What is it about Grand Central?
For the second time in a week I found myself crossing its marble floors in search of my favorite watch repair shop. Friday I was unsuccessful. I should have checked their hours. Monday I had better luck. I dropped off my Hamilton and searched for a coffee.
Friday. It seems months ago, when I continually consulted the Associated Press website — they’ve called every election accurately since 1848 — and tried to focus on anything other than the count. I hoped. I prayed. I tried to be patient. And in the end, in the frenzied, immediate-gratification world we live in, the gratitude I felt for the U.S. Postal Service, which, according to The New York Times, delivered approximately 60,000,000 mail-in ballots, and the “masked Americans counting the vote [who] just kept counting…” was not to be described. All I can say is that when I heard shouts and sounds of banging pots on Saturday morning I called out to my husband.
“What’s happened?” I yelled. “Something is happening...”
Checking his phone, he said the words I never thought I would finally hear.
“Biden won Pennsylvania.”
I just looked at him in disbelief. Then I walked over to my dining room table, collapsed into a chair, put down my head, and wept. Uncontrollably.
The rest of Saturday is a blur of joy, one I can safely say I have never experienced in my 55 years in New York City. Concerts come close. But this was about much more than sharing music together. This was about saving our democracy. And I must say, in recent weeks I saw many of the faithful I knew losing their faith. Which left me relying on myself. That’s bad news. I come from a long line of cynics who are much happier complaining about the emptiness of the glass than in figuring out how to fill it. It took all the faith I could muster to get up every day and believe that hope for our beleaguered nation would be back.
And then came Joe, “...relentlessly optimistic, even cheerful” during his acceptance speech, said The New York Times. “ ‘We can do it,’ ” he said. “ ‘I know we can.’ ” And America did. “We saved the republic!” proclaimed Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi.
And here it is, Monday. It seems fitting to celebrate my city and my country, the one that gave my family a home in the years after World Wars I and II in Grand Central, with a warm pretzel and a hot coffee. I’ve even found a sliver of sunlight against a boarded up ticket window which, for a few minutes, serves as a bar. And then I think of Cary Grant, who bought his ticket to Chicago at just this window in North By Northwest.
As I look up at the glorious aquamarine ceiling I think about how Grand Central is about possibilities. It is the knowledge that I could buy a coffee, a watch, or a bouquet of roses. Or I could purchase a ticket and cross the county or even – like Cary’s character, who ends up at Mount Rushmore -- the country.
It seems that today, the Monday after the Saturday that gave us back hope, I need to stand here and have a small moment of celebration. I had the capital B Big celebration on Saturday, when I stood on my stoop and threw my arms up in the air. “WE DID THIS!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, as car horns beeped, cow bells rang, and cheers filled the air. What I thought would be an hour or so of jubilation turned into what Gayle King referred to as “America’s block party,” a day-long event that for us included drums and dancing in Grand Army Plaza.
“It’s like V-E Day,” my husband yelled.
And it didn’t end that night when I tried to lay my tired head down in bed. My stoop-loving neighbors had gone through the champagne and marijuana and now were awaiting a pizza delivery.
As I finish my coffee and contemplate the majesty surrounding me I wonder what it is about Grand Central. In the end it’s all about the possibilities.