Balloons of Grand Central

I love balloons on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal.

Grand Central Terminal is an iconic landmark of New York; it’s starry ceiling, opal clock, and sixty-seven railway tracks draw 750,000 visitors per day. It’s the second most-visited tourist destination in the city, just behind Times Square. As a child, I was an adoring tourist. Despite living a mere twenty minutes from Manhattan and visiting the city on a somewhat frequent basis, every visit felt new and novel. I was in awe of the rushing commuters, the soaring tops of skyscrapers, and, of course, the experience of riding a train with the grown-ups into Grand Central.

When I later began a routine commute from Westchester to Manhattan, my awe of the city morphed to a mild desensitization. I still loved it, and was thrilled to be in a hub of culture, but was less taken aback then I was before. The subways made sense, and the Metro-North was a part of the daily regimen. But Grand Central continued to stand out. At the end of a long day, even when I was desperate to get home and tackle the piles of homework so I could sleep, I couldn’t be upset when I missed the train by a minute and had to wait an hour for the next one. I would find an empty step in front of the Apple Store or restaurant in the Main Concourse, and I would look at the ceiling. I’d notice the little things that had been pointed out to me on my childhood visits, like the one darkened brick in the corner of the ceiling, which had been left dirty to show the difference in the ceiling after smoke had been cleaned from it. I’d wander outside to find the details I had read about, like the rat statues on the Graybar Building. With the constant ins and outs of the commute came incredible snippets of conversations and people watching. Some of the instances were so bizarre and lacking in context that I felt the need to remember the moment exactly as it had happened, and soon a small black Moleskine notebook was filled with my city observations or snippets.

Soon after I began this habit, I noticed that once every few weeks, a mylar balloon would find its way to the iconic Grand Central ceiling. The first time I saw one, it was later than I usually got to the station, around six. I had a heavy backpack, a load of Latin homework that I had no hope of understanding, and had gotten to my track just in time to see the train pull away. I found a spot on the stairs and resigned myself to an hour of waiting as I gazed at the ceiling; and there, smack-dab on top of Orion, was a red mylar heart balloon. The sight immediately amused me. I began wondering how it had ended up there: had someone been broken up with? Or had someone gone to the trouble of getting a balloon for a loved one, only to lose it right before the recipient was to arrive? But then, the true core of my amusement with these balloons revealed itself: There I was, sitting in an iconic landmark that had stood for a hundred years, a place that people travel from all over to see, beneath a work of art that must cost an ungodly sum of money, and someone’s shitty three dollar mylar balloon obstructed the view of the artwork that had been done in gold leaf. Some poor tourist would come along hoping for a picture on the top of the steps, with the famous ceiling and clock in the background, and there, just around inch six and a half of the five by seven photo they had framed, you can see a sad little heart balloon.

That balloon remained on the ceiling for a full three weeks. As the days went on, my amusement grew, as did my incredulity that it was still there. I found myself googling how long mylar balloons float. Then one day, just as I entered the main concourse on my way home, I saw it gently float down. Ever since that first day, the various balloons on the green ceiling have caught my eye. The silver “1” that must have been poorly tied to the hand of a child found itself on the leg of Taurus. A blue one inscribed with “Happy Birthday” landed to the right of Pegasus. At the end of high school, my commuting days were halted. In January 2018, I began a new job in lower Manhattan. And there, on my way to my very first day at the office, there sat a rainbow balloon just next Pisces, as if God or the universe, or simply coincidence, were wishing me luck.