42nd Street

It was a pleasant drive in those days, from our home in Pennsylvania to the Big City. My father had bought his first brand new car, a 1954 Plymouth Savoy, which replaced his 1946 Pontiac that he had bought a few years earlier for $200, almost 2 weeks' salary.


The Plymouth made it to New York City in about 3 hours, its 4-40 climate control operating at full blast (that's 4 windows down at 40 mph - we didn't know from air conditioning in the '50s).


Traversing the Pennsylvania mountains and the New Jersey farmlands, the ride was certainly less than spectacular; that is, until we entered the Lincoln Tunnel. My mother kept an eye out for the markings on the tunnel wall - "There it is, there it is!" as she pointed. Indeed, there it was. Written on the wall, just as she had told us for weeks, building our anticipation for this epic journey. The vertical line with "New York" on one side and "New Jersey" on the other. It was everything she had promised. For that fraction of a second, that miniscule moment of our lives, we were at the precise spot where New Jersey became New York. We discovered the secret of fire. We harnessed the atom. We cured measles. We were in New York.


Oh, how little it took to excite us then.


The Empire State Building. I don't remember any long lines; I don't remember the elevator; I don't remember if the weather was nice. I just remember walking around the Observation Deck in absolute awe. Looking down at the TOPS of big buildings. Seeing for miles in every direction. Could I see Pennsylvania? Dad said no, but I thought I saw my house. Past New Jersey.

Times Square. So many people. We stood on the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street. My Mom told me that if we stood there long enough we would see every famous person in the world. At the time I don't think I was interested in standing there long enough to see every famous person in the world, but I was absolutely fascinated by the signs in Times Square, particularly the Camel cigarette sign that blew smoke rings. While they scoured the crowds for famous people, I just stared at the smoke rings. Sadly, I learned how to blow smoke rings just like that sign did (but I'm now smoke-free for 145 days).


I recall that 42nd Street in the '50s was mostly movie theaters. Maybe there was more to it, but that one block between Broadway and 8th Avenue was so brightly lit, with every marquis dancing for attention. It seemed to me that the whole movie world must have started on 42nd Street and then moved around the corner and up Broadway. The lights of Times Square were bigger and brighter, but their fuse was lit on 42nd Street. To me, 42nd Street was the center of the New York universe. Even my favorite Camel sign was positioned so the best view of it was from 42nd Street.


All these memories came back to me last weekend. For perhaps the first time since the early '70s (the movies were "unique" in the '70s; the lights danced but the dance was a lot different) I walked on 42nd Street between Broadway and 8th Avenue. So much has changed that remains the same. The lights are even brighter but the fuse is elsewhere. The movie theaters are there, a monsterplex of 25 theaters on 11 floors. The obligatory gift shops and fast-foodaurants. 42nd Street has evolved but there's still one constant: 42nd Street is still the center of the universe.


There are attractions like Madame Tussaud's and Ripley's. There's the old New Amsterdam Theatre, the only remaining remnant of the 1990s disneyfication of the Street. Dave & Buster's sole New York City location just opened. BB King's Blues Club hosts some of the best musical acts in the City. And stuck in the middle of it all, somewhat hidden in the neon and color of the Street, is a Hilton hotel.


Maybe it's not what we'd call pure New York. Maybe it's gentrified and disneyfied and McDonafied. But it's glitz and glamour and neon. And it took me back 50 years. What's wrong with that?


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