Bridgeport, Connecticut: The First in a Series Where the Past Gets Messy
One of the best ways to travel is to make the journey part of the adventure. Chris and I love stopping along the way, exploring places that aren't necessarily tourist destinations. On our way to visit friends on Cape Cod, we decided to spend two nights in Bridgeport, Connecticut.
We arrived around sunset and headed toward the water, where we found Seaside Park. The rocks along the shoreline, the long walkway, and the sunset reminded me of our race to catch the sunset in Valparaíso, Chile. This time, we were looking out over Long Island Sound instead of the Pacific. The park was enormous, and even in the fading light, the waterfront was beautiful. I wondered, “This is gorgeous. What is this place?” Chris went back at sunrise the next morning, and his picture captured even better what had caught my attention the evening before.
I wake up so hungry you'd think I hadn't eaten in three days rather than eight hours. Our travel cooler helps me stick to my healthy eating habits, and I'd already had my eggs at our Airbnb.
So by the time we arrived at Famous 50's Diner, it was officially lunchtime, but I wasn't finished with breakfast. And since my breakfast these days is dinner for breakfast, I was now eating dinner for breakfast at lunchtime.
The diner had pink and turquoise walls, checkerboard floors, red counter stools, and Elvis and Marilyn Monroe everywhere. There was even a giant hamburger on the counter.
But I was still thinking about Seaside Park and my question of what was this place? A little Googling led me to P. T. Barnum. We all know him as the circus guy, but who knew he was also Bridgeport's mayor? He served from 1875 to 1876, invested in local businesses and real estate, and helped develop Seaside Park. He was also a philanthropist who contributed to the city's public spaces and institutions.
We discovered the P. T. Barnum Museum downtown, so off we went.
The building dates to 1893 and was conceived by Barnum as a place for history, science, and art. He died before it opened, but we were curious to learn more about his connection to Bridgeport.
Unfortunately, the museum was closed. A sign directed deliveries to what seemed like a random door.
To me, a closed museum meant, “Oh well,” and on to the next stop. Chris started knocking on doors, ringing bells, opening doors, and calling out, “Helllloooo! Anybody here?” I wondered whether we'd be getting a museum tour or escorted off the property.
Someone actually answered.
The man gave us a peek inside and explained what had happened. On June 24, 2010, a tornado struck downtown Bridgeport, shattering windows, damaging the roof, and twisting the museum's dome. He told us about someone who had gone out to lunch and returned to find the roof crushed. Imagine leaving for a sandwich and coming back to that.
Turns out, the man who let us in was the museum's director. He told us how difficult it had been to get local government funding to finish the restoration. He thought reopening the museum could bring more visitors to Bridgeport and give the local economy a boost. After seeing more of the city, I wondered if he was right, and whether Bridgeport was making the most of its spectacular location on Long Island Sound and its natural beauty.
We also stopped at the Housatonic Museum of Art, located inside Housatonic Community College, where an exhibit about Little Liberia caught our attention. Founded in the 1820s, Little Liberia was a thriving community of free Black residents in Bridgeport, decades before the Civil War. Its residents owned homes, established churches, and built a community at a time when slavery was still legal in Connecticut. One of its residents, Mary Freeman, became one of Bridgeport's wealthiest property owners, second only to P. T. Barnum. Everyone has heard of P. T. Barnum, but how many people have heard of Mary Freeman?
We headed to the Fairfield Museum and History Center to explore the area's history, which we suspected was dramatic. Chris was interested in the Revolutionary War. In 1779, British troops landed on Fairfield's shore and burned much of the town. But it was the Pequot War of 1636–1638 that caught my attention.
The Pequot War was a devastating campaign by English colonists and their Native American allies against the Pequot people, who were fighting to maintain their land and independence. In 1637, colonial forces surrounded a Pequot village at Mystic, about 60 miles east of Fairfield, set it on fire, and killed hundreds of people, including women and children.
I'd heard of the massacre at Mystic before, but reading about it again, I was struck by the sheer horror of it. What the actual hell? That's when I started thinking about adding other Native American history stops to our trip through New England and Cape Cod.
Chris and I tend to go our separate ways at museums because we linger over different things for different lengths of time. I was wandering around outside the Fairfield Museum by myself when I stumbled upon the story of Fairfield's accused witches. I was fascinated, but I didn't take a picture. After all, what was I going to photograph? A dent in the ground? Chris, our usual photographer, would probably have managed to make even that look interesting.
There was a shallow depression in the ground, all that remained of Edward's Pond. In 1692, two women, Mercy Disborough and Elizabeth Clawson, were accused of witchcraft and brought to this very spot. Mercy actually volunteered to be thrown into the pond to prove her innocence, apparently trusting that God would protect her. The logic was that if you sank, you were innocent, and if you floated, you were a witch.
Clearly, logic hadn't developed very far. Both women floated. Elizabeth was acquitted, while Mercy was convicted and sentenced to hang, but ultimately spared execution after serious questions were raised about the evidence against her. Apparently, someone finally thought to question the scientific merits of throwing women into ponds.
We returned to Seaside Park with our bikes and spent the afternoon riding along the waterfront. Between the scenery, the statues, and a few fun photo opportunities, we had plenty of reasons to stop along the way.
Then there was that long stone jetty we'd admired at sunset, leading out toward a lighthouse. It looked like a perfectly reasonable walk from shore. But the farther we walked, the farther away the lighthouse seemed.
About three-quarters of the way there, Chris suggested turning around. After coming that far? Absolutely not.
And then we had to walk all the way back.
Even though we were pretty tired, we decided to drive to Norwalk for the Oyster Festival. We love seafood, so how could we pass it up? We parked in town and biked to the festival to avoid paying for parking. It had a very local, community feel. We took a look around, enjoyed some oysters, and called it a night.
There was no street parking near our Airbnb, so we left the car down the street on a busy road, with our bikes secured to the back with a heavy-duty lock. The next morning, Chris got up for his usual sunrise outing and discovered our bikes were gone.
So we spent the morning filing a police report. An exercise in futility. The officers were very nice, but when bikes are gone, they're gone. And the police have higher priorities.
On our way to Cape Cod, we stopped at Outriggers in Stratford, where we settled onto the outdoor deck overlooking the marina and drowned our sorrows in beautiful waterfront views and seafood.
Cape Cod was next. Surely everyone had behaved themselves during the founding of our country. Right?
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