Dans Hamptons

Although I consider myself a tried and true local to these parts, I was born in Manhattan. Some of you may already know this, but I'll explain it again. I came to Springs in 1986 just before I turned 10 years old, and stayed in one Hampton or another until college when I returned to the city of my birth. I enjoyed the concrete metropolis for another six years, and then made my triumphant return to this wonderful place I hope to forever call home. Ok, maybe it wasn't so triumphant. I doubt anyone cared much, but after some initial readjustment, I was pleased to be back. My absence from the city has made living here again pretty much out of the question. I do love to visit, but I like the beach and trees too much to ever go back full-time. It is, however, because of this absence that I carry lovely memories of my childhood, living at 116 E 63rd Street. When both feet are in the grind of New York, it is rare to think about the nuances that make it so special. I lived in a very nice apartment between Lexington and Park. My little bedroom on the ninth floor had two windows that looked south. From my bunk bed, I could see the shimmering skyline and hear the sirens, honking and occasional shouts from the streets below. The din of the city has always been peaceful to me. In the eighties, there was a brief period when I was terrified of Russia and nuclear war. I had fever visions of planes zipping over the city and buildings crumbling to the ground, even though I had no idea what communism meant. For those couple of months, that bedroom and its view became my own happy, little world. I imagined that my bunk bed was a pirate ship. I played Miami Vice and pretended to sell baggies of oregano and flour to my seven and eight year-old friends. I drew pictures of television screens, taped them onto my bed and imagined watching or creating shows. I hid in the giant linen drawers beneath the bottom bunk. I played dress-up with my brothers. Everything I did in that room was set to the backdrop of the skyline south of my building. Everything I did happened under the watchful eye of the Citicorp and Chrysler Buildings. The Citicorp, now called Citigroup, loomed in the distance, with its towering wedge and two red lights illuminating the precipice that scraped the sky. The Chrysler was even more majestic. The needle on top, the arcing rows of lights and the glimmering deco sheen brought that view to life. It was fantastic.

In honor of those days and that view, I'm going to tell you a little bit about the Citigroup Center. I know I said the Chrysler Building was grander, but the Citigroup remains the enduring symbol of my childhood in the Big Apple. It also happens to be rather underappreciated. The wedged top that I explained is built at a 45-degree angle and was originally created to hold solar panels to save energy. These were never installed, but the peak of the structure retains this definitive feature to this day, 30 years after its completion. While the top of the building is definitive, it should be noted that the base is also quite unique. Before the building even began construction, they ran into an issue with the northwest corner of the footprint. St. Peter's Lutheran Church occupied part of the site. The church agreed to the construction as long as a new church was built on the same corner, near the intersection. To solve this dilemma, structural engineer William LeMessurier put the 59-story building on four 114-foot columns set at the center of each side. This allowed the major part of the skyscraper to cantilever 72-feet above the church. If you look at a picture of the base of the Citigroup Center, it looks quite unsound, but this building, after a few bumps in the road, is actually one of the tallest and most structurally dependable buildings ever built.

To visit the Citigroup Center, go to 53rd and 3rd. That same corner, incidentally, is described by the Ramones in a song about male prostitution. Ah, how the city changes.