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=============================== Prologue: Reading the Border It is a brilliant May morning, the first truly summerlike day of the year. I am walking back and forth on Route 101 at the Connecticut-Rhode IsI~md border-an ordinary enough stretch of road, yet one rendered significant by my knowledge that a geographical boundary runs through here and by the insistent presence of road signs. Borders and boundaries carry a certain mystery and fascination. They imply a transition between realms of experience, states of being; they draw an ineffable line between life as lived in one place and life as lived in another. The Romans had a god-Janus-who guarded gates and doors, testifying to the metaphorical power that his worshippers found in physical boundaries. The ground on either side of a border seems to mean different things-each such demarcated piece of land is under a different jurisdiction, has seen a different history. In a subtle and totally subjective way, each side of the border feels different; in the space of a few feet we pass from one geographical entity to another which looks exactly the same but is unique, has a different name, is in many ways a completely separate world from the one we just left. Look: it is even a different color on the map. This sense of passing from one world to another , of encompassing within a few steps two realms of experience, enchants and fascinates. This is why people have themselves photographed sprawled across the marker which outlines the Four Corners of Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado; this is why visitors at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich have their pictures taken as they straddle the brass rod embedded in the forecourt which locates the Prime Meridian-only this way can they be in two (or four) places at once. Even in an essay which ultimately points out the frequently absurd and harmful aspects of international borders, Barry Lopez confesses to a sense of excitement as he hikes along the Alaskan Arctic coast and approaches the boundary with the Yukon Territory: "the romance of it-this foot in Canada, that one in Alaska-is fetching." 1 Now, on a brilliant blue May morning, I stand Janus-like on the border between Connecticut and Rhode Island, looking one way and then the other, letting each place tell me what it means. The signs on each side do their best to let me know that their state is 1 distinctive and significant, that I would be glad should I decide to cross the line in that direction. They invite me in with strenuous bonhomie. I look into Connecticut, stroll down the road: an enormous blue sign stands on the right-hand side of the highway, big and vivid enough to catch the eye of any motorist who comes speeding by. It reads, in big white letters: "Connecticut Welcomes You. William A. O'Neill, Governor." The sign also incorporates a smaller, more colorful, bumper-sticker-like label, evidently the state's tourism slogan: "ClassiConnecticut / The Pride of New England." Finally, notification that I have just wandered across not only a state but also a municipal frontier: "Town of Killingly." I turn and walk about 150 yards east, into Rhode Island. Here, another big blue sign sticks out its hand and tries to make me feel at home. A picture of the Rhode Island state house in Providence takes up one side of the sign. "Welcome to Rhode Island," reads the other side, followed by the logo of the state's latest tourist campaign-the words "RI 350 / The Spirit Burns Brighter" superimposed on a drawing of an anchor . Finally, the personal touch: along the bottom of the sign runs the name "Governor Edward D. DiPrete." On the surface, these signs serve a basic geographical and political function, simply letting us know when we have passed from one U.S. state into another. As geographical markers, however, they are wildly inaccurate. Standing 150 yards apart, they cannot both mark the border, which in fact lies between them about 50 yards east of the Connecticut sign. Given these geographical limitations, the primary purpose of public , official welcoming signs such as these is to shape and manipulate the feelings of difference and distinction that we experience when we cross any geographical border. They are advertisements, hucksters of geographical impressions. As Wilbur Zelinsky points out, the highway welcoming sign is distinctive for "the commodity it purveys: the image of a particular locality. The...

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