When I first began traveling from Madison in New Jersey to Penn Station in Manhattan, I soon began noticing that under the railroad constructions and the maze of freeways and bridges that feed New York City lays another world. It is a seemingly apoc-alyptical underground landscape that appeared to be unloved by its inhabitants and mostly invisible to the rest of the world. I leḀ the freeways and rail tracks and stepped into this labyrinth of canals, bridges and industrial buildings. What I found is a hidden place, nestled in a time warp, unpolished and raw. It is dirty and loud and light years away from New York’s sleek-ness and forwardness. Yet it carries the unprettiἀed, honest and direct beauty of Victorious London. It is a place where people come to work, and then go home and forget. It is a place of passing through for goods and people. It is a place where nobody and nothing stays for long - except the place itself.