An Evening of Divine Providence

Waterfire--Summer, '05

A lady friend and I took a ride down to Providence last night to see that city’s signature outdoor exhibit, Waterfire. I had spent four baccalaureate years (in the 80’s, 70’s, or 60’s, depending on your degree of gullibility) there, and at the time, the city was a bit seamy. There has been quite a renaissance.

The Providence River, formerly a refuse-strewn sludgy blight coursing through the middle of downtown, has instead become the center of the city’s life and pride. The banks of the river have been lined with brick and cobblestone terraces and walkways. After dusk, gaslights guide walkers to the bistros that have opened along the riverway.

The centerpiece, however, is the fire. For more than a mile, round metal baskets have been moored, about thirty feet apart, in the center of the narrow, meandering river. The baskets are piled high with fatwood and firewood, and at dusk, a boat courses along the curving row of firebaskets, igniting each. Within a few minutes, a sinuous line of blazing fires is reflected in the river. All the pleasant sensations that you associate with a fireplace--the scent, the crackling, the warmth--are enhanced by the reflected light, the sheer number (dozens) of the fires, and the graceful arcs and curves that they form, following the course of the river.

Hundreds of people sit along the banks or walk the length of the event. It is impossible to look away. At the southern end, where the baskets are first ignited, an incredibly clear and powerful outdoor sound system plays music that is aptly chosen to elevate the experience: Indian music, chamber music, new age music. Those who wanted an even more sensuous experience could cruise alongside the fires in an actual gondola, oared along by a gondolier in authentic Venetian garb.

When the fires began to die down, we headed back to the garage at Providence Place and paid the one dollar (one dollar!) parking fee. At the Boston Common garage, the fee would have been ten dollars; at the MFA, more than twenty. We drove a mile or so to another part of the city enjoying a rebirth, Federal Hill. The Hill has a storied past centered around Mafia dons, corruption, and crime. The stories are true. However, Federal Hill is also the center of Providence’s Italian-American community; its dozens of small restaurants are now enjoying the custom and reputation they have probably always deserved.

It was almost eleven as we walked along Atwells Avenue, but the neighborhood was still bustling. The restaurant we chose was pretty typical--bar on one side, a dozen or so tables on the other, patio out back. We ordered wine and bruschetta before beginning the impossible task of choosing a meal from among the array of tantalizing offerings. My lady friend chose a veal dish cooked with red peppers and artichoke hearts; while I, typecast as always, settled on linguine with white clam sauce garnished with clams in the shell.

The bruschetta arrived, four huge slabs of Italian bread soaked in garlic and oil and piled high with diced fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. It was too much to eat, but too good to stop. The main dishes looked more like family-style platters than individual meals, but dammit, we were determined, and more than did them justice. The waiter was impressed.

We headed north to Boston, surfeited, sated, slaked, reeking of garlic, and trying not to burp. Well, at least not too loudly.