For 32 years, from March 1977 to July 2009, twice a day on my way to and from work and Grand Central Terminal, I walked past 345 Park Avenue, scene of the horrific killings of four innocents Monday evening.
The entrance to the 44-story skyscraper is set back. A geometric design is laid in the stone esplanade leading to the front doors. Twin flagpoles stand in a circle from which a banner sometimes hung announcing a noon-time concert.
During those 32 years working at 425 Park Avenue, the daily promenades were a time and place of meditation for me. Unbothered by phone calls (this was predominantly pre-iPhones) or interruptions by staff or superiors, I would enjoy being lost in thought, thinking of articles to assign, marketing ideas or new conferences to organize.
Walking on the east side of Park Avenue during rush hour was nothing like the experience on Lexington or Madison Avenues, each one block, respectively, to the east and west. Park Avenue had few ground level stores, no bus routes, no subway station accesses. Less hustle and bustle. Almost everyone was a white collar employee in an office of bankers, lawyers or corporations paying top dollar rents for a Park Avenue address. Not just any Park Avenue address. Park Avenue above Grand Central Terminal was and still is much classier that the avenue below 42nd Street.
Park Avenue also has two iconic edifices—the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, two blocks south of 345 Park, and, between the Waldorf and the scene of the carnage, Saint Bartholomew’s Church.
Park Avenue offered the opportunity to star gaze. I spotted Jackie Onassis twice getting into taxicabs. I shook hands with the playwright Neil Simon. Steve Allen and his wife Jayne Meadows passed before me.
The European-style boulevard lent itself to blocks-long art displays. Sculptures from Botero and Keith Haring as well as whimsically painted horses were among the artwork that inhabited the avenue’s center median.
Nothing, nothing made Park Avenue feel grimy. The Park Avenue I walked was distinct from the rest of New York. I didn’t have to crisscross the city to get to or from my suburban commuter train. Nor did I have to ride a cramped bus or step underground to the crowded subway.
Just 12 minutes of fast-paced walking. No panhandlers. No discourteous crowds. An island of decency amid the bustling Manhattan island. Forever changed after Monday’s tragedy.
***No A.I. was used in the writing and editing of this post. The only intelligence employed was my own.***
