The Noisy Center of the Universe

I rarely go to Times Square. Outside of going to the theater, there's not much of a real reason to go there. On the few occasions I've had to, the massive wall of tourists that flank every square inch of the sidewalk are enough to send a resident reeling back to the subway. I'd reckon most people who live in places with tourist attractions do that. I lived in San Francisco for 13 years and went to Fisherman's Wharf all of two times...and only because I was with visiting friends who wanted to go there.

Times Square is an overwhelming universe. The noise, the volume of people, the lights and concentrated activity is dizzying to me still after all these years. Regardless, Times Square was my destination today. I had planned to see an exhibit of artifacts recovered from The Titanic at the Discovery Center off West 44th, smack dab in Times Square.

Upon exiting the subway at 41st Street, I entered into warm sunlight. A mosaic of odors assaulted my nose: hot dogs, diesel fuel, rotting refuse, stale urine, sugared nuts, coffee and rubber. Gaggles of tourists plodded along the streets, taking pictures of the cacophony of dramatic billboards, video screens and theater marques. Tour bus carnies were everywhere, waving brochures. A lone scientologist was trying to give away copies of "Dyanetics." The ubiquitous Peruvian musicians played in front of the Marriott Marquis. Aspiring rap artists tried to give away sample DVDs of their musical efforts. Street vendors sold cheap handbags, sunglasses, scarfs and Michael Jackson T-shirts. And new to the scene of street regulars, people hawked discount tickets to Broadway shows--clearly a sign that the economy was even impacting fabled Schubert Alley.

I made my way to the Discovery Center. The exhibit was well organized, both in flow and mood. Upon entering, I was given a boarding card with the caveat, "I hope you survive the trip." Cheesy, perhaps, but I spent the whole exhibit wondering if the person I had been given HAD survived. (Her name was Helene Ragnhild Ostby, a passenger in 1st Class). The artifacts were stunning. Pieces of jewelery, postcards and personal correspondence, dishes from all three classes, a porter's jacket, machinery, iron work, bottles still containing wine, tools, luggage, shoes, crockery, razor blades, cosmetic containers and all other matter of items. Personal stories were intertwined between the exhibits. Spaces were recreated: The 1st class accommodations, the 1st class cabin hallway, the dining spaces, the steerage cabins and the piece de resistance, the grand staircase. This was the massive oak staircase adorned with the carved cherubs, the large clock tower and the brilliant glass dome. I snuck a hurried picture. It was a marvelous exhibit; it even included an iceberg. Yes, a small but real iceberg which we were encouraged to touch. I learned that salt water is colder when frozen than fresh water. Well, who knew?

As I ventured into the sunlight to make my way home, I was confronted with throngs of tourists and ye gods, the famous naked cowboy. I had to take a picture, of course. I then regained my senses, rushed to the subway and headed back to the quiet stability of my hood. And in case you're wondering, Helene was indeed one of the survivors.