I remember the summer concerts on the plaza, blues, folk, rock, country. Well dressed young men and women who worked in the towers on their lunch break. The sun burning down and me seeking shade under those buildings. At two, after the music ended, I'd lunch at a nearby fast food place, then walk down Fulton to the now vanished Strand Book Store outlet. Spend at least an hour browsing amidst their huge inventory. Late afternoon, I'd amble to the South Street Seaport where buskers performed and summer camp kids held hands, wearing colorful shirts, staring at the big, docked ship. I, in turn, stood by the railing watching cars cross the Brooklyn Bridge into that exotic land across the river, as tourist boats foamed past.
It was a perfect way to spend one's day off. No one has ever claimed those buildings were elegant, but like music itself, they had their own internal logic. They provided a venue for our messy, unique responses to the sounds far below.
Who knew those fragile notes would outlast their protector?
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