Letter from our own correspondent - Chicago

While driving through Chicago on a desperate hunt for Arabic meat and Arabic food, we encountered many emblems of human rights struggles.

First, we drove past the Centro Romero. This is an organization that helps immigrants on Chicago's northeast side. It is named for the Catholic clergyman in El Salvador who spoke out about the rising civil war in his country during the 1970s. One day, while he was giving the mass, he was killed. We watched a movie about him in Spanish class. 

Just a little while later, we drove past a park named for Dr. Janusz Korczak. 

Dr. Janusz was a Polish doctor who set up an orphanage for Jewish children. When they were all forced to go into the Warsaw ghetto, he stayed with the children and kept the orphanage running. He had them writing newsletters and putting on plays. One day, all the children were deported to the death camps. A lot of people apparently offered to get Dr. Janusz into hiding, but he stayed with the children all the way. Here is his Wikipedia page.

The last place we saw was Jane Addams' Hull House. We had to hike to see it. On the way there, we ran into Chicago's finest:

Hull House is very inspiring. It was a place that supported women and immigrants starting in the late 1800s:

Unfortunately, it was closed, but I took pictures through the windows:

I wish they'd put more information about Jane Addams and her house outside the museum. But at least, I can say I visited and stood before the original Hull House.

The Science Center in Cleveland

We took a little spin through Cleveland.

We found out the Cleveland is very scared of the Environmental Protection Agency. That's because Cleveland is where the river caught on fire off and on during the 1950s through 70s.

In order to impress the EPA inspectors, Cleveland now has a little section of the city dedicated to the environment. First, they have some bike racks. Then, they have a few buses that rumble past.

Then, to be really impressive, they have set up a whole Great Lakes Science Center. Seems like all the Cleveland schools come there for the end-of-year ritual fieldtrip. We were able to explore some of it, but most exhibits can only be accessed after paying an entry fee.

But in the parts we did see, there was a fun description of the water cycle:

Then, a quiz. Here we are, getting the wrong answer:

Then, they had a wind turbine, and an explanation of wind energy:

A lot of kids had drawn posters in support of the environment:

The wind turbine was just outside:

And they had solar panels, too:

Where Mr. A once was

One of the most exciting stops on our trips was to arrive in Pittsburgh just before sunset. Did you all know that my favorite person ever, Mr. A, was in Pittsburgh in spring 2011 for a conference for young people? I didn't get to go, but every time I think of Pittsburgh, I just think of Mr. A!!!

The New River Gorge

'Riding on the New River Train; Riding on that New River Train! Something something something I'll be coming back on that New River Train.'

This was the banjo music playing in our ears after visiting the New River Gorge National River (I know, too many 'rivers' in the name.) But I can't get too fussy about the naming because it is an absolutely beautiful spot. 

The New River winds through the Appalachians. The place where the National Park Service has built its glass-paned center is on a hill. From the overlook we can see curling mountains, all tree-covered, and in the valley runs the ribbon of river shining in the sun. 

There's signs at the overlook giving you all sorts of helpful information about the river, like: even though the mountains just look uniformly green to us, in reality there are different types of trees growing in the valleys, on the mountain plateaus, on the ridges, and in the shady alcoves. 

And the signs told us about the geological background: how the New River is actually among the oldest rivers on Earth, and "local legend" has only the Nile River exceeding it in age. And the New River is definitely older than the mountains through which it flows. 

The National Park Service staff at the Center are so friendly. I asked them about the train tracks that run right next to the river. I had looked down at those train tracks and glumly supposed that only freight trains are allowed that close to the New River. But then the lady at the desk said that Amtrak goes through there! It's the Cardinal route that starts off in DC, then dips down to Charlottesville, Virginia. The train leaves Charlottesville at 1:46 pm and then start heading northwest, straight through these lovely mountains. I want to take that train!

And eventually the train will meet up with the New River and "I'll be riding on that New River train!" (banjo music in tow.)

The train passes old coals towns of Kilmaar, and Prince, and some other old settlements. Now that the mountains have been leached of all their coal, the people and work camps have left and the forests have reclaimed their habitats. Though no longer the virgin forests they were. 

The Amtrak only comes through three times a week, and the park ranger encouraged me to think cautiously before I disembark at any of the New River Gorge stops, because they have no people, no stores, and no cell phone signal, seeing as they are historical sites. So before you get there, you need a plan!

Before leaving, we checked out the bookstore, filled with fun books about nature; and there was a short, eleven minute film playing in a small theatre. It was very informative, and very impressively, the shield of the National Park Service kept flashing and rotating on the screen. This film is also the source of the banjo music about 'riding that New River train', so it is a must-see (or I should say, a must-hear!) 

Letter from our own correspondent - Spanishburg

When you enter Spanishburg, West Virginia, it informs you that it is an unincorporated community, and it is immediately evident why: it has a grand total of one building in it.

Well, that is unfair. The small road that winds lovingly among these mountains and slopes will eventually unfurl to you the entirety of Spanishburg, replete with homesteads named things like Peaceful Valley (though Peaceful Valley also considerately warned us to Beware of the Dog) and Shady Spot.

Intertwined with the road is the Bluestone River, which is very beautiful, not least due to the untouched sweeps of greenery around it. It flows slowly, and up above it towers flat mountain faces, places where the mountain has been cut sharply at a precipice. A geologist would probably look at the exposed rock and delight in telling you about how those were Ordivician formations caused by the Eocene rift led to by the constant fault propagation model which scientists are becoming more and more convinced of, or some other tale like that.

The prettiest spot, I thought, was the Bluestone River across from Spanishburg Elementary School:

This sounds like the most family-values spot ever to send your kid to school.

I took that picture of the elementary school from next to the Green Valley General Store. This store sells peanuts, chips and coke. The lady running the shop is very nice. She also makes wreaths. She has a big pile of ribbon behind her counter, and her completed wreaths were hanging on the wall. They were actually very beautiful, even though I am sure I will never want a West Virginia University themed wreath on my front door, or anywhere in my house. But she gets orders from everywhere.

Next to the General Store, you see the little bird house. That is a free exchange, on-your-honor sort of library!

So Spanishburg was very nice.

Letter from our own correspondent - Bluefield

Bluefield is a border town - a mere mile inside of West Virginia. I had looked forward to seeing it because 'Bluefield' is such a romantic name. Also, West Virginia advertises itself as 'wild and wonderful', so there must be something in that.

Sadly, however, there was not much beauty or romance in Bluefield. When you first enter the town from the south, it is all neat homes and manicured lawns and white people taking their evening walks around. It's neat and comfortable, but so over-designed and heartless.

Then, if you go towards the downtown, all of a sudden there are only black people, and the buildings are mostly boarded up. I know this is a reality even where I live, but entering an unexplored American town and seeing the same pattern is just so sad. I can't believe we allow ourselves to live in this way.

The downtown itself was not nice at all. It is full of small buildings, like these:'

And large buildings, like these:

But most of them, even the large buildings, look as though nothing is happening in them. They still carry the signs of their former industry: a bakery here, antiques once sold there. Someone has taken the time to hang flower baskets up, though:

The only thing that still seemed in business were the banks. Alright, then. That, and maybe the churches.

The downtown is perched on a hill that overlooks a steep valley. If you descend all the way, you get to a trainyard! It's got like 15 train tracks in parallel, but the Amtrak does not stop here. It's just the important freight trains ferrying their important freight. If anyone still does not understand the importance of freight and the freight trains, please watch this (15 minutes, 15 seconds in):

When we were there, a long train carrying coal was on standby. It had so many cars we couldn't see the end behind the bend. The locomotive was directly beneath  us where we stood on an entirely unsteady wood plank bridge over the valley, and tried to catch the attention of the train engineer.

It's not just us who were interested in the trains, because the hill above us was all full of what would once have been large, fancy houses, expertly built to best take in the view of the trainyard. Sadly, these homes now look as though no one has touched the faded, white frilly curtains on the windows in years. Maybe once, it meant you were a special part of society to afford a large house on the hill overlooking the valley, right next to downtown. We went around some of these houses. In one place, the road before us dropped off so sharply we couldn't even see the road, and afraid that we possibly had come to a precipice, we turned back.

Two more landmarks come to mind: one was a particularly large, brick building that took up an entire block on its own. It looked like it might once have been a boarding school maybe. Just beneath the rooftop were two frescoes: one of a man and one of a woman. They both looked knowledgeable and nurturing. That's what put me in mind of a school.

And the other landmark is the Bluefield State College. It is on the other side of the train tracks, perched on a hill. It's a small cluster of buildings, two of which are large brick blocks with window shutters painted in awful clashing ugly colors. But the hill on which they sit is all covered with long grassy strands peopled in white flowers; and they have a very pretty sign at the entrance; and behind the college runs a small lush green country road. And all around are the mountains, if you can see them past the glaring scars of the dusty town.

And the last thing I'll mention is not a landmark at all, but just the ugly highway that comes out from downtown. Block after block of ugly colors in all their forms - the garish red of MacDonald's and Burger King and the false symmetry of Long John Silver's and the eyes of the KFC grandfather presiding over this ugliness and unhealth as no grandfather ever should. 

Letter from Our Own Correspondent - Wytheville

We spent the ride to Wytheville, Virginia, practicing the pronunciation of the town's name. At first, our driver had misread the map and kept telling us to be on the look-out for 'Waynesville'. When we got that straightened out, we pronounced it phonetically, so that the 'Wythe' part almost rhymed with 'wife'. That was nice, because it put me in mind of the dim, hidden moor of Wuthering Heights. But it turns out that Wytheville is pronounced like With-ville. That was not as nice. But we practiced all along the green slopes there, filled with creamy patches of violet wildflowers.

Wytheville's Main Street is not as nice as Sparta's. It doesn't have even one pretty, sweet spot, and Sparta had a dozen. All that Wytheville had that caught my eye was a big office supply building, which looked interesting, not least because a giant, 20-foot yellow number two pencil was perched over the front door, and that was closed, to top it all off. For the rest, there was one window full of karate trophies; a group of girls dressed for dance class and their moms trying to herd them from the dance building to their cars; and though there were some other businesses, nothing was sharp enough to stick out. I just remember dust and boarded windows.

Except for the Bollings Wilson Hotel. There was a historical marker next to it. This was something owned by the family of the second wife of President Woodrow Wilson. She was born in 1872, the daughter of a local judge, right in Wytheville. I'll bet she was so smart. I remember from US History (and by the way, I made a 5 on the AP test) that after Woodrow Wilson had a stroke shortly after World War One ended, she basically took over the running of the country for his remaining months in office. I just like to think of that little girl growing up in these mountains, where everything feels fresher and clearer, and how she made it all the way to the White House.

The Hotel is nice, at least the first floor, but the brick on the second floor looks unstyled and boring and faded. A lot of old, crisply dressed people were seated outside, I guess having their afternoon tea. Some traditions never die.

So we walked down Main Street, and then took a right on Fifth Street, walked two blocks till we reached good old Franklin Street, and took that back to our starting place. Franklin Street, by virtue of being two blocks removed from Main, is already just fields of waving flowers and grass spilling brimful and leaning sideways to knock gently on our knees, and small trees bent in playful contortions bordering them. It was so beautiful I am sure I shall remember it for the rest of my life!

As we drove and walked, we did see some of the nice houses that the fancy people having afternoon tea must inhabit. I think they could do something about their dusty Main Street and clean it up a bit.

Letter from our own correspondent - Sparta

We were en route to Sparta, North Carolina. We have studied Sparta and Athens during our formal Classical history studies, but to prepare ourselves for Sparta in North Carolina, we had only to resort to Wikipedia. Unfortunately, the entry is about five sentences long, so that was not very promising. The only interesting piece of the Wikipedia article was that the main character in Thomas Wolfe's book, "I am Charlotte Sims" is from there. I recall having started reading that book when it was published, and I am not entirely convinced that Sparta was described in a very flattering way.

Having low expectations, we all fell asleep in the car, except our trusty driver, and had not the slightest even subconscious inkling of when we passed into Sparta's boundaries. We awoke to find ourselves on a springtime street, quite over-canopied with fresh sunshine, and a tidy, bustling avenue full of interesting shops. As it turns out, this has to count as one of the most family-values, wholesome row of shops I've ever seen, except maybe Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade High Street.

First, there were pretty 'Welcome to Sparta's signs and bike route indicators everywhere.

Then, there were more family values signs like this Community Challenge Quilt (all interested parties can sign up at the local libraries).

And broaden-your-horizons sigs, like this award-winning photographer and journalist giving a talk, also at the Alleghany Public Library. I think when a lot is happening at the local library, that is always a good sign.

As for shops, first they had one full of clothes, also advertising slippers for 50% off, right next door to the Mustard Seed Cafe, whose menu is not one I would be loath to try at all, especially not the milkshakes:

Then there was a pretty pottery shop, all in shades of blue:

And a theater! A theater right on Main Street, with velvet red curtains:

Then the county newspaper. I hope it has a lot of readers:

'Cherish the simple things', says the workmanship of this black bench, in a display window full of other hand-made things:

Then we've got the beautiful, frosted cakes in Kathy's Bakery. Wow!

Ofelia's has got cloth bags and hats:

The Alleghany Jubilee was advertising a square dance, old-fashioned guitars, and a man in overalls:

Ice cream and smoothies at the Vintage Cottage!

The Alleghany Museum was not open (we were there on a Tuesday) but look at all the cool stuff they have on display:

The Little River Gallery was closed, and next to it, the little bookstore was taking down its 'Open' sign. But the lady let me go in anyways. She said I was the second person who had come in all afternoon. All their books are donated, and the staff is also all volunteers, and the proceeds go to the local library. Also, most of their books are only 50 cents. It's great. And they have old books that you don't normally see in bookstores, like The Professor by Charlotte Bronte, and The Work by Louisa May Alcott, and old childen's books about some kid called Tom Swift, and a novel called Tom Jones which I think was written maybe 300 or 400 years ago and is maybe considered the oldest novel written, at least in English. Also, I found 'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn'. This is such a beautiful book, and you really don't find it all the time any more. Plus, I found out a few years ago that the author of that book lived in Chapel Hill in her later life.

The last place I stopped in at was the Visitor's Center. My fellow travelers tried the public restrooms with much dread, but then pronounced them the cleanest bathrooms they'd seen! The Visitor's Center also has a rack with postcards, and the top three rows are all free. So you can write a note to friends and help the post office revenues all at the same time. The only problem is that as you pick out your postcards, the two people sitting at the Visitor's Center desk just stare at you the whole entire time. One of them is an Appalachian State student who proudly told us that he is interning at the Sparta Visitor Center for the summer. However, his rudeness does not recommend him for the job. And the lady sitting behind him was older, and presumedly works here all the time, so I don't know why she was practicing coldness, too. But all they did was stare, the whole time, with wide open eyes.

Sparta is one of the last towns on the North Carolina side of the border before we ventured forth into realms unknown.