I just finished reading a book by Francis Mays, "A Year In The World." This female author condensed several years of travel and wrote her story as if it happened all in one year.

And what an amazing year it was. Venice - Montaga - the southern coast of Turkey - Portugal, Capri, Scotland, Crete and on and on. And in each place she spent real time and stayed in rented houses or inns, and even enjoyed a long, long journey on a small boat along the coast of Turkey. She met people native to the country, ate the honest food of the country, drank the wines and once, her husband even got food poisoning and almost died.

And did I want to go? Yes! I could pack my suitcase in a minute and go. I am the kind of person who hears a train whistle or sees a Greyhound bus, and I am all ready to leave. Anywhere at all. Just take me along, please!

In a book so beautifully written, I lose myself, and when it's over, I feel a loss akin to a long-lost love appearing and then - Presto! - taking leave and disappearing. And here I am, just being Judy, just being in Hamilton Hill, Schenectady N.Y 12307.

And I remember Friday, picking up two children on Mumford Street. As my van pulls up, I see the curtain at the window twitch, and a face burst into a smile that would put the sun to shame. "She's here, she's here," and two children burst out of one small doorway, hopping and trying to put shoes on as they madly dash to the door.

The car door sticks and they frantically try to break it and the car in general, so afraid are they that I will leave them. In the car, they say things like "When I grow up, I'm going to have a nice house," "I'm going to have a Cadillac," and "I'm going to have a smaller head."

Both are damaged children. One has a lopsided head, both have attention deficit disorder to an astonishing degree. And here's the problem in a closed car - they smell. Their clothes smell like 50 cats in heat have urinated on them.

No one says anything directly. They open windows, put some distance between themselves and these young boys ,and we just drive on. Once on my journey, I had to go around the block, and in doing so, I had to drive by their house again. The younger of the two burst into tears and said "I don't want to go home yet."

Who among us has driven down Mumford Street lately? I mean within the past week or two. The poverty is unsettling. The look on the faces of its inhabitants is lost hopelessness mixed with fear and 20 other kinds of misery. This place will crush your soul.

I am reminded of Dante's inscription over the gates of Hell, "Abandon hope, yee who enter here." The book is "Paradise Lost," but these citizens, children really, never had any Paradise or hope to speak of. And they never chose to pass through this gate to nowhere.

Of course, these boys are hungry. It doesn't matter if the food is cold or burned or leftover - they will eat theirs and whoever else doesn't want it. All food is good food - they need a T-shirt with that written on it. We always pack a large take-home basket for these guys. Our cook loves them.

"It's nice to be appreciated" she says.

Mumford Street is a place I visit almost everyday. I know it but not as well as those who inhabit it. I will always be a stranger from another planet there.

Driving down Schenectady Street, I see a man on the corner, stumbling and cursing and swinging a machete mightily in large arcs through the air. Would you believe he is a founder of one of the new groups, a group that wants to bring all of us together. Before he can bring change to the Hill, he must make peace with himself. Our youth need leaders, not mad men, people they can emulate and depend on. Our youth need to learn to love, not to hate.

That house in the neighborhood is still sailing on. People gather on the porch, they feel safe and invincible. A 12-year-old boy is suspected of stealing from them, so they strip him and search him and yes, by golly, he has the weed.

This is all on public display. Every day, some new drama hits us, coming at you, openly defiant of all laws and most decency. Why is this still happening? All summer, we have watched the circus, the clowns on the porch are growing in number, the house itself is vile, garbage everywhere. Where at least is the code enforcer? The house can be brought down for code violations, even if no one is ever there when the cops come by.

And oh yes, Quest is moving. State Street Presbyterian Church has offered us succor and shelter. And it's close to where we are now. The accommodations are much more luxurious then what we are used to. And the price is right.

But I will surely miss this old building where now we rest. We started here, our roots are here. Our murals are here. How will QUESTORS who come back after an absence find us? How many people have we fed here?

These walls hold life secrets that could fill books and books and more books. We sit and talk about the past, the rappers, the hip-hop dances, the babies. So many children took their first steps here, said their first words here, had their first birthday party here.

This, too, is a country lodged in my heart. I look at the broken windows and the ceiling that falls in when it rains (plaster rains down on us like water.) I see the wood floor with large holes that go all the way down to the bare earth.

I think this place opened it's tired arms and gave the best that it had. And we truly loved it and this building loved us back. I feel a real kinship, we are both tired and shabby, but still standing. And I will always have a feeling of loss deep in the marrow of my bones that says over and over "No more, never more."

I wish it well. I hope someone with good karma buys this place and gives it a reason to keep going, gives it vision and spirit and joy. And I will come and sit under its only tree and be quiet and still and remember.

This street is a river, going in two directions at the same time, back - sucking you into old habits, old friends, old issues - and forward - driven onwards, toot toot, all aboard to an unknown, the future, new beginnings, new growth, the proverbial fresh start.

And me? Well I am the ever-present observer. The person looking in the windows, and scrubbing, the floors, and changing diapers on all these new babies.

Hamilton Hill is my country, a land made of many nations and peoples. And all of it, every corner, is my home, and these people, all of them are my family.