The Fifth Floor

My dad took me to New York when I graduated from junior high. Our hotel was in a slightly sketchy neighborhood, and on our walk home from the theater, he instructed me to keep my eyes at eye level or below. 

"People who live in the city don't look up," he said. "They walk with purpose."

So I did. And eleven years later, I realized he was right, when my friend and I passed the tallest building in Boston on our way home from a play.
"Wow, I've never noticed that before!" she said, looking up. 

"What's that?" I asked.

"Up around the fifth floor - it's all pipes and tubes." I looked up.

The whole expanse of the massive fifth floor was a boiler room; no desks or shades, just tunnels of tubes and vats. It was fascinating - in a building so famous for its exterior, with mirrored windows from floor to ceiling, the pipe-room was on display without regrets - even lightly illuminated after dark. And for the rest of the night, it was a new city. I discovered that familiar storefronts were parts of 20-story buildings with ornate cornices, that the windows above Starbucks had colorful eaves. I saw Boston with the fresh eyes of a tourist, but I felt the affection of an adopted local.