The statue of Roger Williams in Providence’s Prospect Terrace Park strikes an impossibly awkward pose: knees bent, back arched, right arm extended. It looks as though he’s trying to catch himself after being punched in the base of his spine. I doubt the real Williams would have complained, however; he had a rough life and learned to take the good with the bad.
The good in this situation is the view. Statue aside, the panorama is breathtaking. Prospect Terrace Park sits high on College Hill, and the heart of Rhode Island’s capital city spreads out below it like a banquet. You can see the steeples of the old town, the towers of Downcity, and the regal dome of the state house. On clear evenings, the most beautiful sunsets in New England play out here, setting the glass and granite facades ablaze. That would have pleased Williams, its founder. In a region known for its sunrises, his city should be most beautiful at dusk: Providence was established as a critique of and an alternative to the rest of New England, a tradition it has happily fulfilled to this day.
Residents of Providence, when comparing their city with Boston, always talk about its size. It’s home to about 178,000 people–big enough to foster robust arts and food scenes but too few to require a subway system. Residents often refer to their city as “comfortable,” “doable,” or “just the right size to bump into people you know all the time.”
Providence has reinvented itself to capitalize on its small-town/big-city feel. At its heart, a compact and surprisingly diverse walking district is taking shape, highlighting some of the reasons why New England’s second city is first in the hearts of many.
Providence was founded at the place where the Woonasquatucket and Mashassuck rivers join to flow into Narragansett Bay. This junction is still at the core of the city, and it splits Providence’s walking district in two. On the east bank is College Hill, a primarily residential smorgasbord of 18th- and 19th-century architecture and the place where Providence was born.
When Roger Williams arrived here in 1636, he’d been chased out of Massachusetts the previous year for arguing that religion and politics should remain separate. He founded Providence on that principle. So while you’ll find almost everything you’d expect from a self-respecting New England historic district here–steepled churches, Georgian mansions, an Ivy League university–the one thing you won’t find is a meetinghouse. Williams would have nothing to do with them.
The original settlement was laid out in long strips that ran from the riverside up the hill. Those early homes are long gone now, but the steep grade of the hill remains. Today, however, instead of colonial Baptists laboring up and down it, you’re more likely to spot a gaggle of coeds regretting the poor arch supports in their canvas shoes. As its name suggests, College Hill is anchored by its institutions of higher learning, Brown University and the Rhode Island School of Design, and both bring a lot to the neighborhood.
The RISD Museum on Benefit Street features an aggressively diverse collection dedicated to exposing its students to as many artistic styles as possible. Traveling from one gallery to the next, you’ll first see ancient Egyptian carvings, then possibly a modern multimedia installation, or a nine-foot-tall wooden Buddha. A new wing, opened in 2009, gives the museum more space to display works created by its students, though you could argue that the gift shop accomplishes that better. RISD Works offers an eclectic range of unique items–from fine jewelry to robotic bugs–all designed by current and former students.
Farther up the hill, the Brown University quad serves as the heart of the College Hill neighborhood. Here you’ll find the Haffenreffer Museum of Anthropology, a worthy distraction, but book lovers could skip it and head right to the libraries. The John Hay and John Carter Brown libraries hold astonishing collections of rare and ancient texts, and they frequently display curated exhibits of their finest holdings. And visitors with a taste for the bizarre should know that if you ask the librarians at the Hay nicely enough, they may show you their collection of three anthropodermic books: books bound in human skin.