Caitlin: So. Tent city. It was...eventful. Of course, that might just be my perspective as I am now temporarily out a pair of my favorite pants thanks to our sojourn, so take my thoughts on the matter with a gigantic, Rock-of-Gibraltar-sized grain of salt.

We went to the one near St. Vincent de Paul today after leaving class. After we survived the adventure that is parking in St. Anthony's parking garage, we made our way to the tent city. The tents occupied a plot of land near the highway, in a part of town that a charitable soul would describe as 'not that bad'. Tall chainlink fences were erected around the small plot of land. Two large mobile homes, which were converted by the city into a mobile police resource center and a mobile medical unit, were parked on either side of the single entrance to the plot of land. Between the mobile homes was a small shaded table, at which sat a man with a clipboard who introduced himself to us as "Fast Eddie". It was Eddie's first day on the job as the gatekeeper, and as we waited, we watched several people in official-looking shirts explain various things to him about his new job.

At first it didn't seem like they would let us in. The woman who came out to speak to us - I can't remember her name, but she was a white-haired matronly type, the kind of woman who is everyone's grandma - seemed a bit reluctant to let us in, saying that a lot of the residents were tired of talking to people. I could understand that. After all, if I was in a really shitty situation, and suddenly the residents of that particular city began to take a major interest in my life en masse for their school projects, church fundraisers and news stories, I'm sure that eventually I'd be like, "Hey, why don't one of you assholes give me a job or something if you really want to help?"

So there were a few minutes when we weren't sure if we would actually be allowed in, which would have put a serious kink in the execution of our project. But eventually the grandma-like woman returned, and she escorted us back to a covered area, where two men and a woman were relaxing on a picnic table and folding chairs, smoking cigarettes. There was a TV, coolers with water, and I'm sure a lot of other stuff that I'm counting on Brian to remember. I do remember that the TV was playing Judge Judy, but that's because her voice hooks into my brain like an angler's hook sinks into the jaws of a grouper, and not because of any powers of observation I might possess.

The woman, Bridget, was the most direct and personable person I met at the tent city. She was more than happy to tell us about all of the things they do for the residents. She told us about the showers, the meals, the sense of community. She was excited because the next day she was headed up to Hudson to look at a new place to live. Her companion, a young man of about 24 who could not seem to sit still for more than two minutes at a time, perched next to me on the picnic table. They seemed to have a comfortable relationship. She talked about getting him straightened out, while he bragged about his access to drugs and alcohol, and told us about the time he made out with a girl who was "like his sister" for some pot. It was weird, but she was hot, so it wasn't that bad, he said.

They told us about the midnight curfew and the rules against smoking in the tents and drinking. The tent city was much more populated a month ago, Bridget said, but a lot of the residents had been placed elsewhere. The plot of land was all but deserted, with between ten and fifteen people wandering around. Most of the residents were at work.

While I spoke to Bridget and the fidgety kid, Brian talked to a couple of older men. I'll let him write about that, because frankly, my attention was so split between Bridget and the kid that I couldn't pay attention to much else. Sadly, I don't remember much more because Kid Fidget chose that moment in time to roll up a packet of mustard as tightly as possible until it exploded. Lucky me, I caught the entire condiment spray on my pants. Awesome. He was instantly nice and apologetic, bringing me a tub of wet wipes before disappearing.

At some point I became aware of a big man in overalls named Charles sitting across from me. Charles liked word play, numbers, jokes and riddles. He asked us if we wanted to see him poke his Coke bottle through his key ring. When we said yes, he put the key ring next to the bottle and then proceeded to jab the bottle through the metal ring using a pen. Like I said, quite the prankster.

We stuck around for a short while after that, but it soon became apparent that we weren't going to talk to many other people, so we left. As much as I hate to be prissy, I was having a hard time not freaking out over the fact that my pants were covered in a bright yellow condiment. It's a delicious condiment, but it's still a fucking condiment, and thus has no place on my clothing.

Okay, now it's Brian's turn to share his recollection.