Escaping Reality

“One belongs to New York instantly; one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.” – Thomas Wolfe

        Grand Central Terminal is the embodiment of what is truly New York.  It flourishes with personality giving it a life of its’ own, yet representing New York all at once.  At Grand Central the Metro North Trains pull in before the sun even hits the sky, while underground the subways have been running all night. The escalators are programmed to only run upwards in the morning; in anticipation of the traffic about occur.  Each kiosk begins to open up, light illuminating every window display.  Downstairs waiters take down chairs and tables, and then set up for the stream of people about to appear for the breakfast, then lunch rush. The MTA staff awaits and anticipates the swarm of people ready to arrive and leave the city. While Grand Central boasts shops, hidden troves, restaurants, and the entrance to the city, the people that leave their footprints are what makes the journey each day a new adventure, giving Grand Central its own identity.

            Within the past few weeks, I have taken the time to walk through Grand Central.  I took in the sights, and the breath taking architecture that is difficult to ignore.  The stores that line the hallway are not your average mass production stores, rather small, unique, and set apart from what the big city has to offer. Until I realized that these structures and stores are not what allow Grand Central to take on a life of its own.  As I walked past numerous people something occurred to me, that it is in fact these same people that make Grand Central distinct.  It is the energy of the different people that walk through this mini-neighborhood every day without fail.

            The first swarms of people to arrive are the business men and women.  They flow out of each track by the hundreds.  The men are typically dressed in floor length black trench coats and their brief cases handy, striding past in their shiny leather shoes. On the other hand, women have their stockings peeking through from underneath their skirts, though there are dressed as if ready to walk the runway, they are sporting sneakers—their heels in one hand, purse on the opposite shoulder.  Silently both groups of people pulse their way through, words are unnecessary because their motives are clear: to enter Grand Central and then exit only returning on their lunch hour to enjoy a meal alone, or with some one from the office.  Grand Central slowly becomes their home away from home; the vital places in their lives include home, work and Grand Central.

            The next sets of people to arrive are the families and field trips.  Parents pushing strollers out of the center of the isle to avoid blocking anyone’s path becomes typical and other moms and dads dragging their tearful two-year-old to the side by their wrist.  Unlike the school field trip children who sit in circles on the floor ready to buddy up before they embark on their adventure into the city.  The kids are dressed in matching attire, adorning their school in one way or another, while a frantic teacher counts and recounts heads. The city, as well as Grand Central, is not truly complete without the fresh minds ready to provide a new perspective.       

            The people that never really walk through, but aimlessly wander around Grand Central are the bums.  While sad to say that life has had to be so cruel to leave them homeless, their new roof is Grand Central.  At the very least, they have some shelter to look forward to.  Usually older people can be seen digging through the trash in search of their next meal.   The most recent addition that I’ve walked by has been the war veteran who has lost his legs.  Living up to their true potential, New Yorkers do not turn a blind eye, instead searching through their bags for change, giving these people hope to return the next day.

            Lastly, it’s easy to pick out a tourist in the Grand Central crowd, not because they are usually in the way, but rather they are the ones who get appreciate the sights that tend to become a blur in the peripheral vision.  Standing with their faces toward the ceiling, they admire what many fall short of even noticing.  Whereas on any other day, at any other time, it would be common, almost expected, to look up at what has stopped these people dead in their tracks, in New York City where time is money, these tourists become statues—familiar landmarks—to look for and avoid when walking through Grand Central.

            Walking through Grand Central Terminal is part of my routine as well.  From Monday through Thursday, I only see what’s in between the Metro North trains and the MTA subway.  It is on a rare occasion that I find myself stepping out of the chosen route I have set up; those times are still only to grab a quick bite at whichever little stand is more convenient—basically the closest one to my terminal. 

            At first I wasn’t sure where to place myself among these people.  Am I a New Yorker too? I seem so out of place from the ordinary businessperson, yet would not consider myself to be a tourist.  Because I currently live in New Rochelle, a suburb on the outskirts of the city, that is what I have found myself identifying with.  Yet, I too have found myself succumbing to the routine of the nine-to-five commuter, so I have found puts me as well as them into the category of, simply put, a New Yorker.

            Grand Central can be seen as the heart of New York City.  People come and go keeping this city alive with personality and energy.  Though their destinations may vary, these people all share the same journey through New York’s entrance.  Without ever occurring to them, they are what give Grand Central an identity due to their own endeavors.  I find myself among this flow of people, knowing that my own identity is not lost in the crowd, rather enhanced by the beauty of the city’s life.