A field trip to the (outside of the) New York Fed

I had the distinct pleasure of spending my Spring Break in the world's greatest city, New York. (Skeptics, lay down your spears, they've got it by a long shot). Among the requisite hours of wandering the lonely grey streets by myself, and out of a clear duty to the undertakings of this blog, I paid a visit to one of our government's most notoriously lavish (or is it lavishly notorious?) buildings, the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.

Of course, though, I didn't go inside. More specifically, I wasn't allowed inside. If I'd wanted to, I would have had to make plans six weeks in advance, via direct communication with Ben Bernanke, his permission written in stone with blood (OK, the blood part is exaggerated). Nonetheless, even if I'd had a tablet with Ben's hancock on it, the guard's general air of nonplussedness makes me wonder if I'd have been allowed in.

So instead of taking a look inside, I made a circle of the block on which the building stands. The above picture gives you an idea, more or less, of the appearance of the building. Why, it looks like the Egyptian pyramids made out of granite! you say. Yes indeed, it does. I'd bet these blocks were rolled vast leagues upon giant logs, with the aggregated will of many thousands of peasant hedge fund managers. Every fifty feet or so, between those giant stones, each first floor window has been covered over with a slab of concrete, which is in turn caged by wrought iron bars. Apparently they want to keep what's outside, out, and what's inside, in. At least that's what I took from the experience.

I had read in David Wessel's book In Fed We Trust that several hundred feet below the Fed building, upon the bedrock of Manhattan Island, is The Vault, where many tens of gazillions of dollars in gold bullion are stored. Not one to miss my chance to cash in, I found a plot of dirt (hard to come by here) and started digging.

A word to the wise: several hundred feet is a long way down. After three to four slog-filled minutes, replete with bloodied knuckles and awkward stares from passers-by, I lay down my tools (an empty Dunkin Donuts cup and a toothbrush I bought at Duane Reade) and was beaten.

As I vacated the premises (the guard's words, not mine), I noticed I was not alone in my desire to stand up to The Man (and also not alone in ultimately losing out). On the opposite side of the building from my mining experiment was another apparent member of the Rebel forces, under the glare of a non-so-official-looking deputy, cleaning from a low corner of the Fed what looked like graffiti.

Judging by her violet-colored fleece of the North Face variety, and her comfortable-looking Keen shoes, I estimated she was from the Pacific Northwest, having made a sort of anti-pilgrimage to the East to protest evil financial practices that are probably irrelevant in the Northwest, anyway (I have heard most people up there live deep in the woods, eating only granola and what they can forage from streams and with hatchets [my sources for this information are Bill Bryson and Gary Paulson books]). I offered some silent solidarity to her struggles and went on.

What did I learn from this trip? To be honest, not much. Mostly that you should wear gloves when you dig in Manhattan. Then again, the Federal Reserve does seem kind of important in the whole scheme of things, holding a lot of our money and stuff, and trying to keep our economy afloat, you know? At first I thought those big thick walls were a little bit showy and standoffish, but considering what goes on inside, I could maybe kind of see why they pay a tough guy to stand at the door telling people like me to go away. Whatever. I don't know. What do you think?