Real Hartford

Pearls

Monday-Monday is a weekly gathering/party hosted by the Pearl Street League at TheaterWorks (233 Pearl Street), mainly for downtown residents, though they haven’t thrown me out yet. It’s free, as is the wine and cheese provided by Bin 228. Each week they focus attention on a few individuals who might be doing something in Hartford. Last night was a bloggers night.

As pictured, Helder Mira, Sam McKinniss, Kerri Provost (me), and Amy Bergquist were asked a few questions. Continue reading Pearls…

Go Where Eagles Dare

I have this theory that the people who hate on Hartford are not much different from those who claim to be bored-to-death with either their hometowns or the state of Connecticut in general. Growing up, I did not go to summer camp, nor did I have a whole lot of other structured activities. Inspired by the books of Laura Ingalls Wilder and various survival guides, I became obsessed with building forts with my brother out in the woods when we were not doing chores like hauling brush. I am proud to not have had an ultra-scheduled childhood of going from soccer game to gymnastics practice to SAT tutoring, or whatever it is so many kids have to endure. It forced me to be creative without an adult telling me how to use my time. As an adult, I find it fairly easy to find relaxation and entertainment, whether I am at home in Hartford, visiting New York or Boston, or traveling through less developed areas

My summer has been highlighted by day trips here and there, because of work and money, and also because I take my “actual vacation” to Provincetown in October every year. In June, I went to Boston with a friend to celebrate my birthday (which I’d been dreading for months previously) at Fenway. It’s now an official tradition . Whenever I go to a Red Sox game for my birthday, they lose, miserably. It was a shut-out and my favorite player—Mike Lowell—had two errors in the game. That should tell you how bad it was. We stayed at a family member’s house just outside the city. The next day we meant to explore Boston, but it was (or felt like) the hottest day of the year, and in the interest of not dying from heat exhaustion, we ended our wanderings early. Thankfully, there was a train that we could jump on from Coolidge Corner, rather than walk all the way back to the South Station. Imagine that—reliable, inexpensive, and non-confusing transportation! If you have not seen it, this train runs down the middle of the road. Before succumbing to the heat (we were sweating while sitting still, in the shade!), we went into a Russian bookstore. I assumed it would be some books in Russian and the rest just about Russia. I was so wrong! There was nothing there that I could read, and everyone in the shop was speaking Russian. I was thrilled, but was secretly hoping nobody would try to talk to me. That I can’t instantly speak twelve languages has always been such a disappointment to me. The owner of a pizza shop my family patronized regularly while I was growing up could speak and read six languages! He always had a few different newspapers out for diners to look through, including one that was either Greek or Turkish! I have raging jealousy of people who are fluent in more than one language. I can only decipher Spanish, and it is a slow process for me, and probably painful for Spanish-speakers to witness.

If I ever leave Hartford, it will be for Alaska or Boston. You can quote me on that.

My other exit from Connecticut was a day at Continue reading Go Where Eagles Dare…

On Main Street

The environments that I work in and many of the people I encounter daily are vastly different from those I grew up in and around. I am most comfortable in situations that are disorganized and without pretense. The people who(m) I am most accustomed to are rough– they curse unapologetically, don’t even own dress shirts, drink beer from a can, speak directly, and have dirt/grease/oil staining their hands (not just under fingernails). I take a lot of pride in knowing that this is my background; I frequently I feel like a visitor in the professional world, like I could be sent away at any time for breaking social norms that I was not even aware of.

I habitually walk in places that I’m not supposed to. It’s unintentional. Growing up, I was allowed in boiler rooms, construction sites, and other potentially dangerous places because those were the job sites for my family and relatives. It’s instilled in me to watch for nails, look to see if I’m going to walk straight into boards at eye-level, and to keep my hands away from circular saws (”you don’t want to get your hand cut off. want someone else to have to do everything for you for the rest of your life?” -mom). When I walk around downtown during the week and see people-in-suits dodging uneven sidewalk or staying extreme distances from construction areas, I wonder if among them, there are any like me who feel more at home with sawdust and paint than with clip-on corporate ID tags and business lunches.

Yesterday, I walked through an area (that I was allowed to be in) where workers were dismantling scaffolding. At one point, chunks of concrete went flying down onto the sidewalk below. Immediately, a couple workers yelled to the others to “take it easy” and “watch it.” I received numerous apologies from four or five of the workers, even though nothing hit me and I was not jumpy or annoyed. I wished that there had been others around to hear the concern coming from men typically portrayed as uncaring and lewd.

A Permanent Staycation (insert groans here)

For some people (me), the concept of not traveling far is a familiar one. I like to travel, to see the world (Alaska); I also like to have a roof over my head, especially when the weather gets colder. Rather than switch into a soul-sucking career that I’d hate (think anything finance or insurance related, or anything involving a dress code), I do fulfilling and intellectually challenging work which, incidentally, doesn’t pay enough for a single person to be jetting off to Borneo every six months. Fortunately, I can be amused, entertained, and awed just about anywhere.

On Friday, I traipsed through Cedar Hill Cemetery in the South End of Hartford.

Continue reading A Permanent Staycation (insert groans here)…

Shorthand of the Law: Return of the Arrest Code

Previously, we took a glance at the Hartford Police Department’s daily arrest record. It’s only fair to be upfront about Hartford’s crime problem. Here are descriptions of recent crimes in the capitol city, along with explanations and questions for further consideration.

SALE GUNS TO ALIENS Admittedly, Hartford has one fierce alien problem. They walk among us, blending in. Many of them appear in suits and ties downtown. There are a few tricks to discerning alien lifeforms. For instance, they tend to drive in the wrong lane, consistently, despite “working” (if being in a cubicle deciphering code to send back to the home planet while on the clock is work) here Monday through Friday. Sometimes, you will see women wearing dresses or skirts–99% of the time, not form-fitting–paired with sneakers. If you encounter what could be an alien, it’s best to not engage in conversation, as prattling on about stock options and IRAs is their secret way of sucking out your soul. Move along, and report them to one of the Hartford Ambassadors. Continue reading Shorthand of the Law: Return of the Arrest Code…