Jersey City seemed to have been built overnight. The brand new apartment complexes, which lined the meticulously planned streets as far as the eye could see, did not have one window pane, nor one door, nor one roof which could be found to be, even by the most vigilant observer, any older than any other window pane, door, or roof. It was as if they had hired–literally– a million construction workers, gave them all a tiny piece to the puzzle, told them to stand in formations based on the blueprints, and then one day at midnight: BOOM! A City!
It was a city without history or, at-least, had done a damn good job of eradicating whatever history it might have had…once. Of course, there was still a whiff of something strewn throughout this perch on the Hudson. The Apartment buildings all had strange names: ‘Jersey Light’, ‘Bergen Cream’, ‘Hudson Tea’. Or the Restaurants: ‘Chemical’, ‘The Leathery’, and the most mysteriously named eatery (and the trendiest): ‘Factory Fire’–the latter being built over the memorial for the workers killed in it’s namesake. Because what the city’s residents–most being even newer here then their apartments–didn’t know and, probably didn’t care to know, was that the city had once, with blood and sweat, for better and/or worse, produced things. It didn’t produce much these days except a view of the sunset over the New York skyline which, if you make it home in time from your job in that same city, I’m told could be quite lovely.
But there were still a few unfortunate moments when walking these streets that one could peer between buildings or look down the right alley and catch a glimpse of a dilapidated factory or a dirty old shack or the stubborn remains of either. Donald Trump (or whoever) had missed a spot.
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