Schenectady Synecdoche

And then it plunges down the Hudson, only a few feet above the water level, the railroad sometimes so close to the river that not even trees intervene. We are in the river.

South of Albany, there are very few houses along the river—I don't know why. Fields of last year's reeds not yet overtaken by this year's generation. Buoys, bridges, and lighthouses. Huge towers to carry the electricity from upstate to the city. "Manufactured Gas Plant Site: Remedial Construction"—WTF? A scientist in bib waders, raking the riverbottom with a long pole. She stops to squint at the train as we pass; have we disrupted her work? Strange masonry abutments (parts of long-gone piers, perhaps?); rusting cyclone fence; riverside buildings abandoned in days gone by; a decaying duck blind. Anglers standing patiently, two or three to a boat; an occasional doughty kayaker for variety.

As we approach Poughkeepsie it's sailboats rather than fishing boats; there's a kayaking class in a cove; the hillside on the far bank is peppered with mansions; and the wharfs are bustling rather than rotting. Deliberate herons, grackles, and seagulls give way to a sense of drama, purpose, and inevitability as the river gets wider and the city approaches. Swans and jetskiiers share the river now. The honeysuckle and touch-me-nots are in bloom down here, and wisteria, as well. The maples are in full leaf already; this climate is that much warmer than in the center of the state, where the maple leaves have just unfolded and are still obscured by the clumps of seeds.

At Peekskill, yacht clubs, parks, and condos line the river. Along the tracks, though, still the refuse of discarded railroad ties, broken bottles, chipped concrete blocks, and empty creosote cans. Some of the tracks have been abandoned, overgrown with vines and shrubbery.

At Greystoke, tugboats and heavy-laden barges ply their trade. (Once I was on the train with the captain of one of those barges, and he told me a lot of interesting stuff about Hudson River commercial transport, none of which, alas, I now remember.)

South of Riverside, the train moves slower, approaching the city with caution. Even its whistle is softer, I swear. Homeless people sleep on mattresses and in makeshift tents on the bank. (I've never seen them before.) Cyclists follow a paved bike path. It's 4:30 p.m., and traffic is backed up at the W 125th Street bridge.

I took the train rather than the shorter, less expensive drive because I needed to work. Instead, I've been seduced once again by the experience itself. This is not transportation from one place to another; the train ride from Utica to Penn Station is itself both place and time. It's a pageant staged for those fortunate enough to come to the city by train from the north. I still have to catch New Jersey Transit's midtown express to Madison, and then drive through the Great Swamp (we're taking a detour so I can see the roosting egrets) to Plainfield. I'll be up late tonight, getting ready for my meetings on Monday and Tuesday. But it will be worth it. Today's New York Times had a piece on how baby boomers like the Stones (in their picture, Keith look like a doddering old fool) are staying active rather than kicking back as they approach retirement. I'm teaching myself to kick back, to enjoy the moment every now and then. The Times says I'm "old-fashioned." Humph. Hey, I did take a bike ride before leaving for the station this morning.