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.

Welcome to Holy Cross Blogs. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!