I generally don't contain myself to militaristic itineraries when I'm on vacation. I find it utterly counter-productive if I have to restrict my enjoyment because I have to rush off to meet the requirements of the timetable. Fun can't be scheduled; the harder you try to pin and nail it down, the harder it evades you. My style is to simply follow where the path leads. See something interesting? Take a peek. Feel a little urge for a quick nap? Take an hour (or five) to rest. Whatever feels right.
My wanderings on my third day in New York brought me on the path towards the Empire State Building. I made a beeline for it, until I found my path blocked by a majestic looking terminal. "Grand Central", it says on the outside. "This is just one of those moments", I say to myself, quoting Barbra while simultaneously drawing eye-rolls from New Yorkers who have encountered way too many unhinged theatrical types to be bothered with my self-musings. As I walked pass the columns and into the terminal, entering the cavernous concourse, I at once knew that this, not the Empire State Building, was the true destination of my journeys today. (Also because I later on tried to find the ESB but got lost, but forget that for a moment and share in the beauty of the Grand Central Terminal with me for a while.)
I stood upon the stairway landing, directly facing the main hall of the train station. People were lining up for tickets, hurrying along to their respective platforms for boarding, stepping off trains and entering 42nd Street, all bustling and busy. Yet each one of them slowed down for a while in the concourse, and took just the slightest moment to soak in the astounding beauty of the exquisite designs. The ceiling, elaborately painted with astronomical patterns (curiously backwards); the arching windows, tall and grand, streaming in sunlight.
A trip around some of the stores brought me to a shop dealing only in model train sets. A huge portion of the store was dedicated to a model set with no less than 6 or 7 trains running through it, with kids plastered to the side of the display, as if wanting to jump into this miniature world and live a day as train conductors. I'm sure they would rethink this, if only they knew that in the United States, a train accident occurs every 2 hours. Happy conducing a train that's derailing into fiery disasters! Children can be so silly.
Trains do bring a certain romantic image to my mind. It's so classic, the way people traveled in vintage, black and white movies. The heroine's husband is returning home from the war, quick, darling, to the train station where he will see you first among thousands of other sex-starved housewives! Running from the mob because you're material witnesses to a crime? Hop on a train and be whisked away to certain cross-dressing adventures! (I can't not make a reference to 'Some Like It Hot', it is the single best movie that involved trains, trannys and Marilyn Monroe.)
I left Grand Central Station on the other side of the building, feeling as if I, like the weary travelers stepping off their respective trains, had also made some sort of journey. It was a step through history, a walk through a crucially important destination that affected so many of America's pioneers. Barbra herself stepped through these pillars in 'The Prince of Tides'. I emerged from the terminal feeling pleased with myself, knowing that my destination-less plans worked out once again.
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