An Encounter in Lambertville

My brother Scott and I were coming home from a “nighttime social event” in New Hope when we ran into one of the most iconic Lambertville residents.

Two high schoolers were sitting on a bench, and a man we knew about — I’ve heard him referred to as the friendly neighborhood schizo (I’m not endorsing this), but we’ll call him Rich — approached the kids in front of us. ‘Keep in contact with your parents, kids, trust me,’ Rich was saying and repeating. They said they would, and Rich high-fived them for their answers.

‘My name’s (Rich), you guys ever heard of me?’ The kids shook their heads, they lived three miles up the road in Stockton —

‘Thannnk God!’ Rich said with a smile, and left the kids on the bench. Scott and I walked the other way, laughing our asses off.

Our encounter with Rich left both of us with a sense of giddiness for our town. Only in Lambertville, we said…

Since moving to Lambertville, New Jersey after graduating high school, the small Delaware River town has gradually become a sort of paradise to me. It isolated me the first summer, but I was newly in love, so everything made me extra happy. It was just that time of time.

Anyway, the second summer I lived here, I made it a goal to make friends here, and when I did I finally felt that this was my new home. And now I’m not sure if I need anything that dramatic anymore, but I can already feel this place recharging me before I do some globetrotting in the Fall.

There’s a bench on the Lambertville towpath that I love, and it says “there are no strangers here, only friends we haven’t met.” And with the exception of having to work here (to people as lazy as me, work sucks wherever you are), it’s true: I’ve never had issues with anyone here. It’s a town with soul.

But it isn’t all rainbows. Well, actually, there are a lot of rainbows. Lambertville and it’s Pennsylvania sister-town, New Hope, are very “gay” towns, with histories of being a “gay getaway” for Philadelphia and New York’s ex-urbanites. And now these gay people are old and rich, so you get to see how old and rich gays spend their cash. Needless to say, it’s a town with style.

If you want to be miserable, check out the prices here: $8 with the stupid fucking screen asking if you want to tip $2 for a small iced latte; $16 for a pound of raw — raw! — almonds; $10 for a used Jean Genet paperback which I was too dumb and depressed to be able to read anyway.

Lambertville’s best quality is actually free: seated against the Delaware River, it’s blessed with gorgeous nature. Eagles, wineberries, too many fucking geese, foxes, fish, deer, beautiful trees, turtles, cute raccoons that deserve some love (but never approach them, for God’s sake), and the birds! It’s live music all day in Lambertville. Walk along the wingdam, or up at the Goat Hill Overlook in West Amwell, or on the canal path, and just keep your eyes and ears peeled. I don’t want to romanticize nature here too much, because when you listen to it you can hear that it is clearly struggling amidst an invasive human species. Loud gas pedals, airplanes, and jet skis intrude on the natural symphonies in the trees. But of all the different places I’ve lived, I’ve been most in tune with nature here. It’s a town with beauty.

I’ll finish off with one more “only in Lambertville” anecdote.

There’s this artist, SiriOm Singh, who sets up shop on Union St. by the Liv & Charlies restaurant, where I was eating outside with Scott and my mom on this particular day. At the time, this one guy with tattoos was admiring Singh’s work, which I could tell by the joyful song that he was whistling.

And when he started to walk away from the gallery, I told him I liked his whistling abilities — I’ve been trying to be more friendly these days, so I figured why not. Besides, he was whistling.

Well, the guy started telling us how much he loves Singh’s art, how cool it is that Singh is a master at both abstract and social justice themed art, and how we should check him out. Then he told us that he’s practicing his whistling skills for a whistling competition he’s doing, and after that he went on with his day, whistling away down Union St.

Once again, Scott and I were laughing. A whistling competition? You couldn’t make this shit up. Only in Lambertville…