I have been struggling for the past weeks with my first memories and impressions of the urban and I’ve realize that impression is the more apt term for what these early experiences were. Difficult as it is for me to pick out a chronological stream of memories from my first trip to New York City at six, I’ve instead held deep down somewhere the feelings, fleeting images, and vague aromas of my childhood visits into ‘the city’, all of which I find I revisit with every city I enter into. The idea of initial exposures to cities contains with it a stamp that imprints on ones psyche the aspects they love or hate most about urban environments as a whole. For me the two points with which I both judge and remember any city are the development and/or redevelopment and the food. Let me get this straight as it is a key theme in my life: I think in two distinct languages, that of buildings and that of food, and I enjoy most when the two connect revealing a vision of the urban world unseen by most visitors.
The embodiment of my first exposure
to New York City can be summed up in three words: Grand Central Station. As a
child, coming into the vast structure from a small Connecticut town on the
MetroNorth Railway, a world larger than any other I’d known was contained under
a single grime-covered roof. In the early eighties Grand Central stood as a
decaying figurehead of the once awe-inspiring and then dying city. Both Grand
Central and Times Square shine as examples of how their rejuvenation encouraged
the upswing New York has experienced in the last decade and a half. Much can be
said about the history of Grand Central as an engineering marvel, a symbol of
both industriousness and beauty, and a vital part of the city’s essence. But in
my early memories it was dark, dangerous, and downright terrifying.
Deep cavernous corridors with low
ceilings and dingy floors led from the train platforms on the lower concourse
up into the grand hall of the station. In alcoves, doorways, and just out in
the open, homeless sat begging for change or screaming at those passing by. Men in
business suits and briefcases pushed their way through the crowds in a hurry to
get to important meetings without regard or visible perception of the faces in
their path. As a young child I was terrified of this gateway to and from the
city, I remember being separated from my mother for a brief second by a rushing
commuter and breaking out into sobs. To me, certain peril lay in every corner
of the station and the goal was to spend as little time negotiating your way
from train to doorway and out onto the street.
However, always upon our return into
the station after a day of sightseeing, shopping, or a Broadway show, a new
more pleasant world awaited me. The grime and dirt and sheer congestion of
people remained but a new journey was about to begin. This journey into the
food stalls and outlets held within the confines of Grand Central became a
passing of traditions from my mother to me, one that always happened minutes
before catching our train home. It was filled with fresh breads, bakers’ boxes
full of pastries, cheese cake, and bagels all tied up with special red and
white twine and held within fragrant bags that contained a magic all of their own,
unavailable from the local grocery store or even Main Street bakery. To this
day no food tastes as good as something caught moments before departure; bagels
are never as fresh, sandwiches never as completely satisfying.
And so here is where my two languages connect and grow into something superb. In the 1990s Grand Central was transformed from dingy and dilapidated into a sparkling and magnificent urban jewel. The famed ceiling of the grand hall cleared to reveal the night’s sky complete with constellations full of mythical creatures, the info booth with its recognizable clock held the telling of a new history about to unfold. But with this transformation came another change, that of the culinary experiences held under the starry sky. High-end dining, New York classics, bakeries, bistros, and even a gourmet market populate the cavernous corridors of my memory, delighting me with every travel, enticing me to explore all the nooks and crannies of the building I was once so scared of. As a commuter later in life, traveling to and from my favorite of all New York institutions, I developed my own tradition. A frozen custard from the stand downstairs, a crusty bread or dozen bagels from one of the bakeries, or something more exotic and gourmet from a vendor in the marketplace. Within the confines of Grand Central the interchange of food and development has produced an experience I feel embodies the essence of New York itself, that of energy, renewal, and of course, something to nosh upon. But it also is an example of something all cities contain, a vitality instigated by the ambition to surpass all known boundaries of what an urban center must be which is fueled by its unique culinary identity and tradition.
Jennifer Jennings is currently getting re-adjusted to a rural-agrarian existence in upstate New York and seeking ways to make it more interesting.
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