What I Hear: Grand Central Terminal

Grand Central Terminal is one of New York City’s grandest echo chambers. Standing in the middle of a humongous hall, in the heart of rush hour, I was bathed in the hum of indistinct chatter. Simply soaking in sound, you realize your ears are so overwhelmed by the agglomeration of noise, neutrality is background noise. Not focusing on any particular subject, I would only vaguely hear the collection of voices around me as if I were in a bubble, even if they were right by me. However, when I did try to concentrate, I picked out the treble and soprano tones in voices, individual laughs and even sighs. I heard the symphony of steps, some paced, some rushed, in the march of the evening commute. Chunky boot heels clacked on the marble floor like horse hooves. Suitcases and garbage bins rumbled like thunder.

A lone trumpet blared, the notes elegant, and as I walked into another colossal hall, I heard what I thought was a powerful rush of wind. To my surprise the sound belonged to the trains pulling into stations I could not see. As I turned into the dining space, I heard sizzling meat, the clink of change being stored away, and the chop of vegetables being prepared. Conversations became more distinct, different languages layering over one another to exemplify the mosaic of culture that is New York City. Going back through the turnstile, I heard the ching of swiped MetroCards, the croon of singers, and finally the squeaking wheels and chug of my ride home.