If you live near me have ever chanced upon the Norumbega Tower (on the road of the same name) in Weston, Mass., you’d probably be scratching your head after reading the plaque at its base. It would have you believe that Leif Ericson and other Viking bigwigs established near that spot both a fort and a city of many thousands, at least enough to support the several industries it mentions. The plaque claims that this was the epicenter of the true Vinland, a veritable empire that stretched from present day Rhode Island to the St. Lawrence River! As opposed to say, the established-science location of a tiny patch of land in Newfoundland.
The tower was built in 1889 by Eben Norton Norsford, a guy who made his fortune by refining the manufacture of baking powder. But the dude must have been getting “baked” on something else to believe all that. He may have been the original “I did my own research” guy. Back then, he wrote a “seemingly endless series of books and articles” (Wikipedia) on the subject and built the tower to look down on the location of the alleged settlement (a lake-like section of the Charles River also bordered by present-day Newton and Waltham).
View of the Charles River from the top of Norumbega Tower.
Thing is, Norsford didn’t bother to back up these claims with anything as small-minded as archaeological proof. He just made it all up. He may likely not have believed it himself. In the late 19th century it was not uncommon to have an ulterior motive in trying to establish that America was founded not by swarthy Mediterranean (and Catholic) types like Columbus and Vespucci but by “whiter” Northern Europeans. This at a time of mass immigration from places like Italy.
Norumbega Tower is not the only monument in the annals of false-Viking claims. The Newport Tower in Rhode Island is another well-known example and hoaxes have reached as far away as Minnesota and Oklahoma.
But unlike the wholesale falsehoods and plying of racial grievances being perpetuated in the post-MAGA era, the lack of evidence apparently meant something back then and Norsford’s tall tales were soon discredited. And he did have a good side as well. He was an early supporter of higher education for women—a benefactor of Wellesley College—and built the first public library on Shelter Island in New York City, later Welfare Island and now Roosevelt Island.
On my most recent visit, the padlock that is usually on the door had been removed and you’re free to walk up to the top of the tower. It is just a hop and skip off the Weston interchange of Interstate 90 (Mass. Pike), so aficionados of the “Old, Weird America” should check it out if in the area. It is mostly free of graffiti (a blessing nowadays) so the “Cool History” tagging, pointing to the plaque, is esp. galling to me. Whoever did that must be a fan of the “History” Channel, which now regularly peddles junk theories about “Ancient Aliens” and such. But more on that in the next installment of “Placeology.”
The places we walk through or drive past, the sites we visit or that simply fall into our frame of vision, all have a heritage and inner spirit of their own. Even in our familiar everyday world, we are often just steps away from some location rich in hidden history and forgotten associations.
The ideational term “psychogeography” refers to the attainment of deep connections with man-made environments, usually by way of unplanned walks thru cities. It has been described as a “charmingly vague” practice by no less a man the French Situationist philosopher Guy Debord, who coined the phrase himself in 1953. It can also be seen as a more risk-averse cousin of today’s urban explorer subculture, which I’ve written about many times in this blog.
The preserved archway frame of Pier 54, where survivors of the Titanic disembarked from the Carpathia, now serves as the south entrance to New York’s Little Island.
But there is also a very practical side to psychogeography, that would do us all good to be aware of. The theory goes that the distractions and pressures of modern society have caused people to become disconnected from the public realm, leaving the one-percenters to run roughshod over the greater public interest. Understanding and appreciating our common built heritage can lead to thoughtful historic preservation and the design of more livable cities thru greater community involvement.
Winter’s bare trees reveal the vestigial facade of a paternalistic institution on Hawkins Street in Boston.
So while coming to understand the effects of the built environment can lead to a greater good, psychogeography can be both a passive pleasure or a wildcat experience. It’s something almost everyone has experienced, whether consciously or not. It can be the satisfaction of finding a great hole-in-the-wall eatery or tucked-away antique store because you wandered away from a usual walking route. It could mean tiptoeing into an off-limits but unguarded location to do a photo session with friends or discovering a fascinating historical vestige steps away from a throng of selfie-taking tourists, as in my photo below.
This statue of Ethel Barrymore, and of two other former stage icons, evoke an earlier era of Broadway, just a few feet away from the back of a gigantic electronic billboard in Times Square.
In his 2006 book “Psychogeography,” writer Merlin Coverley, traces this concept back to its immediate roots: French Marxists and Situationists. But he also vividly digs back to an earlier era and the “urban gothic” stylings of authors like Charles Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson, showing how their “obsessive drifting (yielded) new insights.” Poe’s 1840 story “The Man of the Crowd” is perhaps the first examination of the mysteries and perplexities of the modern teeming metropolis. In “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Stevenson shows not only the duality of man’s nature but the stark dichotomy of the different parts of London his split protagonist inhabits. Dickens was a famously keen observer of the same city (often engaging in all-night walks) and had the fame and power to influence social reforms in the darker aspects of the city he witnessed, the exploitation of children, the workhouses, slum conditions etc.
I stumbled on this Dickens landmark during a London walkabout in 1994.
It’s Baudelaire, quoted by Cloverley, who has the most telling description of the psychogeographer, which has as its alpha the Parisian flaneur (or boulevardier). “For the perfect flaneur it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude… to be away from home and yet to find oneself everywhere at home… to be at the center of the world and yet remain hidden from the world.”
Sounds cool, yes? So try some psychogeography yourself. Put away the GPS and get to know your town. Stick up for livable cities and against gentrification. Patronize independent small businesses out of the way points of interest. Lastly, LOOK UP to see what I call the Museum of the Street, and see what those who came before built before us and begin to feel “everywhere at home.”
All photos and text by Rick Ouellette. More info on my “Placeology” photo series coming soon!
If you ever want to get one of those definitive telephoto pictures of American car culture run amok, there are few places better to trip the shutter than Breezewood, Pennsylvania. Located in the southern central part of the Keystone State, it’s a notorious “choke point” where Interstate 70, the Pennsylvania Turnpike (I-76) and the historic Lincoln Highway (Rte. 30) all meet, sort of.
Breezewood, where the Interstate is also a street.
Because of some arcane law that once proclaimed I-70 could not directly connect to the tolled Turnpike, the Interstate shares a one-mile connector with Rte. 30. This corridor is a densely packed jumble of gas station/convenience stores, fast food joints, chain hotels—all announcing themselves with signs that can reach up to about 70 feet high. There are also two truck washes and plenty of room to park your rig after tear-assing your way thru the six-lane main drag, which seems to be a local sport.
Yes, it’s all very uber-American in a way. There may be no better a democratic leveler than the free breakfast room at the Holiday Inn Express or being in line behind a couple of hunters at Sheetz, the ubiquitous convenience store/coffee shop round these parts. But just beyond the narrow limits of unincorporated Breezewood, it’s a different story. My hotel room had a view of a picturesque farm. And if you head due east, you’ll be driving down the historic and scenic Lincoln Highway as soon as you clear the hill at the end of the strip.
But just before you do, there’s a rutted dirt parking lot next to a paved path you can walk up on. If you do, you’ll be entering one of the state’s strangest and most intriguing points of interest, the Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Surrender all hope ye who enter….
The Turnpike opened in 1940 and was an engineering marvel at the time, and a precursor to the massive American Interstate system that followed. But by 1968, car culture had long expanded and so had the Pike, except for this 13-mile stretch. It was logistically too difficult to widen it here and was re-routed. It is now an accessible (but unmaintained and unmonitored) public walking and biking trail.
As a devoted (but not hardcore) member of the urban exploring subculture, I had long wanted to visit the APT. I got my first chance a few springtimes ago. I was on foot, and it was almost two miles from the Breezewood parking area to the first of the two tunnels on the trail. The way to Ray’s Hill Tunnel is a bit eerie, and evocative of an age of simpler automobiles and slower driving speeds. It presents as four rather narrow lanes but drops down to two at the tunnel. It was cool to see one of the turnpike’s original scalloped tunnels, not matter how defaced it is with graffiti.
Along with the taggers, curiosity-seekers and photographers, the APT has attracted at least one major film production. The 2009 screen adaptation of the Cormac McCarthy novel “The Road” takes place in the wake of an undefined extinction event (Apocalypse How?) and has many scenes filmed there.
Vito Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee in “The Road.”
It’s curious how highways are such ideal settings for post-apocalypse movies. “The Road” does not feature the fiendishly modified vehicles tearing down outback highways like in the “Mad Max/Road Warrior” series. Things are even worse here, and a key scene is the confrontation between Vito’s protagonist and a wandering member of a violent cannibal gang when the group’s ragtag truck stalls out after emerging from the grim interior of Ray’s Hill Tunnel.
On my second visit to Abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike last fall, I had my new foldable Zizzo Bike and was ready to explore a bigger chunk of the ruined roadway. After pedaling past the strollers and the Goth kids doing Instagram pics at the mouth of the forbidding tunnel, I sailed thru the underpass with a big assist from a nifty little head lamp I bought for the occasion. On the other side, the atmosphere became more desolate in a hurry.
The far end of Ray’s Hill Tunnel.
Surely, not as desolate as the scenario in “The Road,” where the populace seems divided between killer cannibal gangs and those who retain the minimum standards of civilization, hoping to reach a promised safe haven once they follow the bleak highway all the way to the coast. Still, it is interesting to note that central Pennsylvania is on a sort of political fault line. The more liberal (blue) eastern part of the state can stand in stark contrast to the western hinterlands, where people have been warned to not even have a Joe Biden bumper sticker on their car to guard against reprisals from a hard-core MAGA constituency.
In the book “Divided Highways: Building the Interstate Highways, Transforming American Life,” author Tom Lewis details the passing of the massive legislation that authorized this epic road-building program was initiated by Republican President Dwight Eisenhower and eventually approved by a Democratic-controlled Congress—in an election year, no less! A transcontinental public-benefitting triumph that would “bind the nation.” It would hard to imagine an accomplishment (or agreement) like that with the toxically divided Washington of today.
It was twilight time as I reached the lonely halfway section of the APT (see above), and with little time to make the whole route before dark, I turned the Zizzo back towards the parking lot. Riding into the gloaming is enough to make you conjure your own dystopia—the kind where cars are all but obsolete and the world is hard under the heel of ecocide and/or a disastrous civil conflict.
The next morning I was in the better disposition as I checked out of the Holiday Inn, and said good-bye for now to Breezewood, the Las Vegas of service areas. I hope I can get back again to bike the whole ghostly trail. I topped the hill and drove into the immediate rural area on the Lincoln Highway, the road that kicked off America’s Highway Century (it opened in 1913). But that vague dystopic notion from the twilight of the previous day reentered my head when I thought of the next stop on my road trip: the Gettysburg national park.
Text and all photos by Rick Ouellette, except “The Road” film still and the circa 1940 postcard.
The Portsmouth Naval Prison is located on Seavey Island in New Hampshire. Dark, forebidding, isolated and pointedly medieval, it served as a max security jail for the U.S. Navy from 1905 to 1974. At its peak around World War II, the capacity of the prison (nicknamed “The Fortress”) was 3,008 inmates.
“Impregnable” would be another word for it. To escape this so-called “Alcatraz of the East” (assuming you made it out of building) you’d have to get past the guardhouse on the bridge to the mainland base or make an unlikely swim across the notoriously turbulent currents of the Piscataqua River just east of the cold Atlantic.
But perhaps more interesting is the question, why did the Navy need such an enormous prison? Turns out that around the time of max capacity in the Forties, as much as 40% of the inmates in this brig were in there for sodomy-related offenses. Yikes! This was enough for the top brass, even way back then, to reconsider their policy on homosexuality in the ranks. But it was still decades before even “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and reform likely meant a discharge instead of a lengthy stay in this hellish jail.
The Portsmouth Naval Prison has been closed now for fifty years, but you can’t visit it. Unlike the similarly decommissioned Alcatraz, sitting out there in the middle of San Francisco Bay, you’d have to pass thru the active Naval Shipyard to get there. Too bad, as it would probably be a great tourist attraction for historic and hip Portsmouth, just as the fascinating Eastern States Penitentiary has in central Philadelphia. Oh well. You can still get a good view of it from Route 1B going from Portsmouth to the seaside village of New Castle. Nearby is Fort Stark and Ordiorne State Park, both featuring the remains of giant gun batteries and other WW2 ruins. That could be another entry for this new series, where I will review many of the interesting places, famous or obscure, that I have photographed.
About “Placeology”
The places we walk through or drive past, the sites we visit or that simply fall into our frame of vision, all have a heritage and inner spirit of their own. Even in our familiar everyday world, we are often just steps away from some location rich in hidden history and forgotten associations. Through this “Placeology” photo series, I will strive to give fresh agency to locales both grand and humble, uplifting and foreboding. More coming soon!
Remains of World War 2 gun emplacement. Battery Seaman, Rye NH
Reel and Rock 