Christine
Close your eyes.
Be with me.
Imagine that I am stepping off of the front stoop of my
old apartment building. That I am strolling along the Upper West Side,
like always. Just like any other morning.
It is a splendid, sunlit day, and I am wearing my brand-new
Gucci pumps. Walking across 110th Street, I take the rustic, parkside staircase
into the tiled recesses of the Cathedral Parkway station. It may have originally
opened in 1904, but for my money it doesn't look a day over 60.
I wonder, sometimes, what it must have been like to be
alive back then, when all of this was different. Before the city had made,
erased, and remade itself fifty times over. In my fantasy world, everything
must have been slower--easier, even. I like to think that if we could somehow
slow down the passage of time, if we could eke just a little bit more out
of each minute, then we could get more depth out of life. That things might
taste a bit richer, more diffuse. That we could experience the fullness
of sound. That we could feel things more deeply--and longer.
Standing on the platform, I steal a glance at my new Gucci's.
They are polished, sleek, and fierce. If I have to live in the twenty-first
century, I might as well enjoy its most expensive, elite footwear.
"You are practical in all things except shoes,"
my friend Melissa reminded me as we patrolled the aisles of Verve last
weekend.
You got that right, Melissa.
On the subway car, the 1 line streaks along Central Park,
through Columbus Circle and 50th Street, alighting at Times Square and
cutting a southerly swathe through the 30s and 20s before taking dead aim
at the Financial District by way of the four brothers--Christopher, Houston,
Canal, and Franklin streets. As the train makes its trek along Manhattan's
underbelly, I feel like people are staring at me. That they're giving me
the once-over.
It's gotta be the shoes.
Flipping my MetroCard over and over in my hands, I prepare
to disembark at the Chambers Street station. Just like every morning.
And then it happens. Calamity.
The car's automatic doors slide open, and the inevitable
forward momentum takes over. Despite the relative slightness of its heel,
my right shoe lodges in the rubber-grooved runner that graces the exit.
With the rush-hour pedestrian traffic pushing ever forward, my entire leg
wrenches inside the Gucci before the force of the other passengers plunges
me out of the car, landing me face-to-face with one of the stone mosaics
pocking the walls of the station.
A gigantic blue eye.
Placid and unmoving, the massive eyeball stares at me-without
judgment, without emotion. What could it possibly be seeing?
As I catch my breath on the platform, I lift up my pump
for closer inspection. My calf may be throbbing like nobody's business,
but there's not a scratch on my Gucci. These must be really good shoes.
As the subway car pulls out of the station, I realize
what a close call that was. Even several minutes later, I can still feel
the adrenaline rush. For a moment there, in the midst of all that panic
and uncertainty, it felt like I was on the precipice of experiencing the
end.
Caught up in the sway of passengers disembarking the 1--not
to mention the deluge of New Jersey riders emerging from the bowels of
the PATH tunnels--I make my way through the concourse. Past Banana Republic
and the Gap, past Papyrus and the Ann Taylor Loft, discount prices and
all. Just ahead, the massive bank of escalators beckons upward.
WORLD TRADE CENTER, announces the marquee above the moving
stairs.
Having averted disaster back on the Chambers Street platform, I join the
ascending throng.
It is scarcely half past seven, and the towering, multi-story
lobby already teems with commuters. Encased within the building's marbled
walls and golden trim, we comprise the perfect picture of the workaday
world. We are bathed in the warm glow of a new day as the morning sunlight
pours in through the lobby's massive windows. Just above our collective
heads, a phalanx of pedestrian traffic marches along the mezzanine that
lines the building's perimeter.
It is a magnificent sight to behold. For a moment, I am
able to forget about the incredible pain that courses through my bruised
ankle. Even after lo these many years, I still can't believe that I work
here--that I wake up every day and get to ensconce myself in this dazzling
metropolitan palace.
You'd have to be pretty jaded not to be impressed by this place. It's like
the Pyramids--and I'm only half kidding. You can tell the regulars from
the short-timers fairly easily. The regulars know the stats, the history
of the Trade Center. And I'm no short-timer. I'm about as regular as they
come.
It took four years and thousands of laborers just to construct
the building itself, not to mention a six-year design phase. Each floor
is over 200 feet wide, with a full acre of usable space. An acre.
And then there's the height--110 stories at 1,350 feet.
You can see nearly 50 miles in every direction. On a clear day, you can
even glimpse the pristine shores of Connecticut. That's right--Connecticut!
The building's vast bank of elevators waits at the core
of the lobby. The express is out of service, so I take one of the regular
elevators--up up up!--to the Sky Lobby on 78 before transferring
to another car for my final trek to the 107th floor, where the workday
is only just getting started. An ear-popping minute ago I was waiting in
the lobby of 1 World Trade Center. Now I'm standing at the entrance to
lower Manhattan's most breathtaking eatery.
WINDOWS ON THE WORLD, reads the placard in our lobby in
the sky.
And you are with me.