I love the thought of New York City during the 1920s.
I romanticize the streets teeming with people, electrified with the child-like wonder of a hopeful generation; smoky jazz bars and the rapid click-clack rhythm of typewriters on the ground floor of a skyscraper. I daydream about young women with pierced ears and foul language, the gawks and shouts of children at their first glimpse of an automobile.
The sense of something new in the air those people must have felt! The world was on the break of urbanization and the masses knew it- a growing city was their oyster, mystery and adventure just a taxi ride away.
I wish I could have been there when people held radio shows as a precious thing;friends and strangers alike gathering shoulder-to-shoulder around the box to hear an old man’s story through the crackle of charmingly bad reception.
I would do anything experience the joy of going to a silent black-and-white movie in the theater. Imagine how passionate the screenplay was, told through brilliant expression and acting, your imagination put to use for the dialog, the creativity and genius required of a director to make it all happen.
I’m proud to think of the rise of the working woman during the 20s, for the first time wearing the same white collars as the men, voting and making a life for themselves. Wearing dresses that got shorter by each passing year, bobbed hair and a sly smile.
I can hear the shouts of small boys selling newspapers on the street corners, its bold-print headlines holding the spirit of the city on its shoulders.
Funny how we romanticize the things we can never have.