Scattered Notes from a Night in Atlantic Station
As a young wanna-be rebellious college student, I don’t think I match Atlantic Station’s target demographic. For one, I like trees and architecture too much to ever entirely approve of the development, which lacks significant amounts of both.
Riding to Atlantic Station at night, crossing that huge bridge aboard one of their free minibusses, I felt as if I was travelling between two island communities. I was journeying from the forested City of Midtown to the New Atlantic Principality; substituting trees for streetlamps and emergency phones, indie theatres for 16 screen megaplexes, and ancient hobo-infested parks for immaculately groomed and paved promenades.
The Station has a hollow feel, especially evident at night, when crowds of shoppers have been replaced by small groups of young polo wearing kids. The only people I saw older than 30 actually worked for the development.
The age and innocence of Atlantic Station’s late night patrons seems futile, temporary compared to the overwhelming plan behind this rigid “community”. Attendents armed with brooms and cleaning supplies hurry invisible through the crowd, fast to erase any signs that people were once here. These buildings already seem older than their tiny inhabitants.
But the free shuttles are nice, and the parking is ample.