If you aren’t careful, North Adams will break your heart. In the 1960s and 1970s, the wrecking ball of urban renewal knocked down three-quarters of the downtown commercial and residential blocks. Old-timers, mothers wheeling baby carriages, and workers on their lunch break watched as trucks hauled away tons of marble, brick and stone. In the 1970s and 1980s, Sprague Electric, the city’s largest employer, gradually moved to greener pastures and left thousands of people looking for new jobs. Often, on a Saturday night downtown, the only activity is a few persons waiting in line at the ATM, presumably getting cash to spend in another town. An errant traveler looking to get back on Route 2 may be tempted to shout, "Where is everybody?"

In the past year, I have made the two-hour drive from Connecticut more than 60 times, and I have walked more than 300 miles on the streets of North Adams. What I have found are warm and trusting people full of hope and community spirit, who live in a place rich in history and tradition. I have experienced the excitement of watching a nearly forgotten factory town struggle toward rebirth, spurred on by the creative arts. Amid the faded brick mills that sit deep in the shadows of the mountains, the old houses that look down from the hills, and the magnificent church steeples that fill the skyline, I see a remarkable little city that is haunting and strangely beautiful.

I grew up in rural southern Maryland. My grandfather used to take me on wayward drives on Saturdays, and we would check out every road and every little town along the way. We always looked for a small cafe or luncheonette on some quiet Main Street, and we would sample the hamburgers and hot chocolate. I loved to look at the churches, the gas stations, and the storefronts. I learned to appreciate the simple beauty of the American roadside, and the brick and stone architecture of turn-of-the-century factories, schools, and churches. My grandfather left this world when I was 14 years old. Forty years later, I drive my wife and kids along the back roads, stop for hot chocolate in diners, and walk down Main Street in each newly-discovered town.

In July of 1996, my wife and I drove up Route 8 from our home in Torrington, Connecticut, to see an art exhibit at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (MASS MoCA), which I had read about in my local newspaper. Despite living in Connecticut for 25 years and traveling many times up Route 7 to Vermont, it had never occurred to me to go to North Adams. When we drove into town and looked up Main Street at the church steeples and the beautiful brick and stone buildings, we parked the car and walked nearly three hours, making wider and wider circles around the city. At MASS MoCA, we learned that the museum is in the early stages of locating in the 28 factory buildings left vacant by Sprague Electric. When it is completed, it will be the largest museum of contemporary art in the world.

Since high school, I have always been involved in the arts. I have been strongly influenced by 20^th-century American artist Edward Hopper, whose paintings of city streets, storefronts, mill buildings, and Victorian homes are full of melancholy and nostalgia. North Adams looks like one long Edward Hopper mural spread across the Hoosac Valley. It is natural that I should choose to write about it.

During this long, rambling journey in search of a book, I have become the curious out-of-towner who asks questions, and the familiar visitor who stares up at the steeples, charges up the hilly neighborhood streets, and lingers at the coffee shop window, writing down everything he sees. As I come to the end of this journey, I remain the wanderer who struggles down the muddy bank to the river, who strolls happily along the railroad tracks on a misty morning, and who daydreams all alone in the bleachers at Joe Wolfe Field.