

I encountered the first one after riding some side streets near the Place de Clichy, I wandered up some cobblestoned streets (that were really more like lanes) and found myself at the Porte de St. Ouen.

If you are cycling, walking, driving or taking any other kind of ground transportation, you enter or leave the city through those "portes", which are usually passages under the Peripherique, a highway that rings the City of Light. The location of the "portes" are said to approximate the location of openings in the walls that surrounded the city itself and those outlying towns in earlier times.

Anyway, just after passing through the "porte", I saw a sign for "puces".  No, the French highway folks aren't telling you where to find fleas.  Rather, it's shorthand for "flea market" (marche de puces).  So, of course, I followed it.

I hadn't been to the St. Ouen-Paris flea markets in some time. The hyphenated designation isn't just marketing hype:  Although most of the market's stalls are indeed in St.Ouen, a whole section of stalls lies within the Paris city limits.

Notice that I used the plural:  "flea markets".  That's because there are in fact over a dozen different markets, each of them arranged along different streets of the city.  Or, you might say that the markets are like a city of open-air malls.   The only shopping experience that even remotely reminded me of St. Ouen is the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.  Of course, they are very different because the GB is covered and, of course, because of the disparate cultures (even if some of the sellers at St. Ouen are Turkish). I don't know which is bigger, but they both dwarf any flea market I've seen elsewhere.

In both places, it's possible to buy just about anything, though there are certainly more antique and vintage-item sellers in St. Ouen than I recall seeing in Istanbul.  But St. Ouen made me think about the term "flea market", which is a direct translation of "marche aux puces". (The French usually call the markets "puces" for short.)  The term is said to have originated because the sellers in the original markets were often homeless, and covered with fleas.  According to what I've read, their practice began in the latter decades of the 19th Century, when much of the city was rebuilt under Baron Haussmann.  (He's the one who replaced the serpentine medieval streets with straight thoroughfares that radiated out from plazas and parks:  Think of the "Etoile" in which the Arc de Triomphe is located.)  As a result of this realignment, many old buildings were torn down, and their contents were left lying  in the streets--where they were scavenged.

Now, I must admit, some things indeed looked as if they were brought in by people (or even dogs or cats) with fleas.  But some other things certainly didn't.

And, while many of the structures that became stalls were old industrial facilites, others looked like they might have given a bourgeois lady or gentleman quite a view.

There are also some interesting contrasts, such as this:

I like it a lot, but it's kind of funny to see the kind of graffiti art you might see in Bushwick or Mott Haven on a building in which old paintings and prints are sold.

Speaking of structures, later in the day, at the other end of town, I encountered a church unlike any I've seen in this city--or anywhere else.

All right, from the outside you might think it's just another late-19th (or early-20th) Century church built in the Romanesque style.  And, in fact,it is, deliberately so:  It was built to replace another church similar in style--on the outside.

Once you get inside, the church still shares some characteristics with other Romanesque churches, including the high, vaulted ceilings--which, of course, are designed to get parishoners to look upward and be reminded of the vast power of God.  But then there's something you've never seen in any other Romanesque church--or, probably, any other church:

Steel girders!  If someone were to build a Romanesque church in Manhattan's Meatpacking District (when it was indeed a district where meat was packed) or Soho (when it was still industrial), I might expect something like this--maybe.

The girders inside the Notre Dame du Travail (Our Lady of Work) were taken from the Palais d'Industrie constructed for the 1855 Universal Exposition and torn down in 1891.  And the stone on the outside was taken from an earlier church that had become too small for the community it was serving.

Even though the city made a rather detailed historical marker for it, and the church offers pamphlets and other materials explaining the church's history, I guess they don't expect tourists to visit, as it is on the far southern end of the city, far from better-known sites.  Thus, the marker and the printed materials are only in French--which, fortunately, I can read, so I was able to write about the church (however sketchily) here. 

Along the way, I made other stops at interesting spots--and for a picnic lunch on the Quai de Jemmapes, by the Canal St. Martin.  And near the end of my ride, I stopped at Place Felix Eboue to hydrate:

Well, if I were my iPhone or laptop, I guess I could have hydrated there.  I enjoyed it nonetheless.  It's different and it's Paris, after all! 

I Ride My Rental Into History

So, here's where I went yesterday:

Take a closer look:

No, I didn't come home early from my trip.  This replica of the Statue of Liberty is on the Ile des Cygnes, a manmade island in the Seine under the Grenelle Bridge.  

(Now I'll make a confession:  I am one of those New Yorkers who's never been to the Statue of Liberty in my hometown's harbor.  When I have made that confession elsewhere, I have been called a disgrace to the human race, and worse.)

Another difference between this one and the one in New York is that you can ride to this one. Well, almost:  You have to walk down a couple of flights of stairs from the Grenelle Bridge. (When I had a mountain bike with a suspension front fork, I probably would have ridden down those stairs!)  And I rode to it--well, actually, I didn't intend to visit the statue. But it happened to be along my ride.

Yes, I rode a bicycle--but not one from Velibre.  One of the hotel staff told me about a site called Bim Bim Bikes, which can locate a bike rental for you anywhere in France.  When you reserve it, you can pay directly with your credit card or with PayPal or other services.  (I used PayPal since my card is linked to it, which makes things easier.)  The shop--Paris Velo, C'est Sympa (which lives up to its name) --is in a neighborhood I know well, near the Canal St. Martin. A six-day rental cost me 65 Euros (about 75 dollars at current exchange rates).

For that price, I got this bike:

a basic "city" bike from a company called "Arcade".  It's slow and handles like a truck, but  I'm not going for speed or even distance on my rides here.  I could have paid more for a "name brand" bike like Giant, but I figured that even if I got a lighter, sprightlier bike, it still wouldn't be my own.  Perhaps this sounds counter-intuitive, but a more performance-oriented bike might make me wish for my own more than a basic bike like the one I'm riding--which, of course, can in no way resemble my Mercians.

But it rolls over cobblestones--and grips to ones slicked by the light rain this city has experienced for most of the day--nicely.  Plus, it includes, in addition to the lock, this interesting bag

that fits onto a Klick-Fix attachment used with some other bags and baskets.  It loos rather like a purse and includes a shoulder strap for carrying it when I park the bike--which, of course, I did at two cafes and a store.  

(I have to admit that I cried at the store.  A young woman was cradling a kitten who looked like Marlee when she first came into my life!  When I stroked that cat and rubbed its nose, that young woman said, "'s't v'avezoon chat, vrai?" (You have a cat, don't you?) in that Parisian equivalent of New York speech that seems, at times, to have more contractions than actual words.

The drizzle I that colored most of the day was interrupted by bouts of rain and overcast sky. But there wasn't any wind, and it wasn't terribly cold (8C high temperature).  Best of all, the low clouds made for an interesting view:

Since I've lived in, have visited and have friends in, this city, I don't think of myself as a tourist.  So I always promise I myself I won't take another picture of the Eiffel Tower.  But I figure the one with the low clouds is justified.  Heck, I can even rationalize another photo of the Arc de Triomphe.  At least I'm approaching it, just like the riders at the end of the Tour de France.

Hey, I even rode around the rond--twice!  I have to wonder, though, what it would be like if they made those Tour riders pedal through the cobblestoned bike lane. Hmm...Maybe they could think of it as training for the following Paris-Roubaix race.

Finally, I'm going to do something I often do when I travel: subject you to a history lessson.  Two, actually.  The first I encountered on the Metro, on the way to pick up my rental:

I had to transfer from la ligne 2 to ligne 5 at Stalingrad.  That's what everybody calls it, but the official name is la Place de la Bataille Stalingrad.  The city was known by that name at the time it staged one of the major conflicts of World War II.  For centuries, it was known as Tsaritsyn; today we call it Volgograd.  I find it interesting and ironic that the name "Stalingrad" cannot be found in Russia, but it remains part of the appelation of the intersection of Paris' two main canals (St. Martin and Ourcq).  

The sign is also interesting because it's in a style that's disappearing. When I first came to Paris in 1980, most signs inside the city's Metro stations were in that style.  Now most of them look more like this:

Now for more history:  Along the way, I stopped at this square:

named for the French officer falsely accused and imprisoned for passing military secrets to the Germans.  He just happened (yeah, right) to be Jewish.  So was the writer who fought for his release, and the reversal of his guilty plea:

The avenue on which Dreyfus park is located bears Emile Zola's name.  He is right that the truth wins out.  Sometimes it takes time--and it comes too late for some people, including the  victims of the terrible incident this statue commemorates.

I have mentioned Jews who were rounded up and detained in the Velodrome d'Hiver (known to locals as Vel-Deev) before they were deported.  That is, if they survived the head and unsanitary conditions inside the velodrome.  

As Zola said, the truth marches on.  And this is its color:

Or so I like to believe.  That sign is found on one of the streets that form one of the Dreyfus Park's boundaries.

Paris In The Bike Lane

If you were to ask, "What is the world's most bicycle-friendly city?", the answers you'd most commonly hear probably would be "Copenhagen" and "Amsterdam".

It would be difficult to argue against either.  And, although it's more bikeable than most American cities, not many people would put Paris ahead of either the Danish or Dutch capitals.

If you've been reading this blog, you know that I thoroughly enjoyed cycling in the City of Light.  That is not to say, however, that there isn't room for making it an even better place for cyclists than it is.  Mayor Anne Hidalgo recognizes as much, and has said that she wants not only to improve the cycling experience in her city, but to make the French capital into "the world's cycling capital".

Although one sees many bicycles and cyclists along the banks of the Seine, the portion of the population that rides regularly, let alone every day, is still fairly low, at least in comparison to places like Copenhagen and Amsterdam.  Nearly everyone agrees that one of the goals in making a city more "bike friendly" is to get people out of their cars and onto bike for their commutes, and to shop and visit the sights of the city.  That can be done when cycling is made available, affordable, safe and practical for those who are not, and do not wish to become, hard-core cyclists.

From what I can see, Paris has succeeded with the first two priorities:  You don't have to go very far to find a Velib station (or other bikes to rent or buy), and rental rates and purchase prices  are relatively reasonable.  The availability of Velib even well beyond city limits at least partially addresses the practicality issue.  But another part of it ties in with safety:  a coherent scheme of bike routes that cyclists can actually use to get to work, school or anyplace else from their homes and is physically separated from vehicular traffic.

The new Paris bike expressway.  Photo from a tweet by Marie Fugain.

Such networks are what separates Copenhagen and Amsterdam from nearly all other cities, according to Mikael Colville-Andersen,a  planner who regularly works with cities around the world to improve cycling conditions.  Of his native city, Copenhagen, he says, "Visitors who come for the first time will easily find their way around by bike because the network is uniform. That is not the case in Paris," where he points to "incoherent" choices like putting buses and bikes in the same lane on some roads.  Then there are "utterly stupid" ideas, he says, like the bicycle lane in the middle of the Champs-Elysees that is scheduled for completion next year.  "It will fail," he pronounces, because it will "lead to accidents" which will "give ammunition to the bike haters."

He does, however, see signs of improvement, like the new bike expressway" along the right bank of the Seine.  The route was created by taking two lanes from the Voie Georges Pompidou, a motorway that winds past the Louvre and the garden of the Tuileries, across the river from the Eiffel Tower.  This new "expressway" meets the standards of "Copenhagenization" in that it runs in a continuous axis in both directions, has enough room for cyclists to pass each other and has a separator between the bike and auto lanes, according to Colville-Andersen.

He says it could be the start of a bicycle network that could take its inspiration from another network for which Paris is justly renowned: its Metro.

The Idaho Stop: A Women's Issue (Or: Does Obeying The Law Kill Us?)

I learn some interesting things from my students.

From one of them--a criminal justice major--I learned that the vast majority of crime is committed by males between the ages of 15 and 25.  After that age, the crime rate plummets, and there is an even more significant difference between the lawlessness of males and that of females.

Or, to put it another way, females are more law-abiding than males.  Of course, that usually works to our advantage, but there are instances in which it doesn't.

One of those areas in which it doesn't is in traffic law, as applied to cyclists.  In most municipalities, the law requires cyclists to stop for red lights, just as motorists do.  Of course, such laws are not evenly enforced:  A state highway cop in a rural or suburban area is more likely to give a summons for running a red light than an urban police officer, and in cities, Black or Hispanic cyclists are more likely to get tickets (or worse) than a White or Asian person on two wheels.

But, according to studies, women are, proportionally, far more likely than men to be run down by heavy transport vehicles while cycling in urban areas.  As an example, in 2009, ten of the thirteen people killed in cycling accidents in London were female.  Of those ten, eight were killed by "heavy goods vehicles", i.e., lorries or trucks.  That year, about three times as many men as women cycled in the British capital.



That stark reality reflected conditions described in a report leaked by The Guardian's "Transport" section.  According to that report, 86 percent of the female cyclists killed in London from 1999 through 2004 collided with a lorry.  In contrast, 47 percent of male cyclists killed on London streets met their fates with a truck.

In unusually blunt language for such a study, the researchers concluded, "Women may be over-represented (in collisions with goods vehicles) because they are less likely than men to disobey red lights." (Italics are mine.)  They, therefore, confirmed what many of us already know:  We are safer, particularly in areas of dense traffic or in the presence of heavy vehicles, if we get out in front of the traffic in our lane rather than wait for the green light--and run the risk of getting smacked by a right-turning vehicle.



A DePaul University study of Chicago cycling and traffic patterns made use of the British study and came to a similar conclusion.  More broadly, the DePaul researchers concluded that it would be more practical and safer to mandate the "Idaho stop" for cyclists.  

In essence, the "Idaho stop" means that cyclists treat red lights like "Stop" signs and "Stop" signs like "Yield" signs.  It allows cyclists to ride through a red light if there is no cross-traffic in the intersection.  

Believe it or not, Idaho enacted that law all the way back in 1982.  Since then, no other state has adopted it, although a few Colorado municipalities have enacted stop-as-yield policies since 2011.  Interestingly, a 2012 decree allows cyclists in Paris to turn right at--or, if there is no street to the right, to proceed straight through-- a red light as long as they excercise prudence extreme and watch for pedestrians. Three years later, that policy was modified to allow cyclists to treat certain stop lights (designated by signage) as "yield" signs as long as they are making right turns or going straight through "T" junctions.

The funny thing is that you don't hear or read the kinds of flat-earth rants about cyclists in the City of Light that we regularly find in American discourse.  And, it has seemed to me, cycling is generally safer than it is in New York or just about anyplace else in the US I've ridden.

Now, back to my original point:  Allowing the "Idaho Stop", or even the policies of Paris or those Colorado municipalities, is not only a cycling or transportation issue.  It's a women's issue!

Why I Need To Make Wrong Turns

Sometimes I wonder whether my subconscious is steering me into wrong turns.

Freud, of course, would argue that it doesn't.  If you'd planned on going one way but finding yourself going another, deep down, you really wanted it.

Maybe he was right, although I still don't understand why I woke up next to at least a couple of the people I've woken up next to.

OK, this is a bike blog.  And my rambling ultimately has to do with the ride I took today--and one I took last week.

I rode to Connecticut again today.  I took a route that, for much of the way, follows the East Coast Greenway--I've been finding more and more of it--and takes me up a few climbs and along a ridge I discovered by making other "wrong turns".  

On the way back, though, I managed to--among other things--ride in a circle of about 15km, unintentionally.  I didn't mind:  It took me by a couple of rocky streams of the kind you expect to see in New England postcards.  Near those streams were some real, live, old-time farm houses and barns.  I guess I should not have been surprised:  I was in horse country.  

I have ridden horses only a couple of times in my life.  Given the chance, I would ride one again.  In the meantime, I am happy to see them.  They give me hope for the human race.  Why?  Well, only a century ago--even less in some places--they were beasts of burden.  In addition to carrying humans on their backs, horses pulled various kinds of farm implements as well as carts on rough roads and barges that plied canals.  Today, they do almost none of those things. But some people--some of whom don't ride--have seen fit to keep them, whether or not they serve any useful purpose.  

They are beautiful, intelligent creatures who generally treat people well, whether or not people are doing the same for them. Humans can do well to learn from them. 

The bicycle, of course, was one of the first things to take away some of the work horses once did.  People could go faster and further on two wheels.  Plus, even in postage-stamp-sized New York apartments, it's easier to store a bike--and cheaper to feed one--than a horse.

Perhaps we should thank horses for doing their work as well, and for as long, as they did--and for continuing to do it on demand.

Anyway, that loop through the horse farms and other bucolic scenes consisted of a couple of winding roads, one of which is called Round Mountain Road.  That name should have told me something!

I guess I subconsciously took those "wrong turns" because I really, deep down, wanted to see something besides downtown Greenwich and Stamford, or even the coast of Long Island Sound.  

Of course, when I am on vacation, I am always taking wrong turns.  As an example, on a day in Paris, I might decide I want to visit a particular museum or to take a ride to some particular site.  But I almost invariably end up following some street or alley or canal or another I hadn't planned on seeing.  Likewise, when I was in the provinces of France or Italy, I might decide that the destination of my day's ride would be some town or site.  But of course, I almost never took the "straight-arrow" route.  

So why does my subconscious steer me along routes the GPS would never dream of?  Well, I guess I am, if nothing else, inquisitive.  I want to see more and know more.  If I am going to spend time in a place, I want to become as familiar with it as I can.  My wanderings make me feel as if I've had a more intimate experience of the place.  For example, I have been to the Picasso Museum several times and can get to it pretty easily.  However, my experience of it seems more complete when I ride through the surrounding area--Le Marais--and, perhaps, find a street or alley I'd never before seen, or hadn't seen in a long time.

Believe it or not, even in the cities and towns and rural areas I know relatively well, it's still not difficult to find and interesting, and even new experience--simply by making a "wrong" turn.

Note:  I didn't take any photos today.  Sorry!  I guess I just got so immersed in my ride that I didn't think of taking pictures.

A Ride Along Another Canal: A Path To Memory

Today it was Vera's turn.

I took my green Miss Mercian mixte on a ride to, and along, the Delaware and Raritan Canal towpath.  I used to pedal along that path when I was a Rutgers student; last year I rode it for the first time since those days.

Today I rode it just a week after pedaling and walking by the  Canal St. Martin through what has become a district of young artists and animators--and interesting, quirky restaurants and cafes--to the city's "little Africa".  Years ago, I also pedaled a section of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal towpath near Washington, DC.  Like the D&R towpath, its surface (at least on the section I rode) is dirt and clay, with pebbles in some areas. A section of the St. Martin has a path with a similar surface, while another part is cobblestoned.

Towpaths along canals were constructed so that horses or mules could tow barges from the shore. Even if their surfaces are not paved, they make nice bike lanes as well as hiking trails because they are usually table-flat, or close to it.  The engineering that went into building them--not to mention the canals themselves--has seldom been bettered.

It's interesting that one reason we like to ride along canals is that they seem peaceful.  Their still waters reflect and refract light in sometimes-painterly sorts of ways, whether the canal courses through Paris residences or old factories in New England--or winds through stands of trees and follows railroad tracks in central New Jersey.  One often sees couples riding or walking, or simply sitting, along canal banks:  Canals and their paths are often among the most romantic sites in their locales.  

I also find it interesting that some canal towpaths are seen as "natural" sites.  Along some parts of the Delaware and Raritan, as well as other canals, trees and other vegetation have reclaimed the land from the remains of abandoned factories and other structures.  Areas along canals have also been turned into, or become, sanctuaries for various animals and birds.  But as lovely as all of those animal habitats, and all of the flora and fauna, are, they are no more "natural" than the canal itself. 

In saying what I've just said, I do not mean to diminish the aesthetic or recreational value of such sites.  I just find it ironic that we now ride along canal towpaths like the Delaware and Raritan to get away from the sometimes-dreary, or even grim, industrial and post-industrial landscapes those canals helped to create, or were built to serve.  

In fact, the city of New Brunswick--the locale of Rutgers University, located at one end of the canal--is such a place.  I don't know whether the term "post-industrial" had been coined by the time I attended university there, but it certainly would have fit:  A number of large and small enterprises had gone out of business or simply left:  Johnson and Johnson was threatening to do the same.  In fact, even some Rutgers administrators, and New Jersey state officials, talked about abandoning the Old Queens campus and moving all of the university's facilities across the Raritan River to Piscataway, where Rutgers already had some of its research laboratories as well as a residential campus.

Instead, they decided to "revitalize" the city.  In essence, they made it just like the downtowns of so many other cities, with all of the same chain stores and restaurants. (I mean, what town worth its salt would do without Starbucks, right?)  So it doesn't look as run-down as much of the town did when I lived there, but it has all of the character of a Sunbelt suburb.

And, of course, my favorite places--except for one--are gone.  Those places include what remains, to this day, my favorite music store I have ever encountered:  Cheap Thrills, on George Street. The prices were indeed cheap, which allowed me and many other students to buy albums (vinyl!) of all of those esoteric bands and kinds of music we learned about from each other.  

(That shop, and a Pyramid Books, which I also loved, were part of the Hiram Market district, which was designated a historic district, then de-designated because, as one architect put it, the area didn't fit into Johnson and Johnson's "clean desk" mentality.)

The only "old favorite" of mine that remains is a restaurant called Stuff Yer Face.  Of course, the menu includes all sorts of things we couldn't have imagined in those days. It also has a bar with an enormous beer selection.  Back in my day, they didn't (couldn't?) sell alcohol, but we could bring it in.  Of course, most of us did!

I ordered an Original Stromboli, for old time's sake.  The young woman who took my order and the one who brought it to me were, no doubt, not even born the last or first time I ordered one.  It was every bit as good--and unhealthy--as the first one I ate in 1979 or thereabouts.  A bargain, frankly, at $6.75. 

At least there was that--and the canal towpath.  They made the ride more than worthwhile.