Hudson River Valley
Eight hours later than planned, we rolled into Poughkeepsie, NY and laid the bus to rest in the back corner of a large empty commuter parking lot at Duchess Community College. After a few hours of sleep, Alan and I woke early to make final preparations for our Earth Day presentation.
The local Poughkeepsie media waited for us as we pulled the bus in front of the school. After some quick interviews with a business journal and local cable news station, we hurried inside to deliver our first power-point presentation. Our aim was to provide some context for climate change and peak oil, so we started at the beginning—from the formation of earth, the development of fossil fuels and an oxygen rich atmosphere, to the rise of expansive agriculture and hierarchical civilizations, the industrial revolution, the role of oil in many 20th century military conflicts, the green revolution and the role of fossil fuels in modern food production, up to where we are today, what we can do together to shape the future. And of course, we talked about our bus adventures. 
After fielding questions, we grabbed some complimentary cafeteria food and returned to the bus to give a demonstration to a “Current Issues” class. The professor appreciated what we were doing and came back later with a big dish of pasta and vegetables.
After too many long weeks of fixing the bus in the cold gray Massachusetts spring, the clouds parted and the temperature topped seventy degrees. Brian and I climbed onto the roof of the bus and banged on the djembes. The beats echoed off the college buildings. For the rest of the afternoon we relaxed on the grass with some interested students and the members of the DCC Bio Club (who made us a plate of cup cakes). We answered questions about the bus and our journey, talked about sustainability, played drums and enjoyed the sunshine.
Nearing dusk, Alan, Brian, and Cat went exploring through the woods with Natasha, an environmental science student at DCC. Alan told how they found a river and skipped some rocks. Afterward, Natasha directed us to a small park on the banks of the Hudson River between two bridges where we parked the bus for the night. Alan turned in while Cat, Brian, and I walked up the street to an Irish pub that was open late-night. Brian bought a round of drinks and danced all over a map of Ireland painted on the dark and worn hardwood floor, from County Cork to Donegal. At the top of his game, soon Brian had everyone dancing. Ryan introduced us to Rebecca and her husbandRoger from Peru, who despite his name had the accent and the features of a native Peruvian. He gave us an open invitation to come to his home for ceviche, a dish of citrus marinated fish native to Peru, and offered to guide us to “the new Machu Picchu”—a newly discovered ancient Inca city high in the Peruvian Andes. Maybe, some day.
With Roger and company we returned to the bus. Soon hookah hoses snaked between the hands of new friends and apple scented smoke rings and clouds wafted around the painted ceiling. I woke Alan to join in the christening of our new hookah. He sat up, took a drag, gestured an approving thumbs up, then fell right back into sleep without speaking a word. Cat, Brian, Roger and Roger’s wife Rebecca went for breakfast just before sunrise. I fell onto the futon and slept.
When I awoke, Cat had just returned from a morning walk. She hadn’t yet slept. Alan was off wandering somewhere. 
I climbed up to cliffs overlooking the Hudson, and found Alan perched on a rock ledge above the wide muddy colored river. Cat soon wandered up after us. Alan and I ran down the paths in the woods between blankets of new purple flowers then galloped down a grass-covered hill.
In search of that golden grease that fuels our voyage, we made our way to the Culinary Institute of America (the less infamous CIA). We soon made friends with a group of young chefs who directed us toward a fine vat of grease. They joined us around back as we connected hoses and turned our hand pump. Once the grease started flowing the chefs took turns cranking the pump. Bubba from Mississippi passed around a few bottles of beer and pumped enthusiastically.
“It’s kind of a ritual to come down to the rec-center after classes on Friday to unwind,” Bubba said with a mild Southern drawl. And what better way unwind than spending a sunny afternoon pumping some used vegetable oil to reggae tunes with a troupe of vagabonds.
With the tank full, Bubba led me down toward to the river. He had only been living in Hyde Park, for a few months but took interest in getting to know the area.
“Over there is the Roosevelt Mansion and further down is Vanderbilt Mansion. Further south downriver is Sing Sing Prison, you know from the gangster movies,” said Bubba pointing down river with his beer bottle.
After taking advantage of the CIA rec-center to exercise and shower, we bid the young chefs goodbye and headed to the Vanderbilt Mansion for sunset.
As I stepped off the bus in a parking lot down the street from the mansion gates, I heard a woman shout from her porch,
“You wanna join us for coffee or tea?”
“We are gonna walk to the Vanderbilt Mansion for sunset,” I responded.
“We’ll be here when after sunset.”
“Well ok then. We’ll see you after sunset,” I shouted back. Alan grabbed his longboard, Cat and Brian grabbed cameras and we were soon walking past a large metal gate between stone walls, down a small valley between hills surrounded by old growth trees, stone bridges over ponds, and the clean cut grass of the Vanderbilt grounds.
At the top of a steep hill sat the huge stone mansion with grand pillars and staircases, wrought-iron balconies, and ornate carvings. We set ourselves overlooking the Hudson River Valley. We relaxed, and played, and watched our shadows grow taller and the light fade over the hills.
Debbi enthusiastically welcomed us into “Surviving Sisters” for coffee, exclaiming how they all read about us in the paper and saw us on the news. We sat with Debbie, Carl , and Debbie’s mother, Dotti. Debbie directed Carl to show us his sculptures while she and Dotti prepared the drinks. We walked next door to Carl’s yard which was punctuated with his many sculptures. Carl is a retired mason. He spent much of his retirement in the shed behind the house sculpting from limestone, plaster, and granite.
We returned to the porch of Debbie’s boutique and sipped coffee. Debbie, who at one time was a feisty bartender, radiated energy as she told us how she decided to create “Surviving Sisters.”
“My grandmother died from her fourth heart attack. At age forty-five, I found myself in a hospital bed nearly having died of a heart attack. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. It opened my eyes. It showed me life is fragile and life is short. I was afraid of leaving my daughter and mother alone.
“I educated myself about heart disease,” Debbie said with a certainty that she now found the right path in life. “It changed my lifestyle and my habits. I am grateful for the perspective. I appreciate my mother and my daughter even more and do my best to make a better life for them and try to enjoy the time we have together. So I formed this place as a support center for women with heart disease and breast cancer and all women.”
She gave us a tour of Surviving Sisters—past racks of colorful and one of a-kind clothing, jewelry and other unique items. Debbie donates a portion of the profits of her young business to heart disease prevention and awareness organizations.
Debbie had ordered pizza and Carl opened a bottle of his homemade wine. We returned to the front porch. Having heard Debbie’s perspective, I asked Dotti what is best in life,
“Well…I like spaghetti,” replied Dotti.
I asked Carl the same question.
“Family, good friends, good food, wine,” as he raised his glass, “art, just this, sitting on the porch with friends.”
We continued eating and talking as night fell. Brian accidentally called Hyde Park “Poughkeepsie.”
“You are in Hyde Park. Not Poughkeepsie.”
As a group we had made the same mistake twice before and received the same response.
“I used to live in Poughkeepsie, but it’s not the same anymore,” Carl said.
“Is that where you grew up?” I asked.
“No. I grew up in the Bronx then moved to Poughkeepsie. They both are not like they used to be. We used to have a community. The Bronx used to be safe. Sure there were fights sometimes, but the violence today…”
“What do you think happened?”
“It used to have a good Italian community. It isn’t there anymore. I wouldn’t even go back.”
“What are jobs like in Poughkeepsie?”
“The good jobs are gone, and all the people that could, moved out to surrounding towns or somewhere else.”
“Do you have any children?”
We sipped the homemade wine and Carl told me of his children.
“My daughter is married, she lives across town, and my son passed away. Thirty-three years old. He wasn’t just my son, he was my best friend,” Carl said, looking away, looking down with signs of long lingering pain, yet acceptance.
Debbie’s fifteen year old daughter, Tammy, returned from the movies and bid goodbyes to all her friends. Now all three generations of single women were at Surviving Sisters together.
“Tammy thinks she isn’t pretty no matter what we tell her. She feels bad about herself.” Debbie began telling Alan and I about her daughter’s struggles with self esteem, high school and teenage life. Tammy stormed out the room expressing her annoyance and embarrassment as her mother unabashedly made her daughters personal issues the center of conversation. Tammy walked back in to hear her mother make another personal comment. “Mom!” Tammy shouted, followed by a big sigh as she flopped back into her chair and stared across the room away from everyone.
Alan and I had many times discussed the bizarre environment and experience of high school, with its warped priorities and values. During an age of dramatic change and insecurity, teenagers are penned in a regimented and stagnant environment of compliance, boredom, and too often vicious social judgment.
“You don’t even realize how crazy it is until you are out and looking back,” I said.
“We escaped and you will too. And I don’t mean just from high school, but from that narrow mindset that goes along with it. I remember people acting with such fear about of other people’s thoughts and judgments. It’s crazy,” Alan said.
We talked for a while about how traveling and exploring not only teach you about the world but teach you about yourself. We spoke of the possibilities out in the world and the possibilities right here and now.
“That’s right, you should listen to this,” Debbie chimed in. Tammy shook her head again this time chuckling in frustration at her mother’s interjections.
“I am listening. Can’t you see that.”
When her mother left the room to show Cat some clothes, Tammy opened up. First came a list of frustrations with her Christian school and the teachers who ridicule her into silence when she questions things about religion or their version of history. Then she told us her creative writing—mostly stories about young girls who are trapped one way or another, and wistfully described her travels to Puerto Rico as if a wall had been knocked down between us.
It was getting late, as Cat leafed through the clothes, Alan, Burkie and I bought the only thing we found in a women’s clothing boutique that would be of use to us: a washboard (though we’ll more often use it for making music than washing clothes). Brian bought a stone necklace for his girlfriend and Cat bought some interesting outfits before we bid farewell to Debbie, Dotti and Tammy and climbed into the bus for the night.