Walk along, and you’re six hundred foot under Manhattan. You’re at approximately 30th street or something. You’re in the middle of the greatest city in the world. Nobody even knows you exist. Nobody has a f-. Nobody has a clue. It’s just… It’s just… Beautiful. — A sandhog, on water tunnels1
Sometimes, in the dead of night, I would go on long runs. I had been doing so for years. Back when I still lived in Palo Alto, I had two favorite routes that I still recall vividly. One is through the suburban streets, passing by piles of leaves and urban forestry, among the modern-traditional McMansions, Tudor homes, and Bohemian backyards. The second runs along the highway, bordered by endless panels of noise barriers on one side and an expansive desolate marshland on the other.