Secaucus Junction: the ghost of Penn?

With transportation, the unexpected is often a bad thing. But that wasn't the case on Sunday, March 18, when I encountered The Frank J. Lautenberg Rail Station at Secaucus, New Jersey.

Seacaucus, New Jersey? Unexpected is right. I was taking New Jersey Transit into New York City (something I'd never done before) from Middletown, N.Y., which required changing trains at Secaucus Junction.

Well, so much for single-train service into Manhattan, which Metro-North offers into Grand Central from Westchester County and Connecticut. Still, I expected a simple change of trains at some dingy junction, maybe across the same platform if I was lucky.

What I got was a trip through the most ambitious train station in to be opened in North America in the 21st century.

Really. The station, which opened in 2003, features a soaring central atrium that sorts connecting passengers from no less than nine separate New Jersey Transit Lines. Some run north-south on the lines out of Hoboken, while others run east-west on the lines coming out of Penn Station in Manhattan.

The place is immaculate and inspiring. Coming up from the platforms to the atrium for the first time was actually exciting. Ahead, beyond the escalators and far above us, you could see a glass roof, which was letting sunlight stream into the cathedral-like space, so much so that it was reaching us down below.



Up we went, into the big space, looking for the next train to Penn Station. Clear color-coded signs and train indicator boards make this easy, removing the anxiety of an unfamiliar space and allowing one to enjoy the experience. Most importantly, I felt like I had arrived somewhere. And so I had -- at an important gateway, just one stop to Penn Station in New York.

How amazing to be in a new train station in the United States -- one with an interior on a scale at least equal to a suburban shopping mall!

And then I realized: what we had here was a worthy gesture to make up for the loss of the original Penn Station in Manhattan a half-century ago. We can't get the old Penn Station back (and the current one may never get remade), but Secaucus Junction, next station down the line on the Northeast Corridor, can at least provide a sense of occasion for some passengers about to enter one of the world's great cities.

Look around, and you'll see the Lautenberg station is one big tribute to the old Penn Station. You'll find the old Penn's distinctive "X" cross-bracing echoed everywhere - lamps and benches and gates and even as decorative patterns on the atrium's interior.




All right, this bench is a little too much tribute...


The platforms on the east-west tracks are clad in a faux exterior highlighted by arching windows that mimic the old Penn Station's magnificent iron-and-glass train shed and its barrel-vaulted waiting room. Here's the best view I could get of that vista, which faces the north (so no sunlight) and is blocked by a highway embankment.


Not exactly the same as the original, but you can sense the echoes:


And all that's ironic, too, because when the old Penn Station was demolished, much of the rubble wound up dumped in the New Jersey marshes not far from here. It seems as if the spirit of the old Penn Station has been conjured from the swamps and given a home in the Lautenberg station. So, in addition to elevating the spirit, the new place actually helps exorcise a certain amount of leftover societal guilt. And that's a good thing.

While what's left of Penn Station endures in the middle of Midtown Manhattan, the Lautenberg station stands in the middle of nowhere -- out in the Meadowlands, that curious industrial marshland west of the Palisades, home to mudflats and truck terminals and concrete pillars supporting the New Jersey Turnpike. How weird to close enough to the skyscrapers of New York City to see them catch the afternoon, but be standing in what looks like a New Jersey version of the Everglades.

I went down the escalators to walk outside, and found the station to be just that: = in the middle of impasssable marsh. Take a few steps out from a gravel employee parking lot, and you'd be lost in weeds taller than a man.


If nothing else, I understood the significance of the sculpture, Twenty First Century Cattail, that dominates the station's atrium. (I understand that at night, the cattails are illuminated in the New Jersey Transit colors of orange, blue, and purple.)


Why was this station built? Apparently the two lines crossed here at least since the Penn Station tunnels into Manhattan were opened in 1911, but the private companies then had no incentive to interchange passengers with competitors. As the 20th century rolled on, the government takeover of passenger service caused this mentality to evaporate, and in the 1960s the idea of creating a transfer station at Secaucus began to gain ground.

Prior to Secaucus Junction, New Jersey passengers headed to Midtown were forced to ride a circuitous route down to Hoboken, and then take a PATH train under the Hudson River to lower Manhattan, then up as far north as West 33rd St. at Penn Station. Allowing a change at Secaucus for direct trains into Penn Station would save a lot of time, and also open up plenty of other previously impossible connections, greatly improving the flexibility of New Jersey's commuter transit network.

It took years for the plan to percolate, but it finally found a champion in Frank Lautenberg, U.S. Senator from New Jersey and an ardent public transportation backer. In the 1990s, Lautenberg secured hundreds of millions of dollars in federal funding, and the new rail station began to take shape, both as a transportation hub and as a spur to development in the local area. In anticipation of its use, the station even got its own custom-built exit off the nearby New Jersey Turnpike.

I really can't address the political issues of any project such as this, especially one in New Jersey and involving this much concrete. However, I can say that the station really looks like it was designed for the day when it would be surrounded by a dense walkable urban community. It even includes a clock tower, cleverly incorporated as part of the elevator shaft.


But for now, it still stands in the middle of nowhere. A parking lot has been built nearby, but the surrounding area remains a grim place of rusting warehouses and chainlink fences and tidal marshes.

After the place opened, people complained that the $600 million station was underutilized, especially for all the money that was lavished on it. (They also complained of a rank marsh smell on the open platforms.) Transit planners countered with the idea that Secaucus Junction would prove crucial in the long run, in the same way that development would follow a highway exit.

Let's hope they're right, because Secaucus Junction is too good a station to become a target for public transportation foes. Like Penn Station and Grand Central, it was built not for expediency but for the ages. That it was built with public money rather than private capital is amazing for our day and age, so let's hope the long-term vision comes to pass.

In the meantime, the New Jersey Transit network has been transformed. Passenger counts have risen from just 4,500 a day in 2003 to more than 17,000 a day, making it the fourth-busiest on the N.J. Transit system. Secaucus Junction has also allowed the addition of train service to the Meadowlands, the big sports arena that also rises from the marshes.


And just passing through Secaucus can lift the spirits of public transportation supporters, because it allows you to believe that yes, it can matter somewhere in the car-crazed United States. Trains come and go every few minutes, complemented by all of Amtrak's Northeast Corridor service, which doesn't stop but passes through the upper levels. (While waiting for my Manhattan train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Penn Station barrelled right past us at high speed.)

Syracuse Airport (SYR): Help wanted

A typical still life at Syracuse Airport.

It wouldn't be fair to say much about Syracuse (N.Y.) Hancock International Airport right now, as the main terminal building is undergoing a refurbishment that's scrambled the place somewhat. But during a recent visit (Sunday, March 18, 2012) while passing through the area, I found a lot that looks like it won't change anytime soon, including a monumentally ugly concrete canopy that gets my vote for the single worst feature of any airline terminal I've ever encountered in North America.

Eager for more? Let's go!

Syracuse is a bigger city than you might expect (145,000 people in town, more than 600,000 in the area), so you'd assume the region would be eager to make a good impression to visitors. Home to Syracuse University (duh!), it's also where a lot of military personnel pass through on their way to and from Fort Drum. So you'd think Syracuse would support a robust air service.

You'd think. Well, Syracuse, like many small and mid-size airports, has seen a recent decline in air service, to the point where the majors rely on regional jets almost exclusively. It's not exactly booming, so there probably isn't a lot of revenue available for improvements. And that's too bad, because what Syracuse has now is a weird set-up: a tired main terminal from the pre-deregulation era that's been almost completely swallowed up by ill-planned add-ons, in front and on both sides.

The airlines occupy space in newer wings on either side of the original terminal. Each wing features a two-story ceiling, but any grandeur is hobbled by a series of strange-looking circular beams that stretch across the space. They're can't be structurally needed, so the question arises: "What were they thinking?"

After check-in, passengers must ascend to the second level, where they cross over the ticketing hall. Here we go up the escalator, accompanied by sad-looking vegetation in bulbous stepped planters that resemble giant urinals:

And what says upstate New York more than palm fronds?

And get a load of that white cladding, which is all over the place. It makes everything else look dirty in comparison, especially the gray flooring, which may have been washed an hour ago but would still look dirty and depressing. The white even succeeds in making the dirt in the planters look dirty, but I digress.

The escalator tops out on a walkway over the check-in area below, but you can't see anything because those white beams are positioned exactly right to block the view! Again: "What were they thinking?"

About all that white...let's see, Syracuse produced most of the nation's salt up until 1900. Is this a reference? Well, whatever the reason, all the relentless white makes the place feel like a clean room that's not really that clean.

Speaking of charm: How's this for a weird, uninviting space? What's with the bank of track lighting under the escalator?

I really don't know how much of this is temporary, but a lot of it seems the result of badly planned add-ons over the years that created weird cul-de-sacs and uninviting dank corridors — too many for a relatively small airport:

Hey, where is everybody?

Upstairs, passengers headed to the two gate piers are confined to a world of low-ceilinged security areas and gate concourses. Prior to security, each area has a single skylight, a futile gesture to open up the space which seems to somehow only add to the gloom, even on the sunny day I passed through.

Meanwhile, the original terminal, which still could be the grandest space in the airport, is completely dominated on one side by a long row of rental car counters.

Their location serves to completely block the terminal's original curbside windows, giving the space basement-like qualities and causing the ceiling to loom alarmingly overhead. Instead of a place flooded with the afternoon sun, we're in a dank cavern cut off the from outside world, especially the sky we're about to travel through.

Might this be a temporary situation due to the construction? Alas, the facilities look pretty permanent. So what should be the terminal's grandest space, a showcase for the airlines serving Syracuse, is instead a grim corridor, retrofitted for the rental car trade. Meanwhile, airlines make do with cramped quarters in either wing, with ticket counters right next to baggage claims.

Upstairs, each side of the terminal leads to its corresponding gate concourse. Judging from a sign in the old main terminal, it looks like the long-term vision is to open up the rear of the main building into one central security point, which makes sense.

But there's no evidence the airlines themselves are moving back into the central area. Instead, it'll continue to occupied by the rental car counters (at least they're convenient) and the airport's one large newsstand/coffee shop, seen below:

Both of these operations back up against the front glass wall of the original terminal, obliterating any sense of retro grandeur that might be possible in the old gal. The store, with its redundant curved ceiling, reminded me of the clamshell ticket counter installed during the latter years of New York's old Pennsylvania Station in a misguided attempt to update it.

Want to get any sense of the old terminal? Look up. The ceiling and the distinctive folded roof, with its little peaks of glass, are still there, though hardly noticeable.

Instead, the space is defined by strange vistas such as this:

Nothing says patriotism like a tiny flag mounted on a temporary wall.

Whatever the plans are to update the terminal's interior, I can't imagine they'd be enough to overcome what I consider the single most depressing feature I've seen in any U.S. airport. It's the incredibly ugly concrete canopy that partially covers the arrivals/departures roadway in front of the terminal. It has the effect of turning a trip to the airport into a ride through a ghetto warehouse district.

Even a sunny day is turned grim!

This is where you alight to begin your journey? This is where you step outside after your flight and are welcomed to the Syracuse area? Through what seems to be the lower level service entrance?

There's so much wrong with this canopy, I hardly know where to begin. Its bulk blocks the main terminal. Its roof blocks the light. It just looks ugly: bare or painted concrete beams streaked with grime, all supporting a ceiling high enough to make people feel puny and low enough to seem oppressive. Presumably intended to shield passengers from the elements, it instead covers them in gloom, along with a steady rain of pigeon poop.

And it probably doesn't do much good shielding anyone from the elements because, incredibly, parts of the supporting structure are roofless! So the result is a network of exposed beams that provide even more roosting spots for pigeons and give the whole thing a desperate, unfinished feel. What happened here? Did the city run out of money?

Arriving at the airport, the open gridwork only serves to remind us of the wonderful sky that the enclosed sections block out -- the sky that you will soon be magically flying through, but you wouldn't know that while making your way under this monstrous concrete canopy.

Strangely, the enclosure roof has tiny skylights. They let almost no light in, but do serve as nice and dry pigeon warming houses. Seen from above from the nearby parking garage, the whole contraption looks especially sad, with piles of pigeon poop visible under the skylights.

Look carefully, and you can see the old terminal's top just peeking over the canopy. What could have been a cool retro-looking building is now just hemmed in by sheer ugliness.

And what about the old main terminal's front? With the rental car concessions and the store now backing up to it, it's become nothing but a blank wall, no different from those dehumanizing chain drug store windows that for some reason are permanently blocked.

So this canopy is a truly inexplicable structure and yes, hands-down the ugliest thing I've ever seen at any U.S. airport. Even if they just got rid of it, I don't know what they could do to restore some dignity to the old terminal, what with its windows blocked and its floor space all clogged with concessions. It's a lost cause.

About the parking garage, just briefly. It's a fright, all crumbling concrete and heaving pavement, but what can you expect in upstate New York's long snowy winters? The terminal's second-level gate areas are connected to walkways directly across the arrivals/departures road to the garage. Unfortunately, both walkways don't match the garage's levels, but arrive between floors in filthy stairwells, a depressing and confusing situation. Besides, what's the point of a walkway on the second level when all baggage and ticketing functions are on the lower level?

Speaking of the walkways, look what I found in one of them:

These modular seats are placed all over the terminal, but why would anyone sit here? Also, what are they supposed to represent? The importance of the centipede to Syracuse? Someone's lower intestine?

How about this nifty arrangement?

And yes, even this hard-luck facility's stairwells are ugly, and potentially dangerous.

This one, a utilitarian box, was actually missing its door handle, and had to be opened by grabbing a sharp-edged hole in the metal housing. It slammed shut behind me with a painfully loud BANG, frightening the many poor pigeons trying to rest inside it.

Wow! Ready to fly to Syracuse? In fairness, however, it's not all bad news. One nice surprise: the terminal and gate areas are configured in such a way as to allow visitors to get closer to an actual aircraft than any airport I know. Check out this view of a JetBlue Embraer 190, taken from a walkway right outside the terminal.

Also, the old terminal contains one stroke of genius amid all the clutter: a full-size set of landing gear right there for you to inspect up close. If an effective terminal helps instill a sense of wonder about flying, then this little gesture of bringing part of an aircraft actually inside the place is a terrific idea. Just the sheer size of the hardware reminds everyone the scale of the machines involved in this experience.

Speaking of machines: Aficionados of vintage video games should check out the Syracuse Airport's game room, where time stopped about 1988:



And yes, it's not completely fair to criticize a terminal that's under construction. But judging from the drawings on display, nothing in the plans will restore the main terminal's grandeur, or give passengers any sense of what Syracuse is or hopes to be. It won't be a place that celebrates the comings and goings of a community. Instead, it's just big mishmash.

So despite the renovations, this airport will likely limp along in really rough shape. Despite the planned improvements, there's not much they can do to make the place a worthy gateway to the area, other than tear it all down and start over.

I have a feeling this won't happen, given what's in place already and how long it's been allowed to languish. So here's a hit list of what they can do to remake the place on a budget:

1. Tear down the awful canopy, restoring the old terminal's front to full view.
2. Inside the terminal, remove the false roofs over the rental car counters and the store to open the space up to the sky.
3. Ditch the white look, or at least put in accent colors. Orange? (for Syracuse University?)
4. Turn the old terminal into a grand foyer for the community.

Is this really the best first impression Syracuse can make? I don't think so, but getting anything done about it won't likely be easy. As an example of how the value of an airport is so poorly understood here, consider this sculpture that sits alongside the main road to the terminal:


It's the first thing people see when driving in or out of the airport, and as such stands as some kind of symbol for the community. Me, I found it so baffling that I pulled over for a closer look.

What I found was a cluster of metal beams stuck on a platform, the whole affair painted silver, though with rust starting to peak through. Check out that base!

There's no explanation, no context, no nothing. It just squats by the outbound roadway, saying loudly to one and all: "Welcome to Syracuse, home to pointless sculpture, confusing design, and deferred maintenance!"

Postscript: Since my visit, I've seen plans of the $50 million terminal rehab project underway. Thankfully, it appears the ugly concrete canopy will be removed! But it looks like the front windows of the main terminal will still be blocked by rental car kiosks and a restaurant. Well, let's hope these get altered so they aren't so instrusive. Removing their ceilings would be a good start.

Albany (ALB): Air travel, Shaker-style

It says a lot about Albany (N.Y.) International Airport that even with a big part of the main terminal's interior floor blocked off for reconstruction, the place still works. It works as a transport facility, as architecture, as an introduction to the community, and as a worthy setting for beginning or ending a journey. It's a class act all around.

And this all happens without the benefit of sheer size. Albany International (ALB) is small, and not a busy place. Like a lot of mid-sized U.S. airports, it's been losing service as U.S. airlines have tried shrinking into profitability. ALB handled about 3 million passengers a year in the prior to 2008; since then, the count has slid to 2.5 million.

But the terminal, which opened in 1998, is clearly designed for the long haul. It's full of design detail that nods surprisingly to the local presence of a colony of Shakers, a religious order that flourished in the 19th century. They once actually farmed the land on which the airport sits, and so the terminal is full of Shaker elements -- exposed wood, clean lines, and elegant simplicity.




A Shaker airline terminal? Who would have guessed?

There's also some surprising eccentricity. Look at this balcony railing:


The place, which replaced an outdated 1960s facility, is also heavy on exposed brick, especially the exterior. I don't know what bricks have to do with Shaker design, but this called to mind the industrial heritage of this part of the Hudson River valley. It seemed rooted in a sense of place, and not some off-the-shelf scheme. Large porthole-like windows added style and energy without seeming gimmicky.


Interestingly, the bricks disappear as the building rises upwards, leaving the higher points sheathed in mirrored glass with vertical metal striping. This reminded me of Albany's state office buildings, done in a look I'll call "Empire Style." Somehow it said New York, and nowhere else.

Before going inside, check out the parking garage. Airports may boast an impressive terminal, but often hide it behind an ugly parking garage, often erected without any concern for design. So the first thing an arriving traveler sees is a hulking prison-like mediocrity, a monument to how much can be saved on architect fees. What a depressing way to start one's journey!

But not in Albany, where the parking garage sports an exterior that harmonizes with the terminal, but also somehow seems playful. How did they accomplish that? Elements include a circular rotunda that houses an interestingly varied set of stairwells.




Despite all the concrete, this says "Explore me!" almost like it was a playground.

With other stairwells sporting parapet-like caps, and varied use of exterior patterns, the place kinda looked like a fortress, thought not a forbidding one. To me, it came across as more of a play fort.


So, in driving up to the terminal, instead of the usual county jail parking garage, I encountered a well-appointed complex that seemed, well, glad to welcome me. The sunny afternoon helped, but the building was doing most of the heavy lifting.

Inside, the ticket hall is housed in a spacious (but not gigantic) hall that follows a smart curve. Afternoon light flooded the space from above, where the upper reaches are decorated with simple Shaker-style horizontal lines that define the space. Nice!


And yes, a large portion of the space is blocked off to allow for what I was told was "floor replacement," which seems kind of drastic for a still-new building, but whatever. At least they're not letting the place fall apart.


The other side of the lower level houses a baggage claim area and rental car counters. It's the one space that seems a little outsized, although it's hard to say because it's also partially blocked for floor replacement.


Big high ceilings risk making you feel puny, but the hall also functions as a grand entrance to the roadway and the community beyond.

To me, this portal leading to the roadway seemed to take on the characteristics of a grandfather clock. Nice!


To reach the gate areas, you head up to the second level, passing some truly impressive detail work that includes wavy lines and Shaker wood sheathing. It's classy and playful at the same time.


And this is as good a time as any to note the strong presence of art throughout the airport. Start looking and you'll notice odd pieces all over the place, such as this abstract sculpture, one of two that loom over the escalators to the upper level.


Here it is in context:


It works in part because the Shaker-inspired design is simple enough to allow the place to function as an ersatz gallery. It can handle even aggressively abstract stuff without it looking out of place, and it does.

The art is not there by chance. It's part of a deliberate effort to get rotating exhibits in front of passengers streaming in and out of Albany International Airport. The third level functions as a full-fledged art gallery, with coordinated shows that are open to the public every day from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. (Yay extended access!)

Alas, the gallery is upstairs near the airport's observation deck, and somewhat out of the way of most passenger traffic. Still, it's visible from below, and the gallery space does get a fair amount of visitors. I came through during the last days of a smart-alecky show called "LOL," an exhibit emphasizing humor in art.

It really was funny. I didn't get a picture of the pizza box that was part of the exhibit, but here are a few others...






These are not images you expect to encounter when passing through an airport, which is definitely in Albany's favor. I also liked the fact that the airport administrative offices were integrated with the exhibit space rather than behind some kind of impersonal one-way glass compound isolated from the public.

Although the art spoke for itself, I got some helpful background from Sharon Bates, the airport's Arts and Culture program, who I bumped into on the second level. She introduced herself and we got chatting. Turns out ALB has the most aggressive and consistent art programs of any airport I've encountered.

Sharon's job is to coordinate it all, and she's been on the job since before the new terminal opened. Among the more interesting intiatives she described: a program to paint poetry on the baggage belts to give passengers something to contemplate. And it's all rounded out by "Departure," a gift store on the lower level that includes art-related items in addition to the usual paraphernalia.

So more credit to Albany for taking its airport seriously enough to have Sharon prowling the place, making it a distinctive showcase for local art.

And even while we talked, I noticed design details that lifted the place above the ordinary. Take the edges of the signs right above us:


One thing I wondered about was the lack of signage for the upstairs gallery. Sharon said it's a struggle to claim sign space that could be used for ad revenue. The security checkpoint happens to be ringed on all sides by the art gallery above, so for awhile the TSA people wanted the view blocked off for security reasons!



This is totally absurd and I'm glad they didn't go through with it. If it had, the gallery would have been left only with this signage, on the stairway leading up to it:

Also on the upper level: Gate areas were visible from the observation deck, something that fewer airports seem to bother to include these days:


An unusual distinction held by Albany: it's one of very few airports in the world that make use of dual jetways, which allow passengers to board both the front and back of the plane at the same time. Southwest is the only carrier that uses this capability; the rear jetway has to be lifted up and over the wing like it's some kind of carnival ride.


As a non-passenger, I couldn't get beyond the security barrier, which looked like this, with the third-floor art gallery space looking down over it:


So I can't speak for the gate areas, which include one 1970s pier from the older terminal that was kept when then the complex was rebuilt. But what I did see was more than enough to say that Albany International Airport is a smart, classy, and inspiring place to fly in and out of. The people of New York's 'Capital Region' are fortunate indeed.