The Society of the Ethereal Medallion

11,544 Years Later

Fear filled the pit of my stomach: I found it soothing to recall the dates and times buildings we passed were created. To further settle my nerves, I pulled out a picture of my parents from the crevice of my purse. This entire experience was new and frightening; I thought it was rather funny. A girl who has traveled worldwide is scared of what this new land holds in store for her. I was already homesick at the thought of Britain; the green fields that lay behind my childhood home, the fresh scent of tea and biscuits at noon, the delightful weather.

Here in New York, it's always cold. From the two grisly days I've been here, it has been entirely atrocious: the traffic was a nightmare, the people were horrid, and to make matters worse, I am currently stuck in a drab of a cab with a pig driver who smells of stew. As I wrote in my journal, the breeze from the open car window was the only thing keeping me going. My driver looked like he was about to bust with his plump head and round body. I would instruct to roll down a window, but I don't think that would help much.

He kept dragging a handkerchief across his forehead from sweat. The sad thing about it was that it wasn't even hot in the car. This man reminded me of a Russian I met once (not that all Russians are sweaty and unbearable to be around), who was entirely against body hygiene; he always reeked of garlic. Call me snobby, but people had much more cleanliness than those of New York City in London. I took another look at my wristwatch to ensure we were right on schedule. My mum had spent half of the morning informing me (and by inform, I mean warn) of how the traffic in New York worked.

Heeding her advice, I woke up two hours earlier and left an hour in advance. I'm glad I listened. Cars surrounded us with just a couple of more blocks to go.

Empire State Building was made ten years ago, on March 17th.

The Chrysler Building was created in September of 1928.

Chicago architect David Burnham made flat Iron in 1902.

The Woolwork, November 4, 1910.

I was so busy trying to settle myself; I couldn't hear the slivery taxi driver was trying to grasp my attention.

"Miss...Miss?" The taxi driver extended out his large, fat hand to receive his payment. He kept moving it up and down, silently telling me to move on.

"Oh!" I rummaged through my purse.

As I did, he wore an expression of annoyance on his pimply face.

I placed 20 dollars into his palm, taking great care not to touch his skin. "Good day." I exited the hackney and gave the sickly man a wave only to see he had already gone speeding into the busy streets. "Good riddance," I muttered. "Bloody Americans."

A cool breeze hit me in the back, making my hair fly with it. I held on tightly to my things with the worry they might be blown away. A clamor of people approached me; it seemed that the driver did something right (probably the first and last time he would achieve such an accomplishment). I was right in front of the building I was supposed to. The structure was almost beastly. It stood tall, towering over the citizens below, it wasn't quite as tall as the Empire State Building, but it was reasonably close. I held my hat as the wind blew harder, making me dare a glance towards the sky.

The building's top appeared to be touching the sky; its windows reflected the clear, blue atmosphere and the pure white clouds that roamed. It was doing everything but settling my nerves. I used an ancient yogic technique called pranayama; I learned how to master its art in India from an Ancient Sage. Didn't work either.

"I can do this," I whispered encouragingly. "I can do this."

Without further hesitation, I pushed past the mob of people who were rushing to get to their jobs. However, I found myself stopping in front of the building's two shimmering glass doors. In gold lettering was the name, "The Metropolitan Journal," the letters shone brightly with the sun's beams' enhancement. I hesitated, just bloody do it! When I opened the door, Ella Fitzgerald called me inside with her sweet, crooning voice. The aroma of cigars and whiskey hit my nostrils, making them flare with surprise.