Some time ago, the federal government sold Governor's Island (near the Statue of Liberty) to New York for $1.00. Generally speaking, articles on sale for $1.00 don't possess a great deal of intrinsic value, however an exception can be made for the odd island which finds itself in this inexplicable position. For some time, I had wanted to visit the island to take a stroll and snap a touristy photo of its canons pointed sarcastically at the lower New York City skyline. The day finally came when minn and I finally embarked on the fleeting journey across the water to this strange and wonderful place.

My first impression, after initially finding the bike rental facility agreeable, was that the island (map) makes a lovely ghost town. Despite the small size of the island, its sense of abandonment rings loud and clear. There is a suitable number of passages boarded up and graced with sinister words such as "Danger!" "Poison!" and "Hazard!" where, through jagged cracks, one can spy intricately rusted interiors full of stained and crumbling tables sobbing in the bluish light.

Like a Forgotten Disneyland, one passes building after building, labelled dismissively with numbers (Building 341, Building 284, etc.), whose long-ago-identity is now revealed only through a reference chart upon the tourist map. Here is a military barracks, there is an admiral's house, here is public school, there a movie theatre or a tiny chapel. The village is unkempt and quiet and barren.

One can slip inside many of these places, where no security guard or park ranger cares to guide or restrict you. Refreshing is the number of perils which would normally spell the disallowance of entry. There are rusted nails, shoddy floorboards, lack of lighting, broken windows, and various other accoutrements lending themselves to a fantastic sense of genuineness.

Also refreshing is the absolute emptiness. A church overrun with ivy has had all its pews removed. The stained glass glares ominously into a darkened, cold room where your footsteps tap with infinite sorrow about the colorless walls. I can't help but entertain the notion of a lifelong ambition to spend the night sleeping atop a church altar.

The homes too, in perfect rows, gingerbreaded and dainty, like yellow and white wedding cakes. One expects young families and children in bonnets with balloons, but instead there are unhinged screen doors with ancient muddy fingerprints, through which empty kitchens, empty parlors, empty bathrooms, give the sense of isolation and idle passage of time.

The basements. Ah! The basements. After adjusting to the vague glow of a distant daylight, the quirky, peeling wallpaper comes into focus with its carnival patterns. Stepping over trash and planks cast aside, there are strange bathrooms to be revealed with gawking toilets full of gashes and brown crusts. Dozens of horror film sets; claustrophobic and grotesque with mysterious narratives revealed in the wall-scribbles. Then a stairway up into another empty home, in a landscape of empty homes. First an empty hallway, then an empty living room. Then bewildered phantoms peering through the windows. (I heard one woman say, "Hey look, there's a man inside!") Then upstairs to savor more emptiness, no surprise, but possibly with an odd trinket here or there to present another foray into mystery.

The deliciousness of empty ammunition stores, where the occasional lonely traveller passes, cautiously treading as if expecting to find a stray and forgotten grenade, makes this trip so worthwhile. The long stretches of time completely alone, in places where it is unsettling to be alone. The occasional appearance of another curious individual, all alike, with the same "Is this place for real?" expression. The neat rows of decay, the unnecessarily named streets and defunct functionings, will it all go away? Will it be reborn? Revitalized? One secretly hopes not. There is much delight in this stark governorship.