"This kind of thing went on all the time, and it probably still does with the lifelong residents. Maybe it was just a byproduct of life in an isolated mill town, but we knew each other well, and that sense of belonging has stayed with many of us all our lives."

It was when I was standing in the middle of the road with my camera that I suddenly felt an eerie sense of history. On the pavement in front of me lay a loose-leaf notebook open to an 8 x 10 photo of North Adams, dated circa 1890. It was identified as, "South from Houghton Street."

He worked in the card room, where it was very hot, so the man was often shirtless. Carl explains: "With all the wool dust floating around, you could always tell what color wool they were manufacturing, because this guy would be the same color."

The 50 or 60 participants sit in a circle, as they always do. It is a physical arrangement that reminds me of North Adams. Standing on Main Street in the city, one is surrounded by imperfect concentric circles of streets, all lined with houses and the unseen people who live in them.

"One time, my sister and I went to pick her up, and I was parked near the door. The noise was so horrendous in the mill that I could barely hear my sister talking in the car. I can just imagine what the sound must have been like inside. That’s why all the workers stuffed cotton in their ears."

Yesterday, I got up at 5:30 and arrived at the Bean just as it opened. The streets were empty, except for an occasional driver speeding down Main on the way to work. The air was murky, and clouds hung low on the mountains.

As one approaches the city center from the south, the first thing that catches the eye is an especially wide Main Street split down the middle by a grassy, tree-lined divider. Cars are angle-parked on both sides of the street between curb extensions, most of which are decorated with small trees, grass, and benches.

A few years ago, I was headed toward the entrance to Mass MoCA when I passed two well-dressed women wearing the familiar museum stickers. They were apparently on their way out after visiting the galleries. One woman pointed to several of the buildings and exclaimed to her companion, "This place looks a little bit like a factory."

It's been ten years (officially July 21) since I serendipitously wandered into North Adams, and it occurred to me recently that I have finally fulfilled that ambition. On the streets and in the cafés of a city I have never lived in, I am now one of the regulars.