Five Senses: One Worcester

A neon purple “Woosta Pizza” sign attracts customers from the streets of downtown Worcester. It catches my attention as I drive down Main Street. Walking across the street, I encounter an unpleasant concoction of odors: car oil, sewage, exhaust, and nail polish. Approaching the pizzeria’s entrance I anticipate escaping into the delicious aromas of fresh pizza ingredients.

I’m not met by the scents I was hoping to experience.

The pizza shop’s one room is narrow and long with the kitchen and the food located at the rear. Plastic ferns decorate the sides of every booth, an eclectic arrangement of pictures cover the walls from a field of daisies to a shot of Manhattan at night.

Initially, the room is odorless, but the acrid smell of a cleaning solution stings my nostrils. I cough roughly as I consume the pungent fragrance. I hustle past the cloud of contaminated air and head deeper into the room. When I finally arrive at the food counter the more desirable aromas seem to awaken and surround me. Wherever I turn the light but filling smells of oily cheeses, hot tomato sauce, and basil swirl together atop a doughy crust waft into my nostrils. I first detect the warm combination of cheese and dough and then the more distinct and sharp smell of tomato sauce leaves my nose with an after taste of pizza.

I slowly inhale, enjoying the experience and hoping the taste lives up to the smell. My nostrils experience the flavor and prepare my mouth for the taste to come.

Handed the pizza and slice of baklava, I turn and head toward the nearest booth. Heated, the aromas from the cheese, sauce, and bread radiate from the pizza even more strongly.

I munch the slice slowly and methodically, enjoying every bite. The first course is done. I move on to the baklava. Although it is a struggle to grasp a piece with my fork, once I pierce the crust a fragrance of sugar, nuts, and flaky dough rushes into the air. The sugary scent does not compare in the slightest to the richness of the dessert’s taste.

The baklava’s presence in the air takes over the now dissipated scent of the pizza. The smell of the baklava itself could fill my stomach. The mix of pizza and baklava composes a curious and memorable combination of smells from Italian and Middle Eastern cuisine.

My meal finished, I get up from the booth. With a couple of steps I exit the realm of fresh aromas and pass into the other half of the pizzeria, with its ammonia scent. Finally, I return outside and the unpleasant odors of Worcester’s streets returns. Woosta Pizza followed through on its promise that it has, “The best Pizza in Worcester,” well at least the fragrance I experienced from the food was far and away the best I had taken in all day.

Walking towards the entrance of Union Station, I turn my back on the argument between screeching car wheels and blaring horns. The heavy doors that guard the entrance slowly squeal as they close, sealing off the peaceful train station from the external noise.

A handful of weary travelers stand around the front of lobby waiting for their next form of transportation to continue on their journeys. I try to listen in on their mumbled conversations but the low drone of the heater on the back wall drowns out their voices along with the repeated taps formed by a consistent flow of fingertips pressed upon smartphones. The monotone sound created by its expulsion of warm air is calming.

The main doors cry as they open; they seem to experience pain with even the slightest push. Every sharp shriek is followed by the quickest click, click of shoes across the marble floor. Each time the door opens, the roar of the outside world briefly pierces the shroud of silence covering Union Station. Five seconds later, the doors shut; the entrance is once again protected and the internal calm restored.

The sharp howl of a whistle and the breaking of wheels signal the arrival of a new train.

A clumsily loud stomping of feet grabs the attention of the half dozen people remaining near the front doors. A hustling passenger draws the cool and damp into the station. With a repetitious shuffle of her feet and a heavy exhale, that shushes the room, the woman tries to rid herself of the miserable weather.

I pass into the hollow main room of the station, my footsteps echo throughout the space, bouncing off the walls, floor, and stained glass ceiling. Eventually, the faint bodies of noise dissipate gently into the ornate walls.

Moving up to the train platform, an anxious passenger rummages through her belongings in search of some unknown item. She begins searching through her light blue backpack. The woman frantically unzips each pocket but does not find what she is looking for. She moves onto her yellow handbag. With one accidental jerk of her hand, the lady catapults a box through the air. The wooden exterior claps sharply onto the hard floor, catching everyone’s attention similar to when a single person applauds at the wrong time. Fortunately, she soon sighs, as she locates the trinket in her coat pocket.

Outside the train roars to life, reminiscent of a lion awakening, or what I believe a lion awakening would sound like. Over the loudspeaker a series of mumbled directions, intelligible to only the experienced traveler, are uttered by the conductor. Passengers shuffle on board.

I descend the stairs from the platform the train yells goodbye with a trifecta of short toots.

Although my travel was light, involving only a brief drive around Worcester, Union Station provided a refreshing rest. The building offered shelter for my ears from the shrill of wheels, blast of horns, and grumpy snarls of frustrated travelers. Silent thought is available to all passengers in Union Station, temporarily immobile until their next train, car, or bus arrives.

Tucked away in a nearly hidden Worcester neighborhood, Higgins Armory Museum rose from the ashes like a cold steel phoenix among the surrounding abandoned buildings almost a century ago. On this particularly raw and cloudy day the building loomed over me, drained of all color. As I got closer to the entrance, I could see my own reflection in the glass windows, but like the windows of an interrogation room, I could not see through to the other side. The exterior was as fortified as the armor within.

Expecting to open the front door and enter into a medieval adventure, I was greatly mistaken. I was instead introduced into complete and utter chaos. All around me was screaming. It was February vacation week. I felt the boiling excitement of every tiny rugrat running around the lobby as well as the anxiety of every parent to keep track of their newly knighted cavalier. After paying for my ticket I summoned all my strength and shoved my jacket into an exceptionally congested coatrack, where most of the jackets were only a quarter the size of mine.

The elevators opened to the third floor with a fresh breath of air as my eyes feasted on the high soaring ceilings of the “Great Hall.” I ran my fingers along the dark honey colored stone walls. The uncanny gothic architecture could almost fool someone in its authenticity if it weren’t for its smooth stone touch, which is far too intact, and with it I was brought back in to my twenty-first century reality. The inclined massive walls reach an inverted peak at the very height of the ceiling where a tin chandelier of sorts blinds my eyes, creating the sensation of an artificial and unfavorable spotlight over the entire hall.

Cold faces shielded by metal peered out from every corner of the third floor, their eyes vacant but at my back as they stood at attention. My fingers traced over the fabric of a chain mail shirt made for an Islamic solider, with the word “Allah” pressed into every link. The blades of each sword displayed inscriptions of lost foreign languages, indented and embellished with a beautiful gold finish. The intricate designs of each sword held stories centuries old. The decorative inscriptions were depressed into the metal, forcing the gold and silver to stand apart from each other as starkly as night and day. The embossing in the handles left me wondering how many hands these swords have passed through. As the elevator hummed to my floor at the demand of the lighted button, I was welcomed into this century, leaving the timeless armor behind.

It was complete darkness in the enormous hall with the exception of a single sconce. It was lit up under the cloister-like walkways in the distance like the emergency exit of a movie theater. Bob, the executive director of Mechanics Hall started up what I imagined to be a giant lever, which would light up the entire hall, in the back room as he told me of the history of the building with immense pride.

Four massive chandeliers began to brighten one at a time, lighting the entire space. They were simple in design; each had three gold rings smaller than the next and were lined with short spokes that held a single light bulb on their ends. These four magnificent chandeliers created extraordinary warm lighting against the coffered ceilings, which were painted powder blue and cream with accents of maroon.

With the entire hall illuminated, every fine detail in the decorative molding was easy to see. All four walls of the balcony were covered with stern looking oil portraits of wrinkled and respected old men sitting above all others to enjoy the show. Above each painting was incredible detail of plaster-sculpted leaves with gilt accented painted berries. In between the ornamental architecture of the ceilings and walls were murals of golden Greek goddesses playing ancient musical instruments. On the far right wall, painted in decorative calligraphy, read the words Poetry and Prose on an open book that’s spine was intertwined with pale pink roses.

The stage was disorganized, and filled with red chairs piled in clusters facing senselessly placed music stands. There were subtle scratches on the wood where musicians had shifted in their seats from countless concerts. A brass railing and steps led to the grand organ, which overwhelmed the stage. The Corinthian columns on either side of the organ contrasted the golden pipes with shades of white like the foam of a latte or the shell of an egg. Its elegance made the wooden piano of keys, ranks, and stops below look very plain. Directly above the looming organ was the Greek mural of two women looking out with a telescope, and as I strained my neck to look up above me, I realized that the ceiling’s blue opened up the room much like a sky opens up the Earth below.

As I took my leave from the hall I noticed a wrinkle in the in the edge of the burgundy carpet that covered the entirety of the walnut hardwood floors. I crossed over the molding, down the grand staircase, and out of the silent show.

The door slammed of my sky blue Acura MDX as I quickly shuffle to the back seat to fetch my coat and notebook. My classmate Liam and I had arrived at Salisbury Mansion, a historic figure of the wealth that once resided in the rich banks of the Blackstone River.

A Front Few of the Salisbury Mansion

The house stands tall, but not nearly the expected height of a place that used to be both a residency and a market for imports. A white gate circumnavigates the property but stays open allowing customers to come and go as they please. The front of the house stretches very wide, with six windows on each floor grouped into three pairs. Above the middle windows sits a triangular roof that held a compass-shaped window placed right in the middle to keep the symmetry of the house intact. The door lives slightly off center to the right with pillars and a balcony that stretch to the second floor giving the house an added element of class. A neutral blue similar to that of the balloons typically found in nursing rooms after a boy is delivered color the walls. The path to the house is direct in its route and three stone steps lead up to the bright white welcoming door.

If you closed your eyes for a split second, you could hear the hooves of the horses approaching the mansion to pick up an order and smell the smoke ooze out of the five chimneys as Mr. Salisbury jumpstarted his business right from this home. You can smell the freshly cut timber being traded for gold or the metals and other raw materials being swapped in the simplest form of an open market economy.

What Salisbury Mansion Used To Look Like

http://www.cardcow.com/378748/old-salisbury-mansion-worcester-massachusetts/

From far away, this house seems to be well kept but as we got closer, we noticed the Salisbury Mansion had not completely passed the test of time. Centuries have passed since Stephen Salisbury Sr. first kept the house pristine for his customers in 1767. Under each window, the paint peeled and broke away from what otherwise seemed to be a timeless structure. The pillars, once perfectly crafted now felt more of tree bark with cracks and crevices from aging than the ancient symbol of wealth that they represented. The windows had been boarded up and unfortunately; the mansion itself was closed on this day.

So after a few minutes of deciding whether or not to pick a new spot of research, I decided the fact that this building was closed completely exemplified what Salisbury Mansion stood for in today’s society. The Salisbury Mansion, the one time epitome of wealth in Worcester was now only open as a museum on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays from 1-4 PM.

How Time Has Changed The Mansion

This building lost its status as a symbol of wealth as the production along the Blackstone River seized to a stop. However, its beauty in simplicity gives it a comforting feel as one studies its classy physique. The house sits large yet functional, not trying to accomplish too much and staying true to the simple design of traditional New England housing. This estate once reeked of wealth and fortune, just as Worcester once did as well. But the prosperity that it once saw is now very much in the rear view mirror. The city, like this house, needs something to give it purpose again, an industry that can help change the town just as the Salisbury’s did during Worcester’s prime. Maybe one day, the Salisbury Mansion will be a hotbed for industry as it once was, but for now the beauty of the house itself and its rich history are all we can gain from its presence.

Outside Look of the Top Dollar Plus

It was Tuesday afternoon at around four o’clock when my classmate Liam and I decided to embark on a journey to Worcester to find the hidden glory that rests beneath the Holy Cross campus. We both had a few destinations we could choose from, but this idea did not intrigue either of us after we started into the second largest city in New England. We were on search for places in Worcester that represented the past glory of this industrial town, but we both decided we wanted to know what Worcester looked like now.

So we took a few turns that the navigation system did not agree with and ended up on a side street close to the Hanover Theatre. Here, we encountered a store blessed with the brightest neon lights I’ve ever seen. Rectangular display windows highlighted a curious collection of items that ranged from suitcases to toilet brushes.

TOP DOLLAR PLUS read the sign above the door and here we knew we could find a true Worcester experience.

Gizmos and Items of All Different Kinds

RING-A-LING! The Door produces a patented bell sound found when opening almost any small business in the United States today. The room smacks its guest with a multi-faceted smell shifting and evolving as the customer navigates through its different sections. The price tags are all scribbled on under the item, but they all average at around what you would expect from this store. A dollar. There’s a plethora of items that looked like they could live in a garage. Wrenches, locks, screws, hammers, gloves, pliers, any sort of handyman gear that didn’t make it to Ace or Home Depot found its way here. There was travel equipment that hadn’t moved for decades and housing supplies that never lived up to their first name. Polo shirts without the logo were being sold for five dollars and pants of all different kinds stood motionless on the walls as they never quite fit the right set of legs.

Circa 1986

The walls held calculators crafted before I was born and items that just never seemed necessary but would be useful in a very specific situation. Almost every item that the late, great Billy Mays advertised from 2 to 6 AM every day found a home in this store. (Billy would roll over in his grave if he knew they were all being sold for a price much lower than $19.99 plus shipping and handling as well.) No other customers strolled in beside a father and daughter who quickly found what they were looking for, kept their heads down while paying and exited before the ring had stopped from their entrance.

After the owner had given us a few too many curious looks as to why I was taking notes on his store, Liam and I decided to return to our car and head on our way. This store was a curious collection of items and gadgets that somehow grouped together to find a common theme a lot like the city of Worcester. The common goal of this city is not well established, but all the different pieces seem to weave together like this store does and find a formula that goes through its ups and downs but keeps helping people find their way in the world.

Being born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, Coney Island has been a popular day trip for my family and I.  Whether it was going to play arcade games, taking a ride on the Cyclone, or going to the beach, each trip had one thing in common: a trip to the original Nathan’s for some hot dogs.  So after I heard about Coney Island Hot Dogs here in Worcester I was intrigued to say the least.  Could a Coney Island delicacy really be imitated outside Coney Island?  I am going to find out.

I wait in the long line filled with customers waiting to get their lunch.  Not sure of what I should get, I see a sign that says, “try our Coney Island Dog” and it convinces me.  I’ll get one Coney Island dog and one hotdog with mustard, my favorite.  The line moves quickly and before I know it Shirley, the old waitress with short blond hair and a black, half tucked in collared shirt with the Coney Island Hot Dog emblem on it asks for my order.  I tell her and she walks over to the grill where the steaming hotdogs have just been placed into the lightly toasted buns.  She slops mustard on one and mustard, onions, and chili on the other.  I pay and proceed to sit in an old wooden booth that has generations of etchings marked into it and a chipped red tabletop that looks like it has not been changed since Coney Island Hot Dogs opened in 1918.  The place is a little run down, but so is Coney Island.  I like that.

Now comes the moment of truth: eating the hot dogs and seeing if they live up to their expectation.  I take a look at the hot dogs and notice that they look slimmer than the plump hotdogs I’m used to.  Now hesitant, I close my eyes, zone out all of my other senses, and take my first bite into the Coney Island Dog.  I guess the saying “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog” really is true as the first bite is an explosion of flavor across my taste buds.  The texture of the crispy bun and the texture of the steaming hotdog juxtapose each other like meat and potatoes of a shepherd’s pie and give off a salty, meaty taste.  The mustard, onion, and chili add a spicy kick to the Coney Island Dog, which sends sensations like fire burning across my tongue.  I then take a bite of my hot dog with mustard.  The most perfect combination of a salty-spicy delight brings back memories: the feeling of digging your feet in the hot sand, taking your last breath before the Cyclone plunges down, winning a prize on the boardwalk.  As I chow down the rest of my hot dogs I reminisce about summers spent at Coney Island.  With a smile on my face I bring my tray to the counter, say goodbye to my waitress, and walk out.  I’m not sure if my next hot dog will come from Coney Island Hot Dogs in Worcester or the Nathans’s in Coney Island, but that is okay with me.

The Heywood Boot and Shoe Company factory is not what it used to be.  During the late 19^th century and early 20^th century stood a brick building that housed a vibrant and bustling factory that produced hundreds of upscale boots and shoes a day. Now all that stands on is a quiet five-story building that houses a few small businesses.  The brick on the lower part of the factory is pink and rundown.  The mortar between each brick is slowly chipping away and the bricks are wearing out.  This starkly contrasts the clean red bricks of the upper stories of the building.  The red bricks of the upper stories are neatly stacked and look like they may have been added just yesterday.

*The first picture is of the Heywood Boot and Shoe Co. Factory in 1879.  The second picture is what the former factory building looks like now.*

Where the pink and red bricks meet is a disappearing, painted sign that is barely visible.  When looked closely at, I can make out the letters and realize what it spells: Heywood Boot and Shoe Co.  That sign is the only one left on the building that indicates it’s past.  Now the flat signs of the Go Bare Spa, Evolve Haircuts, and Infodiligo hang lifelessly on the brick.  The windows of the building, too, appear tired.  The windows, the sad eyes of the building, allow passersby to peer into the building and see it’s empty soul.  None of the windows even give a hint that there could be people stirring inside them.  The windows at the ground level are boarded up with tan plywood and gated with a red metallic material that crisscrosses and is slightly brighter than the rundown pink bricks.  Half of these windows are broken and the jagged pieces of many windows remain next to them.  One window, slightly above the ground level windows, shows a boarded up room with a garbage pail and yellow mop bucket.  The lifelessness of the building gives off a sad yet eerie feeling.  It’s so cold. So empty.  So alone.

As I turn around and take a closer look at the other buildings that surround the old Heywood Boot and Shoe Company factory I realize one thing: all the other buildings around here are just as dead and lifeless as this one.  Chipped brick buildings, broken windows, and rusted gates compose this dreary landscape.  The whole area is empty and it is not until I have been exploring the area for fifteen minutes that I finally encounter a Worcesterite.  He walks into a nearby parking lot down the block, gets in his car, and drives off.  The Heywood Boot and Shoe Company factory does not appear to have many visitors anymore, and this one is taking the shoes he’s in and walking home.

*This picture shows the view from across the street of the building.*

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