After that excursion, what else could we do but go back to the ferry terminal and catch the boat back across the Hudson to Jersey City? At the hotel we retrieved our bags, went down the escalators, got our car back from the valet service, and in a few moments we were making our way towards the entrance to the Turnpike, to head back home.
It had been an awesome trip into the City, and an awesome stay with K and R at their place in Mercer County. In a few days Red and I would heading back to Arizona. As it happened my rendezvous with Zeke in Brooklyn immediately set into motion follow-up calls from him in which he hoped to get me on board with the project involving the streaming music service, and even to get me to go up to Portland the following week to help out on it. It always seems like there's some kind of conveyor tube that whisks me from New York to Portland. It's almost a trope within my life, so I was hardly shocked when I worked out that way, and I wound up going up there for a week. But that's a whole different story.
In the meantime Red and I had to get back home. R. drove us to the airport, and to my delight, we crossed over the Hackensack and Passaic Rivers, and we actually got a little lost in Newark because R. got off at the wrong turn, and that kind of thing punishes you badly in Jersey. He wound up cutting through Newark itself to follow the GPS instructions one he got off at the wrong exit. Newark is one of my favorite cities, and it was treat to see it at ground level on our way to the airport.
Our flight had us waiting at gate where one could see out the window to the Busch brewery. The sight of it reminded me again of the night in August 1985 where I spent the night under a fir tree in the island outside the front of the airport by the parking lot. I had eleven dollars in my pocket, and to my name, and a needed every last sent to augment the ticket voucher I had in order to get back home from a summer in Europe. It was one of the most serene nights of my life, to be young and broke and sleeping carefree under a fir tree at Newark Airport. It was so long ago.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Ode on a Vessel in the City of Love
How could it not be the most beautiful thing in the City? I thought to myself, staring in marvel at the enormous entity before me.
A hour before, I had arrived at the bookstore of Chelsea Market, and finding the rest of the group, I had perused the books there a little, to get the feel of what the staff picks are---always very vocal about their politics lately, just like the bookstore in Princeton we had visited.
Then we got lunch at a French bakery there, and waited for our sandwiches at a metal table with metal chairs in the main corridor, people watching and meditating. Then we ate our meal. They explained to me that they had just been on the High Line, the new above-ground park that had been built on an former decommissioned elevated train line, and which went north from Chelsea Market (which I would realize later was a big reason that Chelsea Market felt like the center of the City now). I had heard about the High Line from years ago, and knew they had planned to do it, but I had long since lost track of the project, and was not even aware that it had been completed and was open to the public.
All of them were enthusiastic about it, and I realize I had missed out on something I should have seen, but as it happened I didn't even have to ask before Red suggested they take another walk on it, since they had liked it so much it.
So after lunch, we walked over to the stairs that led up to it, and at the top I instantly realized what an awesome project it was, and that it was in fact revolutionary, and would change the entire nature of the City, and perhaps many other cities, over time.
I had pictured something wide and airy, and straight. Instead it was sinewy narrow path but above ground, hemmed in closely by the buildings around it. One saw right into some of them. The path on the walkway was lined with planted trees. There were areas off to the side of the path to sit on benches. In fact it felt like being on an elevated walkway inside a zoo. Even the netting they had placed gave it a feeling of being in a walk-in building where the wildlife was around you.
It was spectacular. I had never experienced anything like it. It was already changing the geography and real estate around it. It would only be the start, I knew.
It took us about twenty minutes to navigate up to the north end. There was enough shade from the building and the installed plants that even Red didn't mind the heat and the sun. It was she in fact who had wanted to walk it a second time.
At the north end was the most spectacular thing the elevated walkway came out onto an elevated plaza, where one could see down one of the streets out to the river and to New Jersey. Here there was a fancy department store that one could enter right off the plaza. But there in the plaza in the corner was an enormous sculpture and structure, three stories tall at least. It was called the Vessel. It was in fact a giant outdoor staircase that one could climb to the top One had to buy tickets in order to access the outdoor stairs to climb to the top of the Vessel. I wasn't interested in that at the moment. It was enough just to see it, and be stunned by it.
It was, I realized in that moment, the utter concrete fulfillment of the Burning Man experience inside the City. I had known of this trend, of making Burning Man a living presence inside of cities. I had seen it in Denver a little bit. But this was the apotheosis of that trend. It was pure fun. Something in the air to climb for no reason at all but for amusement and gaiety.
It was everything I would want Beauty to be in that moment. Standing by itself, self-sufficient, autonomous, It overwhelmed me and to be overwhelmed like that was a pleasure that only happens that way every now and again. Among other things it releases me utterly from the burden of understanding the City in any deep way, beyond the surface way I have experienced it. The City doesn't need to be mine. It can't be mine.
For what is the City in my mind but that imaginary set of spatial axes in a structure called to being in my mind, an imagined simultaneous slice-of-time of the City as it is right now, or at any moment, a snapshot of its real reality, but a reality which I or anyone else cannot possibly access or know? By reason these structures of the simultaneous City in our minds for which we have to fill in all the gaps between the bits we've seen can't possibly exist in reality. Yet we use them, the structures, to imagine the City as real as the real City, and to love it as the City we think it is, in its fleetingness, in the few moments we have when our imagined City is anything remotely close to the real one.
A hour before, I had arrived at the bookstore of Chelsea Market, and finding the rest of the group, I had perused the books there a little, to get the feel of what the staff picks are---always very vocal about their politics lately, just like the bookstore in Princeton we had visited.
Then we got lunch at a French bakery there, and waited for our sandwiches at a metal table with metal chairs in the main corridor, people watching and meditating. Then we ate our meal. They explained to me that they had just been on the High Line, the new above-ground park that had been built on an former decommissioned elevated train line, and which went north from Chelsea Market (which I would realize later was a big reason that Chelsea Market felt like the center of the City now). I had heard about the High Line from years ago, and knew they had planned to do it, but I had long since lost track of the project, and was not even aware that it had been completed and was open to the public.
All of them were enthusiastic about it, and I realize I had missed out on something I should have seen, but as it happened I didn't even have to ask before Red suggested they take another walk on it, since they had liked it so much it.
So after lunch, we walked over to the stairs that led up to it, and at the top I instantly realized what an awesome project it was, and that it was in fact revolutionary, and would change the entire nature of the City, and perhaps many other cities, over time.
I had pictured something wide and airy, and straight. Instead it was sinewy narrow path but above ground, hemmed in closely by the buildings around it. One saw right into some of them. The path on the walkway was lined with planted trees. There were areas off to the side of the path to sit on benches. In fact it felt like being on an elevated walkway inside a zoo. Even the netting they had placed gave it a feeling of being in a walk-in building where the wildlife was around you.
It was spectacular. I had never experienced anything like it. It was already changing the geography and real estate around it. It would only be the start, I knew.
It took us about twenty minutes to navigate up to the north end. There was enough shade from the building and the installed plants that even Red didn't mind the heat and the sun. It was she in fact who had wanted to walk it a second time.
At the north end was the most spectacular thing the elevated walkway came out onto an elevated plaza, where one could see down one of the streets out to the river and to New Jersey. Here there was a fancy department store that one could enter right off the plaza. But there in the plaza in the corner was an enormous sculpture and structure, three stories tall at least. It was called the Vessel. It was in fact a giant outdoor staircase that one could climb to the top One had to buy tickets in order to access the outdoor stairs to climb to the top of the Vessel. I wasn't interested in that at the moment. It was enough just to see it, and be stunned by it.
It was, I realized in that moment, the utter concrete fulfillment of the Burning Man experience inside the City. I had known of this trend, of making Burning Man a living presence inside of cities. I had seen it in Denver a little bit. But this was the apotheosis of that trend. It was pure fun. Something in the air to climb for no reason at all but for amusement and gaiety.
It was everything I would want Beauty to be in that moment. Standing by itself, self-sufficient, autonomous, It overwhelmed me and to be overwhelmed like that was a pleasure that only happens that way every now and again. Among other things it releases me utterly from the burden of understanding the City in any deep way, beyond the surface way I have experienced it. The City doesn't need to be mine. It can't be mine.
For what is the City in my mind but that imaginary set of spatial axes in a structure called to being in my mind, an imagined simultaneous slice-of-time of the City as it is right now, or at any moment, a snapshot of its real reality, but a reality which I or anyone else cannot possibly access or know? By reason these structures of the simultaneous City in our minds for which we have to fill in all the gaps between the bits we've seen can't possibly exist in reality. Yet we use them, the structures, to imagine the City as real as the real City, and to love it as the City we think it is, in its fleetingness, in the few moments we have when our imagined City is anything remotely close to the real one.
The Beating Heart of Manhattan on Tenth Avenue
After the lunch with Zeke, it was time to get back up into the city. Before I went down into the subway I took one last perplexed look at the new skyline, knowing that, from the appearance of construction cranes amidst the already built towers, the layout of the building would probably be very different the next time I saw it, whenever that was.
Heading back to Manhattan, I made sure to catch the Express, which is a nicer, bigger train than the local. Many people, even locals, don't realize how different the subway lines are, until it becomes obvious to them. It turns out the various lines were built in epochs of construction that now interweave in non-obvious fashion, but reflect a broad archaeology of time within the city's history.
The plan was for me to meet up with the rest of the gang. Originally they had thought to come into Brooklyn, but that morning in Jersey City they had decided to go back only into the City itself, which was much more accessible for a leisurely outing, considering they had already checked out of the hotel, and had put our luggage into a locked storage room at reception.
Red had thus texted to meet them at the bookstore in Chelsea Market, which is on the west side, near the river, in the Chelsea Neighborhood of course. I had only vaguely heard of Chelsea Market. I didn't know what it was. After getting off the subway, it took me a few blocks of navigating the neighborhood, full of rainbow flags for the ongoing and never-ending party that they symbolize, to find the location and finally cross the last busy avenue, where as I did I paused to take a picture of a cool steakhouse sign outside a door, and thought of the movie starring Margaret O'Brien about the miracle of the kneeling cow. On the other side of the traffic was the entrance of a large restored brick factory building, and I went inside.
Inside actually turned out to be nice. It was an indoor mall---a long hall crammed with people like a busy airport concourse, going amidst upscale and gourmet type shops of foodstuffs and other items. I had to ask for the location of the bookstore, and was told it was way down the hallway, which was quite a walk as it happens. Whatever Chelsea Market was, it had certainly come into its own in the current epoch of 2019. It was the place to be, for both locals and out-of-towners. It reminded me of what old Penn Station probably felt like, in the heyday of rail, except a modern yuppie-trendy version reflecting our Ultraprosperous Era, and all of our disposal incomes in this Ultraprosperous City.
Heading back to Manhattan, I made sure to catch the Express, which is a nicer, bigger train than the local. Many people, even locals, don't realize how different the subway lines are, until it becomes obvious to them. It turns out the various lines were built in epochs of construction that now interweave in non-obvious fashion, but reflect a broad archaeology of time within the city's history.
The plan was for me to meet up with the rest of the gang. Originally they had thought to come into Brooklyn, but that morning in Jersey City they had decided to go back only into the City itself, which was much more accessible for a leisurely outing, considering they had already checked out of the hotel, and had put our luggage into a locked storage room at reception.
Red had thus texted to meet them at the bookstore in Chelsea Market, which is on the west side, near the river, in the Chelsea Neighborhood of course. I had only vaguely heard of Chelsea Market. I didn't know what it was. After getting off the subway, it took me a few blocks of navigating the neighborhood, full of rainbow flags for the ongoing and never-ending party that they symbolize, to find the location and finally cross the last busy avenue, where as I did I paused to take a picture of a cool steakhouse sign outside a door, and thought of the movie starring Margaret O'Brien about the miracle of the kneeling cow. On the other side of the traffic was the entrance of a large restored brick factory building, and I went inside.
Inside actually turned out to be nice. It was an indoor mall---a long hall crammed with people like a busy airport concourse, going amidst upscale and gourmet type shops of foodstuffs and other items. I had to ask for the location of the bookstore, and was told it was way down the hallway, which was quite a walk as it happens. Whatever Chelsea Market was, it had certainly come into its own in the current epoch of 2019. It was the place to be, for both locals and out-of-towners. It reminded me of what old Penn Station probably felt like, in the heyday of rail, except a modern yuppie-trendy version reflecting our Ultraprosperous Era, and all of our disposal incomes in this Ultraprosperous City.
Breakfast in Brooklyn, with Added Enthusiasm
It was always good to see Zeke. He's such an upbeat person most of the time and he expresses lots of positive energy in the way he communicates. In business terms it makes him a good salesman.
Most of the time during breakfast we talked about the doings in Portland, at the place where he was a partner, and for which I had contracted as a consultant. They had new offices, among other things. They were deep into a project for a longtime partner, a large streaming music service. Ironically their headquarters was in the new 4 World Trade Center. Zeke had sometimes called me from their offices, when he was on site.
The current project was a new level of project for them, however, even for the same client. It went beyond the usual marketing web sites they had built for the service in the past, with complex design graphics and animations, to now to building for them a full web application with a login accounts backed by a database, and all that entails. I liked the fact that I was in New York talking about databases again. It was fun.
At the end of the meal, when it was time for him to catch his ride into the City, I trotted out my posters. I have to show you something, I said very humbly. Zeke's not a designer but he is close to that community, as has the eye for a designer's taste in things, from the business he was in. I knew if I got any traction of spontaneous enthusiasm in his response, above and beyond the police enthusiasm he would offer under any result of his judgment, then I was on the right track with my designs. He was intrigued enough to want to see more. That was the confirmation I needed.
Most of the time during breakfast we talked about the doings in Portland, at the place where he was a partner, and for which I had contracted as a consultant. They had new offices, among other things. They were deep into a project for a longtime partner, a large streaming music service. Ironically their headquarters was in the new 4 World Trade Center. Zeke had sometimes called me from their offices, when he was on site.
The current project was a new level of project for them, however, even for the same client. It went beyond the usual marketing web sites they had built for the service in the past, with complex design graphics and animations, to now to building for them a full web application with a login accounts backed by a database, and all that entails. I liked the fact that I was in New York talking about databases again. It was fun.
At the end of the meal, when it was time for him to catch his ride into the City, I trotted out my posters. I have to show you something, I said very humbly. Zeke's not a designer but he is close to that community, as has the eye for a designer's taste in things, from the business he was in. I knew if I got any traction of spontaneous enthusiasm in his response, above and beyond the police enthusiasm he would offer under any result of his judgment, then I was on the right track with my designs. He was intrigued enough to want to see more. That was the confirmation I needed.
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Business in Brooklyn
Brooklyn sure had changed a lot, I thought to myself, after coming up out of the subway on Flatbush Avenue. "Jeeps---" I said, noticing the obvious at last, "it's got a skyline now." The old Williamsburg Bank Building had rivals alongside it now, a whole cluster down Flatbush Avenue towards downtown Brooklyn.
I had arrived about twenty minutes early. Zeke had texted me that he would set out by Uber from his place in Fort Greene, once his meeting was over. With some time to kill, I wandered around the neighborhood, past the usual row of bars and Modell's Sporting Goods, and other discounters one finds in every neighborhood of the city. A light rain started, and I took refuge about a block from the rendezvous point under the giant roof that overhangs the outdoor plaza in front of the basketball arena, where the professional basketball team of Brooklyn plays their games.
Getting a sports franchise back in Brooklyn, even a basketball team, was a big deal to some people, on the idea of giving Brooklyn its own identity (in the post-modern Pop Culture sense to be sure). The great irony for me was that the arena had sold its naming rights to the exact British bank that I had worked for at 222 Broadway. In those days the bank was well known in Europe but hardly known at all in the United States. The initiative in 2000 that they employed me for was to help propel it a greater market share. It felt awkward that somehow all that had succeeded, despite my not really giving a hoot about it all.
Zeke texted me he was running behind, so he suggested I go inside to the restaurant if I wanted, which I did. It was just getting started. Hardly anyone there at that hour of mid morning. Small and cozy. A woman, obviously a regular, was chatting up the one guy on duty.. It was hip and comfortable. The tables were nice thick varnished wood. I sat in the booth by the window and ordered some coffee, telling the benevolent slacker waiter that another person was coming. It was all cool.
When the coffee came I poured cream into it, and took a sip, then took the turquoise plastic tube, took the top off, and shook it upside down to the empty the contents onto the seat next to me.
I liked to take the posters I had made out of the tube as much as possible, so they wouldn't acquire a permanent warp. I found they relaxed well to almost flatness after a half hour. I wanted them to look as nice as possible when Zeke arrived.
I had arrived about twenty minutes early. Zeke had texted me that he would set out by Uber from his place in Fort Greene, once his meeting was over. With some time to kill, I wandered around the neighborhood, past the usual row of bars and Modell's Sporting Goods, and other discounters one finds in every neighborhood of the city. A light rain started, and I took refuge about a block from the rendezvous point under the giant roof that overhangs the outdoor plaza in front of the basketball arena, where the professional basketball team of Brooklyn plays their games.
Getting a sports franchise back in Brooklyn, even a basketball team, was a big deal to some people, on the idea of giving Brooklyn its own identity (in the post-modern Pop Culture sense to be sure). The great irony for me was that the arena had sold its naming rights to the exact British bank that I had worked for at 222 Broadway. In those days the bank was well known in Europe but hardly known at all in the United States. The initiative in 2000 that they employed me for was to help propel it a greater market share. It felt awkward that somehow all that had succeeded, despite my not really giving a hoot about it all.
Zeke texted me he was running behind, so he suggested I go inside to the restaurant if I wanted, which I did. It was just getting started. Hardly anyone there at that hour of mid morning. Small and cozy. A woman, obviously a regular, was chatting up the one guy on duty.. It was hip and comfortable. The tables were nice thick varnished wood. I sat in the booth by the window and ordered some coffee, telling the benevolent slacker waiter that another person was coming. It was all cool.
When the coffee came I poured cream into it, and took a sip, then took the turquoise plastic tube, took the top off, and shook it upside down to the empty the contents onto the seat next to me.
I liked to take the posters I had made out of the tube as much as possible, so they wouldn't acquire a permanent warp. I found they relaxed well to almost flatness after a half hour. I wanted them to look as nice as possible when Zeke arrived.
The New Commuter Finds The City
The next day was, as Derrida might say, purely supplementary.
I got up early in our hotel room in Jersey City, and before the rest had even gotten to breakfast, I got dressed and made a quick cup of coffee i in the room. Then left the room, by myself, and using the elevator, went down to the reception area on the second floor, which had a great view down the river. Then I used the escalators from there down to the ground level of the pier, where I went through the glass revolving doors and out on to sidewalk that runs in front of the buildings along the river.
I was carrying, slung over my shoulder, a plastic tube, about three inches in diameter and about twenty-four inches long. It was turquoise with a turquoise cap, and a black strap over my shoulder. I had carried it with me as luggage on the plane from Arizona, and then in the car up to Jersey City into the hotel room. Finally it was time to put it into action.
I took it with me as I found the entrance to the PATH station, with its glass doors lobby. It was quite a line at the ticket machine. It took me five minutes to get a ticket, but I waited patiently---no point in being egotistical about the waiting that all of us were enduring. Nobody is better or worse than anyone else, when you are standing in a line like that, waiting for the machine to process the credit and debit cards.
Finally I got my ticket and went down the escalators to the platform, finding the one to go into the city, and not the one go towards Journal Square in Newark, although I have nothing against Newark. Today I was going into the City. I was commuting. Just like everyone else. It wasn't even play acting. It was real, bona fide, just like the old days. It felt beautiful to do that, and come up out into the station by the Oculus, like everyone else, and make my way up the small steps into the main sunlit cathedral area. Without lingering---lingering would have broken the flow---I kept going with the people around me and crossed the Oculus in laminar flow, and went into the hallway that led to the Number 4 Train.
I went down the long hallways, the succession of them, following one sign up and down stair cases like through a maze and finally got to the Number 4 train. I found the platform for the direction leading down to the tip of Manhattan, and I caught the train. It was half full, and easy to find a seat with the turquoise plastic tube. In a few stops we had come to the tip of the island. But I didn't get off here. I was going to a new place, on this new commute. It was a place I had never commuted to by subway. For this one day at least I was commuting into Brooklyn.
I got up early in our hotel room in Jersey City, and before the rest had even gotten to breakfast, I got dressed and made a quick cup of coffee i in the room. Then left the room, by myself, and using the elevator, went down to the reception area on the second floor, which had a great view down the river. Then I used the escalators from there down to the ground level of the pier, where I went through the glass revolving doors and out on to sidewalk that runs in front of the buildings along the river.
I was carrying, slung over my shoulder, a plastic tube, about three inches in diameter and about twenty-four inches long. It was turquoise with a turquoise cap, and a black strap over my shoulder. I had carried it with me as luggage on the plane from Arizona, and then in the car up to Jersey City into the hotel room. Finally it was time to put it into action.
I took it with me as I found the entrance to the PATH station, with its glass doors lobby. It was quite a line at the ticket machine. It took me five minutes to get a ticket, but I waited patiently---no point in being egotistical about the waiting that all of us were enduring. Nobody is better or worse than anyone else, when you are standing in a line like that, waiting for the machine to process the credit and debit cards.
Finally I got my ticket and went down the escalators to the platform, finding the one to go into the city, and not the one go towards Journal Square in Newark, although I have nothing against Newark. Today I was going into the City. I was commuting. Just like everyone else. It wasn't even play acting. It was real, bona fide, just like the old days. It felt beautiful to do that, and come up out into the station by the Oculus, like everyone else, and make my way up the small steps into the main sunlit cathedral area. Without lingering---lingering would have broken the flow---I kept going with the people around me and crossed the Oculus in laminar flow, and went into the hallway that led to the Number 4 Train.
I went down the long hallways, the succession of them, following one sign up and down stair cases like through a maze and finally got to the Number 4 train. I found the platform for the direction leading down to the tip of Manhattan, and I caught the train. It was half full, and easy to find a seat with the turquoise plastic tube. In a few stops we had come to the tip of the island. But I didn't get off here. I was going to a new place, on this new commute. It was a place I had never commuted to by subway. For this one day at least I was commuting into Brooklyn.
When the Dream Penetrates Reality
Sometimes the surreality of a moment---the penetration of a true dream-like experience into the concrete world of waking consciousness---is so overpowering that there is nothing to do about it but imply it.
From the World Trade Center, I took the group on a gentle arc of a tour through the tip of lower Manhattan, down through the Financial District.
Heading west from the site we walked up Fulton Street alongside St.Paul's Church, where the great Montgomery who fell at Quebec is buried, and the churchyard behind it, enclosed by the large spiked iron fence. I mentioned how Dey Street was one of the scenes of one of the most famous moments from 9/11, when a particular videographer caught the collapse of the North Tower, and the gush of the dust that came down the street alongside the churchyard to Broadway.
I took then around the front of the church, on the sidewalk along Broadway, directly across the street from old workplace at 222 Broadway. I told them that this stretch of the fence in front of the church is where the wall of posters, seeking out the disappeared and mourning the dead, had sprung up, with heaps of flowers at the foot of the fence, and stuffed animals tied to it.
Then I led them to the corner where Park Row cuts off at a diagonal from Broadway, and opens up into the City Park. I pointed out the Federal Building where there was no doubt legal activity going on in regard to a famous criminal who had just apprehended and was being held in the federal holding facility nearby.
We could barely see the Woolworth Building from that angle. I pointed out the Park Row tower, which used to be the tallest building in the world, as I told them, echoing the brief elevator-pitch tour I'd given to my British and American co-workers many years ago, from nearly the same spot.
Then we crossed Broadway, walking on the sidewalk in front of my old building and headed south on Broadway, passing by One Liberty Plaza, the old Helmsley Building, and the Equitable Building, where at each recognizable structure I gave a couple sentences about its significance and history.
Then at Wall Street we turned and followed the famous little street down past Federal Hall and the statue of George Washing. Being with Ohioans, I made sure to have a picture taken with my cellphone in front of the plaque commemorating the Northwest Ordinance of 1787.
I showed them all the stuff you're supposed to see, like the holes in the front of the Morgan Bank caused by the car bombing in 1920, and 40 Wall Street, and of course the original headquarters of a famous private bank down at the bottom of the hill on Pearl Street.
To finish the tour we wound up at the famous historical Fraunces Tavern, having drinks, and thinking about George Washington and his officers. I had not been inside for a long time, maybe ever, in order to have something to drink.
On the way back to the ferry terminal, walking back up Broadway, we passed by the old Customs House and Bowling Green, where, upon hearing the Declaration of Independence proclaimed on July 9, the revolutionaries had torn down the statue of George III. R. was interested in hearing me point the locations of the great shipping lines of the early and mid Twentieth Century.
Of course there ones find the statue of Charging Bull. How much it had changed.The bull was mobbed and nearly draped with folks taking selfies. I t was one of the mot popular things in the city. The little island on which it stood was impossible to access We opted out of taking any of our own photos.
Before cutting back up to the ferry terminal, we topped at Trinity Church. K's parents had married there, after emigrating from Wales and Sweden, the two of them. Of course we sought out Hamilton's grave (which is covered in loose coins that folks have stacked there out of respect). We also passed by the grave of Robert Fulton, but only I seemed to care about it much.
Probably the most surreal thing that day, something that could have been a dream, had a I dreamed it years ago, but is now an actual reality, was the transformation of the building where I used to work. The old entrance on Broadway, with its covered modernist portico, with an Au Bon Pain where I would get a pastry in the morning after coming out of the subway at the corner of Fulton and Broadway---that whole facade was gone. The entrance of the building had been moved around onto Fulton Street. In its place along Broadway, facing across from St. Paul's, was an entirely new first floor fronting broadway---a well known women's clothing retailer, the sight of which made me laugh out loud when I first glimpsed on while on our tour.
From the World Trade Center, I took the group on a gentle arc of a tour through the tip of lower Manhattan, down through the Financial District.
Heading west from the site we walked up Fulton Street alongside St.Paul's Church, where the great Montgomery who fell at Quebec is buried, and the churchyard behind it, enclosed by the large spiked iron fence. I mentioned how Dey Street was one of the scenes of one of the most famous moments from 9/11, when a particular videographer caught the collapse of the North Tower, and the gush of the dust that came down the street alongside the churchyard to Broadway.
I took then around the front of the church, on the sidewalk along Broadway, directly across the street from old workplace at 222 Broadway. I told them that this stretch of the fence in front of the church is where the wall of posters, seeking out the disappeared and mourning the dead, had sprung up, with heaps of flowers at the foot of the fence, and stuffed animals tied to it.
Then I led them to the corner where Park Row cuts off at a diagonal from Broadway, and opens up into the City Park. I pointed out the Federal Building where there was no doubt legal activity going on in regard to a famous criminal who had just apprehended and was being held in the federal holding facility nearby.
We could barely see the Woolworth Building from that angle. I pointed out the Park Row tower, which used to be the tallest building in the world, as I told them, echoing the brief elevator-pitch tour I'd given to my British and American co-workers many years ago, from nearly the same spot.
Then we crossed Broadway, walking on the sidewalk in front of my old building and headed south on Broadway, passing by One Liberty Plaza, the old Helmsley Building, and the Equitable Building, where at each recognizable structure I gave a couple sentences about its significance and history.
Then at Wall Street we turned and followed the famous little street down past Federal Hall and the statue of George Washing. Being with Ohioans, I made sure to have a picture taken with my cellphone in front of the plaque commemorating the Northwest Ordinance of 1787.
I showed them all the stuff you're supposed to see, like the holes in the front of the Morgan Bank caused by the car bombing in 1920, and 40 Wall Street, and of course the original headquarters of a famous private bank down at the bottom of the hill on Pearl Street.
To finish the tour we wound up at the famous historical Fraunces Tavern, having drinks, and thinking about George Washington and his officers. I had not been inside for a long time, maybe ever, in order to have something to drink.
On the way back to the ferry terminal, walking back up Broadway, we passed by the old Customs House and Bowling Green, where, upon hearing the Declaration of Independence proclaimed on July 9, the revolutionaries had torn down the statue of George III. R. was interested in hearing me point the locations of the great shipping lines of the early and mid Twentieth Century.
Of course there ones find the statue of Charging Bull. How much it had changed.The bull was mobbed and nearly draped with folks taking selfies. I t was one of the mot popular things in the city. The little island on which it stood was impossible to access We opted out of taking any of our own photos.
Before cutting back up to the ferry terminal, we topped at Trinity Church. K's parents had married there, after emigrating from Wales and Sweden, the two of them. Of course we sought out Hamilton's grave (which is covered in loose coins that folks have stacked there out of respect). We also passed by the grave of Robert Fulton, but only I seemed to care about it much.
Probably the most surreal thing that day, something that could have been a dream, had a I dreamed it years ago, but is now an actual reality, was the transformation of the building where I used to work. The old entrance on Broadway, with its covered modernist portico, with an Au Bon Pain where I would get a pastry in the morning after coming out of the subway at the corner of Fulton and Broadway---that whole facade was gone. The entrance of the building had been moved around onto Fulton Street. In its place along Broadway, facing across from St. Paul's, was an entirely new first floor fronting broadway---a well known women's clothing retailer, the sight of which made me laugh out loud when I first glimpsed on while on our tour.
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