Travel Essay
Lilian A. Boyd
DOB 11/2/1998
Senior, El Camino High
School, Oceanside, CA
760-994-7636 /
kajetabinta@hotmail.com
I love cities. Terrifyingly tall skyscrapers that poke holes in the sky with lighting rods, massive amounts of people that crowd and make the most relaxed person claustrophobic, with non-stop lights, shouts, sirens, and sounds. San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle- lot of S's. But my favorite by far has been New York, New York, a congregation of all types of people. It's built on massively complex systems of streets and transportation, and everyone has a schedule so the movement is constant.
I went twice. The first time I was no older then 7, so my memory of it is compiled of flashes- a firework going off over the Hudson, an above ground subway shaking all of Little Odessa, the wreckage of the Twin Towers- all else is lost.
My second time was less than three years ago. It was a school-lead trip, our drama class to be exact, built on the purpose of exposure to Broadway theater.
While I liked the people I went with, I cannot remember any moments with the majority of them. What left an impact on me is the city itself. It scared me, because the majesty of the city is overwhelming. The subway system was packed and confusing, the memorials and statues grand and striking, the skyline seen from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty as spiky as a EKG, and it was too much. I looked into the inward-falling fountain at the 9/11 Memorial, and was scared. I sat in the middle of Time Square eating breakfast with a multitude of swarming people, and was scared. I watched the shows on Broadway, at the performers and the talent that undoubtedly existed within everyone, under the surface, everyday, and I was terrified.
But I found the peace in the city, 56 stories up.
My mother’s cousin lived in the city so we visited him one day in his high rise apartment on the brink between Hell’s Kitchen and the Theater district, 56 stories above a simple Starbucks and a lobby where the managers knew all their tenants by name. Going up in the elevator was like a carnival ride, you shot into the air so fast your ears popped. One wall of his living room was floor-to-ceiling glass, and you could see everything; the sky and the skyline was endless, and yet somehow small. I knew right then I wanted to be a part of that teeming clockwork, where everyone had a place. You couldn't be too small or too big, you would inevitably find the exact place you were supposed to be.
That's how all things are supposed to work, I guess. You find your place, you find your piece, you find your peace. However, gazing down at that metropolis, I knew that there was something special about this place in particular, gorgeous and terrifying, more so than any other city. I wanted to find my purpose there. And I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Sutton Foster and I after a Violet on Broadway.
The view from the 56th floor.
A lovely day in Central Park.
My high school Theater Group in Times Square.
I love cities. Terrifyingly tall skyscrapers that poke holes in the sky with lighting rods, massive amounts of people that crowd and make the most relaxed person claustrophobic, with non-stop lights, shouts, sirens, and sounds. San Diego, San Francisco, Seattle- lot of S's. But my favorite by far has been New York, New York, a congregation of all types of people. It's built on massively complex systems of streets and transportation, and everyone has a schedule so the movement is constant.
I went twice. The first time I was no older then 7, so my memory of it is compiled of flashes- a firework going off over the Hudson, an above ground subway shaking all of Little Odessa, the wreckage of the Twin Towers- all else is lost.
My second time was less than three years ago. It was a school-lead trip, our drama class to be exact, built on the purpose of exposure to Broadway theater.
While I liked the people I went with, I cannot remember any moments with the majority of them. What left an impact on me is the city itself. It scared me, because the majesty of the city is overwhelming. The subway system was packed and confusing, the memorials and statues grand and striking, the skyline seen from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty as spiky as a EKG, and it was too much. I looked into the inward-falling fountain at the 9/11 Memorial, and was scared. I sat in the middle of Time Square eating breakfast with a multitude of swarming people, and was scared. I watched the shows on Broadway, at the performers and the talent that undoubtedly existed within everyone, under the surface, everyday, and I was terrified.
But I found the peace in the city, 56 stories up.
My mother’s cousin lived in the city so we visited him one day in his high rise apartment on the brink between Hell’s Kitchen and the Theater district, 56 stories above a simple Starbucks and a lobby where the managers knew all their tenants by name. Going up in the elevator was like a carnival ride, you shot into the air so fast your ears popped. One wall of his living room was floor-to-ceiling glass, and you could see everything; the sky and the skyline was endless, and yet somehow small. I knew right then I wanted to be a part of that teeming clockwork, where everyone had a place. You couldn't be too small or too big, you would inevitably find the exact place you were supposed to be.
That's how all things are supposed to work, I guess. You find your place, you find your piece, you find your peace. However, gazing down at that metropolis, I knew that there was something special about this place in particular, gorgeous and terrifying, more so than any other city. I wanted to find my purpose there. And I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Sutton Foster and I after a Violet on Broadway.The view from the 56th floor.
A lovely day in Central Park.
My high school Theater Group in Times Square.
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