For 2 years, I took a class every Monday night at the World Trade Center, in the North Tower. The ritual was: I would take the A train downtown, get off at Chambers Street, walk a couple blocks, and cross the massive courtyard to enter the building. I loved it down there, mostly because it was foreign to me – I never spent a lot of time down on Wall Street and it is a whole different world down there. The streets feel like canyons. People struggle to open doors against the wind tunnel effect. But then you emerge onto that courtyard – open, expansive, abstract – with the towers screaming up into the empty sky above you, and you just know that there’s no other place in the city like it. Something about the landscape around the World Trade Center, wide-open, concrete, extremely PLANNED, reminded me of DeChirico’s eerie paintings, paintings that had haunted me since I first encountered them in Mrs. Franco’s humanities class in high school. Of course, the urban landscape down at the World Trade Center was always packed with people, and DeChirico’s paintings are always frighteningly empty – except for a long human shadow coming from around the corner, or teeny people in the far distance, dwarfed by the urban structures around them.
The World Trade Center was a part of my everyday life. I knew the security guards, especially one in particular who I really liked. I knew the guy in the coffee shop downstairs, who had my coffee ready for me by the time I got to the counter, having memorized what I liked within 2 days. I could make my way through that Concourse to the underground PATH station in my sleep. My class ended at 10, I think, or 9:45 … If we got out on time, then I would race down through the echoey Atrium (again, like a DeChirico painting – especially late at night – with the amphitheatre style marble steps, and the massive indoor palms – and everything glass – but since it was nighttime, all you saw was darkness all around you, strange reflections … an odd space, pregnant with meaning) – burst out through the doors, and tear down to the Hudson, where I would pick up the last ferry to Hoboken. If my class went a little late, then I would miss the ferry, and have to walk through the echoing empty Concourse – with the mannequins in the windows at the Gap standing still, all the lights off in the stores, nobody around, empty escalators running, me the only figure on them, smiling at the 8th security guard I saw at the bottom … and, of course, racing to catch the train when I heard it coming in, so that I wouldn’t have to sit in the bowels of the World Trade Center, in that echoing station by myself. Other random late-night folks were usually milling about, too. This was, after all, the financial district. People worked crazy hours.
But my main goal was to get out of class promptly so I could have the pleasure of taking the ferry.
The station for the ferry was outside the spectacular Atrium, and it was a floating tented dock in the Hudson. You got to it by walking on this metal ramp. As you stood in line to buy a ticket for the ferry, the entire dock bobbed up and down on the small waves of the Hudson. You could see the lights of Jersey across the way. Especially you could see this enormous lit-up clock – south of Jersey City, not sure what town it was in – Bayonne, maybe? When I say “enormous”, I mean that it is probably 10 stories tall. Maybe Mr. Bingley knows how big it is. You can easily see the time from all the way across the river. A couple of different ferries used the floating dock – one from Hoboken and the other from further south down the Jersey shore. You could see them leave their docks from across the river, and start to cross the water to get us. I always found that strangely exciting. Seeing my ferry set out from Hoboken, small, making its way south, getting larger, larger … until there it was … smacking up against the side of the floating dock. Normally, because I love the night, and I love wind, and I love water … I wouldn’t wait in the enclosed part of the floating dock. I would buy my ticket, walk back up the ramp onto the walkway that runs all around the periphery of the bottom of Manhattan … and stare out into the Hudson. I loved that part of my night. Even if it was freezing, I would choose to brave the elements. The splashing water against the side of the island of Manhattan, the strange achey creaking sounds that the dock made as it floated up and down … those were pretty much the only sounds. Way over there, on the river-side of the trade center, you didn’t really hear much traffic. It was just the sound of the water, maybe the wind, or raindrops …
I have such peaceful memories of those few minutes, squeezed into a busy day … my quiet time, my thoughts roaming free, but there was a mellowness to it, too. There was something soft about how my thoughts felt in my own head, after a long day, ready to go home and go to bed.
Odd. And again, made even more odd by the imposing buildings towering over us. It’s a landscape built for people. It is meant to be crowded. It only makes sense if it’s crowded. I suppose if I worked there, I would have a whole different experience of the place – I would experience it as a packed madhouse, filled with busy people going through turnstiles, and constant rivers of human beings, moving this way and that. I’ve temped in massive office buildings before, and I know what rush hours are like. But I was always at the World Trade Center on off-hours, so my memories of it are quieter, echoey … They have to do with silence … and … I’m trying to express this right. You know how some landscapes, whether man-made or natural, seem to just have so much meaning, in their very structure? Like: if you look at the Grand Canyon and you are indifferent, or unchanged … then frankly something is wrong with you. Not that you should have a particular experience … not that it should “fill you with awe” … No. There is no required response. But SOME thing should happen to you. The landscape is trying to tell you SOMEthing. When I first saw the Grand Canyon, I actually felt something akin to deep and powerful despair. I couldn’t take it in. Just trying to SEE IT made me feel that I never could really see it. There was no way I could comprehend the entirety of the thing, its massiveness, just the FACT that it is THERE is hard to deal with. The experience of looking filled me with hopelessness. I eventually got used to the size, the scope … or, no, that’s not the right way to say it. I managed to deal with it in small doses. I gave myself a lot of time to just stand there and stare. My point is is that there are certain places on this planet that seem to have some kind of message, or some kind of import … if you can only listen closely enough. I have felt the same thing on the Mall in Washington DC. Like: something is going on here. A cigar is not just a cigar. There is MEANING in the architecture, everything i see has a message for me … The World Trade Center, the Atrium, the Concourse, the floating dock … all of that stuff, on my Monday nights, felt like that for me. I never got used to it. I never was “over” it. I never strolled through there, not noticing where I was. This may sound like retrospective romanticizing, but I assure you it is not. I have the diary entries for my Monday evenings for over 2 years to prove it. It was almost as though the class I was taking was incidental, and not really important. The REAL thing to learn was from the concrete, and the space, and the quiet down there at that time of night.
The ferry would pull up, always with the same cute guys running it … I got to know their faces too, over those 2 years. They would open the gate, take our tickets, say “Hey, what’s up …” to the 10 of us who were waiting to get home across the river.
For the most part (especially if it was drizzly, or snowing, or cold) everyone would sit in the downstairs area, the enclosed area of the boat.
I don’t think I sat down there once. I always trudged up to the roof. I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH of it up there. I soaked it up. The wind in my face, all that stuff … I just loved it up there, and wished the boat ride were longer. I love being out on the water anyway, it reminds me of being a kid, and going out in the motorboat at Lake Sunapee, and how exhilarating it is to travel on water …
If nobody else was up there (and usually it was empty), I would lie down on my back across two of the benches, and stare up at the empty black sky – waiting for us to pull away. Because when we pulled away, and did a kind of ferry 3-point-turn, suddenly the glittering towers would swoop into my view blotting out the rest of the sky – and they were right overhead, they were so close. I would get vertigo. The boat would sweep around, the towers would sweep around, and everything seemed enormous and fluid – hard to tell if it was the boat that was moving away from the island, or if it was the island that was moving away from the boat. Then, I would watch the towers recede out of my view.
3 minutes later, we would pull up to the docks in Hoboken, with the same cute guys opening up the gate to let us off … and I would trudge through the station up to the street, to grab a cab home. My warm bed.
Somehow, if I took the train home, I didn’t get the same sense of release, freedom, openness, joy … as when I took the ferry. The ferry ride had the feeling of a “crossing”, in the mythicological sense. I know there are people who take the ferry every day, and they may be used to it, and may have no idea why I got such a kick out of it – but I never got used to it. I think part of it had to do with the fact that it was night-time, too. A quieter more reflective time, contemplative, people giving up the rush of the day.
I still have my World Trade Center identity card, which I needed in order to get into the building. My name’s printed on it, and the expiration date is 8/19/01.
Gut-wrenching. Just plain gut-wrenching.
I never saw the Towers. After 9/11 I dated a man who lost his wife on 9/11. He was in the North Tower, she was in the South. In the summer of 2003, when I visited him in New York, on the wall of his office was a picture of the skyline that spanned the entire room. It was narrow, but very long. The towers were right there, eye level, everyday. When I saw that, I saw the future and the past all at once. I ached for him, for his wife, for New York, for the people in the building, and even for myself, for never having made friends with them myself.
I just adore you for writing this, for bringing it back to me.
I went to college in Hoboken and the towers were a part of my view every day. Loved taking the ferry over vs. PATH – you got that right!
My Freshman year, me and 3 other guys tried to steal a WTC tractor/snow plow. Wouldn’t fit in the guy’s trunk. :)
Im glad you were in the moment. As silly and/or stupid as that sounds, the best pieces of life are the memories of being in the moment. Sometimes, as is the case in this situation, they are painful, too. But nonetheless, your experience is all that more powerful because you spent that time appreciating the moment.
Thanks for sharing.
RTG – Even though it may be a strange thing to say, I will always feel grateful that those buildings were in my life in that particular way.
Jon F –
One of my favorite spots in Hoboken is the Stevens campus- up on that hill. Amazing view of the skyline. On swelteringly hot nights my roommate and I (who had no AC) would walk up there and sleep on the viewing platform, to try to catch a breeze.
Oh, and by the way, Jon F…. thanks for stopping by. You’re kind of famous to me, just because RTG writes about you so much. :)
Gosh Red, I used to do exactly the same things. I took spanish classes at the World Trade Institute (or some such thing that the PA came up with to fill up some vacant floors), and I loved taking the ferry back over to catch the last train out of Hoboken, which was always a bit of a panic as the trains don’t run that late at night and I lived out in Bloomfield or New Brunswick at the time, which was a bit of a walk…
Do you remember how they used to use that orange plastic netting (the stuff they string arouond construction sites) at night to form human cattle chutes and funnel everybody into the Path Station so those of us who were drunk couldn’t wander aimlessly about the concourse? Heh. I was in the WTC nearly everyday for 15 years; it was always there. Damn.
I think the clock is in Jersey City, the big Colgate Clock. Without googling I’m not sure how big it is, but it’s big enough that it is easier to read the time on that clock across the widest part of the Hudson River than it is to read the watch on my wrist…
I wonder if we were ever on the ferry at the same time?? A funny thought, huh?
And hahaha with the cattle chute maneuver – totally!!
There’s nothing like being on the water.
I like the way you describe your response to the Grand Canyon, too–“something akin to deep and powerful despair.” I haven’t seen the Grand Canyon yet–nor Mount Rushmore–but I can recall a ghost of that feeling at Mammoth Cave. I think, I’m experiencing this and it’s amazing, but I’ll never “get the totality” of what I’m seeing (lousy phrase but it’s all I got this morning), let alone what lies beyond sight.
I actually thought Mount Rushmore was one of the most depressing places I had ever been on earth. It’s pretty cool to see the carvings as you approach … getting glimpses of them through the trees, etc. But the whole place had a really bad vibe to me. It’s not just how touristy it is, although that’s part of it. As you approach the Black Hills … you get this sense of awe and beauty. You can see why they were revered by American Indians, and seen as holy. They rise up out of the earth, blackly, and just stand there … they’re magnificent. But once you’re in the Black Hills (and sorry – if any of my readers live there – but so be it. This is one woman’s opinion) – you are not only in tourist hell, but you are in anything-for-a-buck hell, and you are also in a very poor area. It’s like the slums surrounding Atlantic City. It’s depressing – all this glitter and money – with poverty clinging to the edges of it. I saw a huge buffalo, in a pen so small that he couldn’t take one step. You could pay 5 bucks to go over and pet him. People have manmade “trout ponds” build beside their rickety trailer homes, where you can “fish” for 5 bucks. Of course, the “trout ponds” are no bigger than a kiddie pool, and the trout are so smashed in together that they can barely swim. There are slot machines EVERYWHERE. I found the entire experience really depressing, actually. My boyfriend and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
The Grand Canyon, however, is another story. Words can’t even describe the place. My boyfriend and I went on a night-time star-watching hike down the canyon, and I have never seen such stars in my life. And because of the darkness, you couldn’t see the canyon – but you just sensed this massive abyss all around you. Incredible.
Sorry, but for the rest of my life Mt. Rushmore will be inextricably tied to “Team America”.
“Fuck yeah!!”
In a minor key
A mehr i ca
fuuck
yeah
Ken, Rushmore is a little disappointing… its much smaller than it looks in photos, and overcrowded with tourists…
Mammoth Cave, however is amazing. The Canyon, too. And the summits of 14-ers.
And downtown in large cities, for sure…
i always love your NYC / WTC entries.
Jeez Red, ya got me a little weepy at work. Shame on you.
Thanks for this piece – it’s beautiful
RG
Brilliant work, Sheila. You really are an extraordinary writer. It’s hard for me to even put my reaction into words.
Maybe you guys are right. My whole mental picture of Mt. Rushmore comes from North by Northwest. :-P
Ken, you’re right. What with North By Northwest and Team America it makes one wonder just how many houses there are on Mt. Rushmore…
Ken – totally!! Hitchcock captures the odd-ness of the entire monument. And except for that one tourist-type lodge where they all meet up, the place seems deserted in the film.
Not true in real life. It’s jam-packed with obese rude people, and bratty fat little kids, who throw pebbles at the caged-in buffaloes and then laugh, and are more interested in the slot machines than the monument.
Sorry. I’m mean. But that’s what it felt like to me. Huge bummer. Where’s Cary Grant??
I’ve been lurking for a while (after being pointed here by beth), but I couldn’t *not* comment on this. Thanks for this eloquent and moving post.
I rode the ferry just once (03/20/01), but I can certainly see how that ride could inspire those feelings.
Iain, as red so movingly evokes, it was a magic place late at night. The sounds of the water slopping about against the ferry as it pulled out, the way the lights from the towers just illuminated the river…
Iain – thanks for de-lurking.
I love that you remember the exact date of your ferry ride. I think that’s cool.
If you ever find yourself near the Black Hills again, you might want to go to Jewel Cave NM, Wind Cave NP, and the Badlands. They feel much different.
I’d also recommend a trip through the various parks and monuments in Utah and Colorado, if you haven’t already done it. Zion, Black Canyon of the Gunnison, Colorado National Monument, Great Sand Dunes, Arches, Natural Bridges, … they’re amazing.
Doug –
I drove around the country with my boyfriend for a couple of months in a camper van and hit almost every place on your list. Not the Black Canyon one though …
I should post some pictures some time. We were on the road for months. Just going from place to place. So strange, so cool.
My favorite was North Dakota, of all places … it was truly a spiritual place for me … but I loved Badlands, and TR National Park … I loved the arches, too.
The Tetons freaked me out, for some reason. They seemed too young, too jagged. I don’t know. They frightened me.
Utah was like visiting Mars, or the great red spot on Jupiter. I liked Utah a lot, although the motor-biking Mormon families were total pains in the ass, and ruined some of our campsite experiences with their loud noise and throwing trash about indiscriminately.
I wrote a post about mountain biking in Moab … one of my favorite memories of the whole long trip. Because we actually stayed indoors, and had showers, and cold beers, as we watched cartoons in our motel. HEAVEN.
There’s a lot that’s nice in South Dakota, but Mt. Rushmore is most emphatically not one of those places. Fat people, slot machines, and trapped trout. That’s my memory of it.
The Black Canyon is an extraordinary sight. There are places where you can look straight down from the rim to the river nearly 2000 feet below. When I was last there, it was still a National Monument (it became a National Park only in 1999), and there were not many people about.
Also, it’s just north of an extraordinarily beautiful route through the Colorado Rockies. Highly recommended if you ever come back out this way.
Interesting that those feelings can be shared by so many different people. I, also, experienced it only once in my life-it was as magical as you just explained-and then some! Thanks for bringing those memories back to me so vividly.
red – it was one of those unforgettable days that you have maybe once in a lifetime, so remembering the date is really not a problem…