What We Found at the Centers (Part III)
New York (1st pass)
To get from New Jersey to Connecticut, we had to pass through New York state and cross the Hudson River. Not all bridges across the Hudson allow bikes, so we had essentially two choices: cross in the New York City area (the shortcut), or go all the way up to the Bear Mountain Bridge (the scenic route). Since we would already be spending a week in New York City at the conclusion of the first leg of our journey, we chose the scenic route.
Our first night into New York took us through the village of Tuxedo, where we made a stop at the public library. Here we met the pony-tailed driver of a car that we’d seen several times during the day’s ride (a red VW convertible with a U.S. flag flying from the bumper). His name was Brian Cullen, and after a bit of chatting he invited us to come stay at his homemade geodesic dome home that evening. “You gotta come see the dome, man! I built it for you,” he cajoled in a breathy, the-sixites-never-died voice.
Upon arriving at his house, he gave us cold drinks then commenced a thorough tour of the place. The wall of the lower level was a huge circle built of cordwood. The gaps had been filled with bottles, plaster, oddly-proportioned windows, and random objects (a hammer, a stone declaring “New Program Guarantees Life Till End”). Set atop this wall was the geodesic dome, which enclosed the second floor and sleeping lofts. Triangular windows comprised the south face of the dome, with a massive expanse of sailcloth draped on top to prevent overheating in the summer months. Inside, the ambiance was rustic and distinctly homemade. Everything in sight had been built by Brian’s two hands: the stairs, the stone fireplace, the kitchen cabinets, bookcases. In several places, walls were painted white and then used as giant notepads to post interesting pictures, to write philosophical musings (“The only difference between a rut and a grave is depth”), or record lists of favorite books, movies, etc.
Years ago I got on a kick of looking at pictures of “art cars” on the internet—vehicles that the owner had chosen to ultra-customize in the wildest ways. There were cars plastered with bottle caps or cameras, cars covered with live grass, cars converted into giant drivable chickens. I never quite understood why those cars had intrigued me, but here in Tuxedo, New York, I finally got it. The thing about those cars that had fascinated me was the same thing about Brian’s house that I found so interesting: this home had not only been created by Brian, but it had also been created for Brian. Neither resale value nor others’ opinions were considerations its creation—only the needs, whims, and artistic expressions of one person: its owner. The freedom found in owning your possessions instead of them owning you and the courage to create rather than merely consume are traits that I admire.
Throughout the course of the evening’s hours of conversation, we learned that Brian was an eccentric not only in his home, but in his career as well. During his decades as a high school science teacher, he had been censured numerous times by administrators for his hands-on, inquisitive teaching style. Examples include taking students up in a private plane and diving towards the ground to do experiments in microgravity (a la the “Vomit Comet”), and bringing a roadkill possum to teach about the respiratory system by inflating its lungs via a straw. Brian had also written several books about his battles with local administrators and fought his case as high as the Supreme Court. He was a unique and uncompromising man, to be sure.
The next morning, Brian fixed us “Eggs Dome” before we set off on a beautiful ride through Harriman State Park. The stretch on Seven Lakes Drive was one of the most perfect of our trip so far: almost no traffic, gentle grades, spectacular scenery, and mild weather. After crossing the Bear Mountain Bridge, we headed east through Peekskill and ended the day in Katonah. Here we were hosted on incredibly short notice by Warm Showers List member Alan Cole. The town of Katonah is the hometown of two notable celebrities: the beloved Billy Collins (a former Poet Laureate who gives regular readings at the town’s tiny library), and the not-so-beloved Martha Steward (style maven and ex-con, who tried to usurp the town’s name by trademarking it for a line of furniture). We didn’t meet either of the town’s (in)famous residents, but Alan Cole was a world-class host and we didn’t miss them at all.
Connecticut
While riding through New Jersey and New York, the people we met (save for those fellow cyclists who kindly hosted us) had been noticeably less warm. We worried that this coolness would carry on throughout the Northeast, but as we crossed into Connecticut, an abrupt change occurred. People were friendly again! Every time we stopped—at convenience stores, stop lights, or diners—a friendly banter with passers-by would ensue.
We pedaled past palatial estates on the rolling, forest-lined back-roads of inland western Connecticut, then down to the bustling, plebian coast. We were surprised at this reversal of stereotypes: instead of backwoods hillbillies and waterfront mansion-owners, the wealthy of Connecticut have retreated to the hills, abandoning the coastline to strip malls and industrial parks while the formerly grand port cities slowly decayed.
We spent our first evening in Connecticut in New Haven with some welcoming seminary students in a student ghetto near the Yale campus. I was here again surprised by Connecticut. Universities typically seem to impart an elegant and cosmopolitan aura to the town that hosts it; yet instead of the picture-perfect boulevards and tidy university shops we’d seen in Princeton, New Haven seemed to be, well, a slum. Despite the prolific good intentions of the early Connecticut nomenclators (surrounding New Haven are North Haven, East Haven, West Haven, and Fair Haven), the area did not feel like a haven of any sort. We had expected the college quads to be filled with barefoot coeds tossing a Frisbee surrounded by budding intellectuals reading under trees. Instead, the greens were traversed by homeless people pushing their rickety shopping carts. Yet after our initial shock, we came to see this as, oddly enough, a good thing. Yale was not an ivy-clad fortress where the elite came to escape the messy reality of the proletariat; it was a world-class institution set in a complex, problem-filled city where the classroom is not isolated from, but rather surrounded by, the difficult realities of the inner city.
The following day, we pedaled back inland and spent an afternoon wandering around quaint Middletown, with its thriving Main Street, its grand public library, and one of the most friendly and helpful bike shops we’ve come across yet: Pedal Power. Despite its name, Middletown did not contain the geographic center of Connecticut: our GPS pointed us eight miles to the northwest, to a town called Berlin (accent the first syllable: rhymes with “Merlin” the magician).
Here in Berlin we had an encounter that perfectly demonstrates a process we often experience while bike touring: a stranger slowly becoming a new friend as his initial misgivings melt away through time and conversation.
Our search unfolded like it had numerous times before: GPS in hand, we narrowed our hunt down to one house, then paused to summon the resolve to overcome our apprehensions about the awkward interaction to come. Fortunately, a man standing in the driveway of the anointed house saw us ride up (it seems to ease the initial interaction when someone sees us pedal up on the bike). We smiled, dismounted the bike, and Laura broke the ice, “Hey, are you the one in charge around here?”
“No, it’s my son’s house—he’s the one that just pulled out.”
“Aww, that’s too bad, but maybe you can still help us,” Laura replied. We made introductions (his name was Chris Ayala), then explained our quest and the significance of this property. Chris slowly nodded, then proceeded to pepper us with questions that felt a bit more like suspicious fact-checking than curious interest. As he listened to us speak with ease and familiarity about our journey, he palpably softened and began to open up about himself. A former employee of the local electric company, he had taken up photography in his retirement and was now a paid videographer for local high school athletics.
“Well let me go get my camera, and we’ll head out back and see where the center is,” he said. Reemerging with a professional-looking SLR, he walked us around back where we were met by his other son Christian. Wearing a black shirt with sleeves cut off and adorned with a goatee, large tattoos and “plugs” (ear-stretching cylinders in his earlobes), Christian would at first glance strike most as rough character. Instead, he was immensely congenial and well-spoken—we liked him immediately. Amid our hunt for the center, we learned that Christian was studying art education in college, planning to be a teacher someday. Laura and he bonded in their chosen profession, while Aaron tramped off into the over grown right-of-way beneath towering power lines behind their back yard. The center lay just beyond their property at the foot of a giant wooden power pole, and we all gathered for a picture in their backyard with these power lines as a backdrop.
We continued chatting as we made our way back to the front of the house. Our conversation had by this point become markedly warm and amiable, despite the rocky start. Chris even sheepishly confessed, “You know, this really is my house. I just said it was my son’s because I didn’t know what you were up to. You just don’t know with people these days.” Yet the nature of our quest had forced us to interact for long enough that we broke through this cynicism and befriended yet another stranger.
“Well, is there anything we can do to help you guys?” Chris asked. Christian added enthusiastically, “Yeah, anything at all—we’d love to.”
“Actually, there is one thing…” I replied. “Do you think we might be able to pitch our tent in your yard tonight? It’s getting late and we don’t really have a place lined up.” I had felt confident that our report by this point was sufficient to make this vulnerable request, yet the silence that followed made me question this judgment.
“Your call, pops,” Christian finally said.
“I’ll go talk with your mom,” Chris declared and headed inside. Soon thereafter, Patty emerged and became the third Ayala to make our acquaintance. We learned that Patty was a cancer survivor and worked long shifts at a local grocery store, yet her demeanor was friendly and upbeat. After a few minutes of chatting, she welcomed us to pitch our tent and even join them for the dinner she was preparing.
Hours of chatting, a pile of pasta meatballs, and a bottle of wine later, we felt as though we were dining with family. By the time we made our way to the tent for the night, Chris had provided us with hot showers and was persistently asking if we were sure that we wouldn’t be more comfortable sleeping inside. We insisted that we were perfectly happy with our tent, and when we awoke the next morning, Chris had a box of donuts and hot coffee waiting for us. Over breakfast, Christian presented us with a pair of bracelets that he had hand-made for us late last night, intended to bring us good fortune on our travels.
By the time we had loaded the bike, we were finding it difficult to get away—both because of the bond we had built with the Ayalas, as well as Chris’s continual attempts to find one more way to help us. We were once again amazed at the transformation we had experienced in less than twenty-four hours. Having begun trepidatiously on the edge of this same driveway with Chris concealing his identity as owner of the house, we now were embracing our kind hosts, finding it difficult to leave.
This website chronicles the adventures of 
You know, I REALLY just stumbled into this when I was reading an article. And then I was like “this sounds like something I’d want to do!” Then I was like “I know these people!!!”
Very, very cool. Hope you’re still safe and having a blast. My favorite story so far is Indiana…
Downtown New Haven may not be a leafy suburb filled exclusively with white people, but it is the place of choice for 18-35 year olds in Connecticut. New Haven has more 25-34 year olds than any other town in CT by a huge margin, and it also is the most bikeable major city in the Northeast, in terms of the % of the population that commutes to work via bicycle.
There are now hundreds of upscale New York Times-five-star-rated restaurants, bars, clubs, jazz halls, etc., lining the streets, with $3500/month luxury apartments above. Guess you missed them while you were there… probably because graduate students tend to be from the leafy Princeton-like suburbs and have a skewed sense of reality.
By the way, homeless people tend to gather in the most vibrant and safest parts of any metropolitan area — Midtown Manhattan, Harvard Square, downtown Austin, San Francisco, etc. are all examples of this. New Haven is the equivalent. Homeless people don’t want to have to wander the suburbs or outskirts of town where they would just get beat up.