Right next door to Times Square and its peep shows were churches (St.
Broadway really was a noisy, urban Mississippi overflowing with people, cars, and trucks, its shoreline lined with skyscrapers and bathed in electric light. Walt Whitman once compared Broadway to a river, and that’s what it seemed to me when I finally walked along its path a year later. I could clearly pick out Broadway because, as I had read, it didn’t follow the grid but meandered, an errant thread weaving its way through the city. Our silver Eastern Airlines plane flew low-alarmingly low, I thought at the time-over Manhattan and soared up the island south to north, the pilot alerting us to the view of the Big Apple below.
It was 1990 and I was flying with my architecture class from the University of Florida up to Boston so we could learn about cities.
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