Grass On Top, Bicycles At Base: From The Vision Of Oculus

Here in New York, we (those of us who aren't architecture critics, anyway) learned of him from this:

Oculus lifts its wings just north of Liberty Tower, where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center once stood.  It rises, like a cross between a ghost and a phoenix, above the transportation center that brings seven New York City subway lines, as well as the PATH system, together.

It lifts and spreads our vision over and across a plaza surrounded by tall glass and steel towers.  In a way, it's almost an inverse image of I.M. Pei's Pyramid in the Louvre courtyard, which directs our vision from a focal point above the ground and, like Oculus, spreads it, though toward the ground, in a milieu of cream-gray Oise stone walls.

Although I like Oculus, I think it's fair to criticize it for housing what is essentially a high-end shopping mall on the site of one of the worst tragedies in this country's history.  (Ironically, it sits in the same concrete bathtub as the 9/11 Memorial Museum, which is as muted and somber as the Oculus is light and airy.)  But I also feel that beauty, in any form, is a fitting way to honor victims of a horrific event.

Oculus' designer created another iconic transit hub twenty-six years ago.  In fact, it is now one of the busiest rail terminals in Europe.  But, in an ironic twist, this terminal, designed to facilitate the movement of people to, from and through a major city, has been plagued with congestion.  Now the architect who created the train station is going to add something to it that might help to alleviate that overcrowding, at least somewhat.

Santiago Calatrava, who hails from Spain but is now based in New York, has unveiled plans a grass-topped office block on the plaza of his Stadelhofen Station in Zurich, Switzerland.  His glass "twenty first century office building" will feature bulging walls with slanted angles at the corners that--to my eye, anyway--are somewhat evocative of the ribs that comprise Oculus.  There will be a triangle of grass on the roof.

But one of the most intriguing aspects of this planned building (and the reason why I'm writing about it on this blog!) is that the plan includes public parking for 1000 bicycles on the ground level.

With his plan, Calatrava becomes the latest in a growing number of architects to integrate cycling infrastructure into an otherwise commercial project.  If successful, it will have the benefit of making both cycling (particularly for transportation) and mass transit more convenient--or, to some, simply more palatable. Whatever you think of his designs, he ought to be commended for that.

A Beautiful Ride, Indeed!

Perhaps I am more fortunate than most people.  After all, on two consecutive days, I took rides that--as familiar as they were--nourished my mind and spirit, if in completely different ways, as they exercised my body.

And I rode to work with the sun blazing over Hell Gate as a cool breeze floated over me.  "You look happy!" one of my students observed.

Happy, indeed.  After riding to work, I got to talk about poetry.  Between classes, I checked my e-mail.  Someone sent me this:

A beautiful ride, indeed!

The Beginnings Of Change

Today I took a ride down to the Rockaways, and along the South Shore of Queens and Brooklyn.  

The skies were even clearer than they were at the end of my ride yesterday, and the Atlantic tides seemed benign and powerful at the same time, much like today's sunlight.

Still, I found myself overtaken--at moments, overwhelmed--with melancholy.  The cool breezes and low tides evoked sense-memories of rides I took, alone, along the Jersey Shore between Sandy Hook and Point Pleasant Beach during my teen years, especially during the fall of my senior year in high school.  

By that time, my mother knew I wasn't going to Mass anymore, even though I didn't tell anyone else--including, ironically, my father, who had even less religious belief (though, as it turned out, more belief in a Supreme Being or Higher Power or some such thing) than I have ever had.  Mother knew I was going on bike rides when I told everyone else--or led them to believe--I was going to church.  She wasn't happy about that, but, really, she couldn't say much about it, as she hadn't been to church herself in decades.

I took those rides because I loved riding--but also because I simply couldn't be with anyone else on Sundays, at least before dinner time.  That's when I had to be home; the hour was not stipulated, but I always knew it was some time around three in the afternoon.    

During the fall of my senior year in high school, it seemed that nothing else mattered.  At least, all I cared about on Sundays were riding and my mother's lasagna and salads.  I had no idea of where I'd be a year later:  I'd applied to a few colleges and to West Point and Annapolis--I would receive nominations to each of them--but, honestly, I didn't care which of them would take me, or whether none would.  About all I knew was that everyone I saw every day that year, I would never see again.   And, save for my mother, father, siblings and grandmother, I would probably never hear from anyone again.

Pedaling along the sea, along the curved rainbows the tides left, even if only for an instant, in the sand, was my only solace.  I had two friends during my high school years:  one died, of lukemia, during the early days of my senior year, a couple of weeks before the autumnal equinox. I still miss her.   And the other, as much as I liked him, I knew we wouldn't remain in contact for long afterward:  What we had in common was being the geeks, the outcasts, in that school.

Riding along the sea was my escape--no, it was my life itself--that year.  I don't know how I would have survived without it.  I imagined pedaling across the ocean, to Portugal, to Spain, to Morocco, to France--France!--and Italy and England.  I had never been to any of those places; they were somewhere on the other side of the tides I saw on the horizon.  

If I could have ridden to those places, I would have.  If I could have done nothing but ride that year--and for many years afterward--I would have.  The cycling buddies I would later meet would have understood why I wanted to ride; but, interestingly, my mother--who has not ridden since her childhood--might have been the only person in my life at that time who understood--though, perhaps, she might not have been able to articulate it--why I not only wanted it, but needed--and still need--it.

Somehow, I think she also understands that, in some way, that need is, and was, related to the necessity--the inevitability--of my gender transition.  Riding kept me sane, to whatever degree I was sane--or, at least, intact--and for a time, racing as well as long rides up and down mountains helped to channel the anger and aggression I felt.  So, when I called her today and, during our conversation, I told her about my ride, I could almost hear her recognition of the deja vu.  

After all, I took a ride along the shore on the first Sunday of Fall.