Appropriately enough, there are a number of interesting pieces along the busway. Since they technically lie on railroad property, the public transportation group here has no control over whether or not they are buffed into oblivion, and the railroad has other things to worry about. Thus more effort is applied to these works than elsewhere. Though weather remains a foe, pieces from years past remain.
The bus windows here are difficult to see out of, unfortunately, let alone attempt to take a photograph through. I suppose the questionable combination of face slime and hair oils could add to the "urban mystique" effect, but I find it merely makes pictures blurry. After some amount of exploration, I discovered a parking lot that overlooked a small section of the tracks.
It was hot today, but not painfully so. I slapped on a good layer of sunscreen and headed out for adventure. Whenever I arrive at a certain intersection, I always go left, towards the Universities. This time, however, I said to myself, "Let's climb that hill, let's see what's there," and to the right I went. It did not take long for me to figure out why I very rarely take a right turn at that corner, for I found myself in the notorious Summit District.
Where I was was not where I should have been. Old ladies, holdovers from past decades when the area was more prosperous, gardened in big hats and said nothing as I passed by. Most people were in cars with the windows up (and presumably with the locks down). The view was magnificent where the overgrown vegetation had been cleared, but it very rarely was. As I walked around, wondering if there was a way to get off the hill without having to climb it again, I noticed that all the houses along one side of the street were abandoned. Not a single one showed signs of habitation. Most were boarded off and bore obvious signs against trespassing.
One, however, did not.
I still cannot believe that I actually entered the structure. My common sense has a number of issues with what I did, the first and foremost being that I went in alone without a plan. That was stupid. It was one of those slippery slopes ... at first my only intent was to take a peek inside, but then I always saw something that interested me in the next room, and I felt compelled to investigate. I justified it by saying I'm never going to come back here. Next time, temptation be damned! I shall simply make note of the address and return at a later date when someone wishes to accompany me. My sole saving grace was that at least I was properly attired for exploration.
I was not too worried about the prospect of imminent collapse. No, what scared me the most was the possibility of meeting someone in there, amidst the garbage, excrement and debris. As I slowly picked my way from one area to the next, I listened with all my might for that unmistakable "old house" sound of someone moving. All I could hear was the slight wind through the broken windows.
All the windows were shattered ... like fallen windchimes, the shards rang beneath my ginger tread. They cracked and broke as I shifted my weight. The structure seemed intact save some sagging in the steps, but was nothing more than a skeleton of its former self. The "home" had been stripped of anything with any sort of value, and most of the walls upstairs had been ruined by human hands. I could see through the standing studs to the next room. Tiles and pieces of drywall were everywhere.
When was the last time someone legally lived here? What did it look like then, back when it was a home, before it fell to such abuse? Was it a happy home?