Interlude: Richmond, Virginia

25-29 April

Jack was presenting at a conference in Virginia, and because Sean and Dale would be there, I tagged along. Long story short, if you never get to Richmond you won't have missed much.

We took Amtrak. Somewhere south of DC the engine conked out (I'm used to it; SEPTA's express train engines are the same kind). It never takes long to "re-cycle" the engine (whatever that means), but I had enough time to take some pictures of a muddy body of water outside our window. Maybe it's the Chesapeake River.





The conference hotel and the one across the street were so overwhelmed by the number of people that they couldn't manage to feed us all. Several times we walked out in search of food to find, once, a solitary restaurant (good Thai), and (once) a deli so small and packed we turned around. We did land at a very good Ethiopian restaurant our second night there, but it was at least a mile away from the hotel. One day I had two packs of trail mix for lunch. Twice Jack skipped lunch entirely after finding nothing edible in the hour or so we had to hunt.

This is because downtown Richmond is empty. Clean, renovated, and empty. So empty that on Friday took a taxi three miles west to Cary Street, Carytown, which is maybe a mile long, probably less. There the city is alive with funky shops of artisans' work, guitars, wine, and chandelier parts.

Yep, chandelier parts. The front window was sparkly so I had to go in. This was after Dale and I spent half an hour in an artisan's shop looking at hanging gourds painted like sea creatures (Dale has a whale!) and dichroic beads the owner made. We ended up surfing my Etsy site so I could show her my favorite bead artists.

Anyway, the chandeliers. The front half dangled and sparkled. We were okay with that, but it seemed a peculiar business to be specializing in. Then I looked farther back and saw the necklaces hanging one after another, panel after panel: watch parts -- faces only, or cases only -- dangling from overwrought chains; rhinestone brooches, half a dozen to a necklace; yard sales, estate sales, chained together and pinned to panels.








The woman at the register saw us looking and was more than happy to tell us she'd made them all. She and her mother owned the store.

We wandered to the back.

"This place belongs in New Orleans," I said. "This place is under water." Even as I said it I wasn't sure what I meant. There was an unnerving too-muchness in this place.

We talked with the owner some more about selling jewelry online, about taking pictures. Then I saw the bowl of tiny chandelier crystals under the counter, $2 each. I bought enough for a couple of bracelets, my own little bag of creepy.

Outside again, Dale said, "Too many stories."

"Huh?"

"Too many stories all smashed together. Too many grandmas' watch parts on one necklace. The stories are all split up and different parts smashed all together. That's what's wrong in there."

A cat napping next to a stuffed leopard distracted us.



We found a coffee roaster. Jack went down the street to a wine store while Dale, Sean, and I loaded up on bags of the Evil Bean. Dale bought me a travel mug (when, after we'd left and I'd said I was thinking of getting it, she ran back ahead of me and bought it).

Across from the wine store we sat on concrete steps waiting for Jack. I went in to fetch him and found what was keeping him: Occhio.




We decided to walk the three miles back to the hotel. There was little to see on the way, save for an obvious head shop and a row house converted into a natural soap factory. Dale and I got stuck in there as the owner, a former air force soldier and button-down corporate drone, let his inner hippie bust out to make soap. Between the coffee and this, my luggage was going to smell pretty good.

Here are some pictures of downtown Richmond on a Saturday afternoon, the day after our time in Carytown. All the storefronts are empty, clean, renovated, waiting for something to happen.








(And yeah, for those Hill Slugs reading this, that sign does say Cokesbury. It was a book store. It's empty now.)

Later, Sean, Dale, and I walked along the James River and the canal alongside it. Here's the canal:





We're standing on the lock.



No Segways? There aren't even any people here.



The James River is loud.





Dale and Sean on the memorial bridge built to commemorate the bridge destroyed during the Civil War:



The edge of the old bridge: More moose!



If you look closely you'll see a suspension walkway under the bridge. We didn't have time to get over there. We had to get back to a session about defining when the eighteenth century happened. Jack and Nora were on the panel and Sharon was chairing.



Canada geese in the James River:



I went to only one other session because Rebecca was presenting. She and Dale and I are all on career tracks that don't fit the accepted ideas of what one is "supposed to do" with a PhD, or an MS for that matter. We have a lot to say to each other; we only wish more people would listen.



Our train home was on Sunday morning. This is the Richmond Main Street train station.



And yes, those are real sofas, in a restored historic building. "This ain't no commuter station," I told Jack and Mary.









Here's what Richmond looks like from the train station's single track platform.





Nearly everyone I've talked to since I got back says, when I mention Richmond, "I've never been there. I've driven through it on I-95." I tell them they're not missing much, but now that I look back at the pictures, maybe that's not really true.

If you find yourself on I-95 passing through Richmond, slow down and take a look. Just bring your own food.