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Brian Fanelli

Buffalo is a city of optimistic decay  learning to embrace the fallen heroes of our youth. We’re proud of the fallen buildings and the grain elevators because what else can you do?

This city is a second hand book discarded by hundreds of thousands of readers, and we were the ones lucky enough to find it lying there for our eyes alone to read. My favorite chapter is called The Central Terminal, Buffalo’s dusty crown jewel, and it takes place in our Polonia neighborhood. It can be described as gorgeous, or broken, or massive, or dirty, or hopeful, or just one bounced check away from demolition. But it’s so much more than those descriptions. They don’t begin to tell the story. So I’ve come to a word that takes all those descriptors and more, and puts them in a dirty yet truly beautiful package. The Central Terminal is Buffalo. No more, no less. It’s Buffalo, NY.

The Terminal was built with hesitant optimism. Our city government wasn’t fully committed to the idea, but the momentum of industry thrust it into our arms regardless. We embraced it because there was no other option, but it never once ran at full capacity – not even opening day – and within a year of its completion the Great Depression was in full swing, dragging our up-in-the-clouds optimism for The Terminal back down to Earth where it belonged.

Years passed and The Terminal struggled, once or twice receiving reprieves by way of War or Steel but always reverting back to its natural state of decay. It rose and fell in perfect sync with this beautifully decrepit city of ours, reflected the city’s successes and failures as though built for that purpose alone.

I can remember the shock of my first visit. It felt like finding the ruins of Atlantis, hidden away in Buffalo this whole time. A relic of the past lost long ago to the onslaught of time.

Jutting out over rotted rooftops, that now-familiar clock tower beckoned. I got off my bike and looked down into the abyss of its empty train yard, nervously scanning the area for signs of life and finding none. All this industry passed over and forgotten. Broken windows and crumbling bricks.

I rushed home and looked up everything I could about this vacant masterpiece. I sat at the computer sorting through articles until my eyes were sore and crusted over with sleep. It opened in 1929, a few fleeting moments before the Great Depression. It closed in 1979, marking an unofficial end-of-days for the Buffalo steel industry. Lately there have been efforts to save it, led by the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation. They host fundraising events in varying degrees of success, and have recently taken to asking that you adopt a roof tile for a much needed re-tiling job.

On days when feeling particularly pessimistic it strikes me that we’re just kids on the beach trying to conserve a sand castle. The tide is rising and we’re still out there working away as the water surrounds our toes.

But on most days I see the distant outlines of a train in the station, and shadows of passengers rushing to make it on board because damn if those Buffalo conductors don’t move on quick. I see hordes of Buffalonians with bags in tow, and I see steam rising from the yard to make fossils in the sky.

When I think about Buffalo I think of The Central Terminal. Of the many efforts made to save it, and of the many thousands of us who treasure it. The perfect allegory for the Nickel City – a failed endeavor treasured by those who still know it exists.