You couldn't really feel the sway, but you knew it was happening. Standing 1,350 feet above the pavement of Lower Manhattan, the air just felt different. Thinner. Brisk. It wasn't just about the height; it was about the sheer, overwhelming scale of being on top of the world’s most famous skyline.
The view from top of twin towers wasn't a single experience. It depended entirely on which tower you were in and whether you had the stomach for the wind. Most tourists ended up at the South Tower, WTC 2, because that’s where the "Top of the World" observation deck lived. If you were lucky enough to have a meeting at Windows on the World in the North Tower, you got the view with a side of crystal glassware and jazz.
The Ear-Popping Ascent
Getting there was half the story. The elevators were legendary—and honestly, a bit terrifying if you thought about the physics too hard. They were some of the fastest in the world, traveling at roughly 22 miles per hour. You’d step into this steel box at the concourse level, the doors would slide shut with a heavy thud, and then whoosh.
Fifty-eight seconds.
That is all it took to reach the 107th floor. Your ears popped once, twice, maybe three times. You weren't looking at the scenery on the way up because these were express elevators tucked into the core of the building. You just stared at the floor indicator light as it blurred past the numbers. When the doors opened, the light hit you.
Inside the 107th Floor: The Indoor Deck
The indoor observation deck in the South Tower was designed by Herbert J. Seligmann. It was a bit kitschy by today’s standards, featuring a simulated helicopter ride over the city and some theater-style seating, but nobody was looking at the carpet. They were looking through the glass.
The windows were narrow. This is a detail people often forget. Because of the structural design of the towers—the "tube-frame" system—the exterior was made of closely spaced steel columns. This meant the windows were only about 22 inches wide. You couldn't just lean against a massive sheet of glass like you can at the Burj Khalifa. You had to frame your face between the steel.
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Looking north, the Empire State Building looked... small. Well, not small, but definitely lower. You were looking down on the building that had defined New York for forty years. You could see the grid of Manhattan stretching out like a circuit board. On a clear day, visibility was about 45 miles. You could see deep into New Jersey, the hills of Pennsylvania, and the curve of Connecticut.
Stepping onto the Roof
This was the holy grail. If the weather permitted, you could take an escalator up from the 107th floor to the actual rooftop of the South Tower (the 110th floor).
It was the highest outdoor observation deck in the world at the time.
Walking out there was a sensory assault. The first thing you noticed wasn't the view—it was the wind. It roared. Because there was nothing else at that height to break the gusts coming off the Atlantic, the wind speed on the roof was often double what it was at street level. There were high security fences, but they were set back a bit, giving you a relatively unobstructed line of sight.
The view from top of twin towers from the roof felt raw. You could look across the 130-foot gap to the North Tower and see the massive 360-foot television antenna. You realized then that the North Tower was actually slightly taller.
The "Windows on the World" Perspective
Over in the North Tower (WTC 1), the vibe was completely different. There was no public observation deck. Instead, floors 106 and 107 were home to Windows on the World. This wasn't for tourists in "I Love NY" t-shirts; this was for power lunches and high-end galas.
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The view here was more intimate, despite the height. You’d be sitting at a table with a glass of Bordeaux, looking out at the Statue of Liberty, which looked like a tiny green toy in the harbor. The Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge looked like a thin piece of string draped across the water.
Guy McElwaine, a regular, once famously said that the restaurant felt like being on a stationary airplane. It’s a perfect description. At night, the city turned into a sea of amber and white lights, and because you were so high up, the sounds of the city—the sirens, the honking, the jackhammers—totally disappeared. It was silent.
Technical Feat: How the View Stayed Level
One of the weirdest things about the view from top of twin towers was the swaying. The towers were designed to flex. In a 100-mph wind, the buildings could sway about three feet from the center.
Engineers used something called "viscoelastic dampers." Basically, these were big shock absorbers located throughout the floor joists. They were designed to soak up the energy of the wind so that people on the 107th floor wouldn't get seasick. Most of the time, it worked. But on really stormy days, you could see the water in the toilets or the coffee in your cup move slightly.
What People Got Wrong About the Height
A common misconception is that the towers were the tallest buildings in the world until they fell. Actually, the Sears Tower (now Willis Tower) in Chicago took that title in 1973, just as the World Trade Center was being finished.
But Chicago doesn't have the ocean.
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The unique thing about the WTC view was the transition from urban density to the vastness of the Atlantic. You could track ships coming in from Europe and watch them navigate the Ambrose Channel. You saw the city as a port, not just a collection of office buildings.
The Sensory Details
- The Smell: Inside, it smelled like floor wax and expensive air conditioning. On the roof, it smelled like salt air and jet fuel from the planes heading into Newark and JFK.
- The Sound: A constant, low-frequency hum from the building's massive mechanical systems, overlaid by the whistling of the wind through the steel columns.
- The Light: At sunset, the shadows of the towers would stretch for miles across Brooklyn. It was a giant sundial.
Visiting Today vs. Then
If you go to One World Observatory today (the "Freedom Tower"), the experience is high-tech. There are LED screens in the elevators and iPad guides. It's beautiful, sure.
But the original view from top of twin towers was more visceral. It was a product of the late 60s and early 70s—monolithic, brutalist, and unapologetically massive. There was something about being able to stand on that outdoor roof, with no glass between you and the horizon, that felt like a true peak human achievement.
Practical Legacy and Perspective
For those who never got to see it, it’s hard to describe the scale. Each floor was an acre in size. When you looked down into the "Austin J. Tobin Plaza" between the buildings, people looked like literal ants. Not "kinda" like ants. Exactly like ants.
The view taught you about the geography of the Northeast Megalopolis. You understood why New York was where it was. You saw the Hudson and the East River meeting at the Battery, and you realized that Manhattan is just a skinny little island trying its best to hold up all that steel.
Actionable Insights for History Buffs and Travelers
If you are researching the history of the WTC or looking to understand the architectural impact of the skyline, consider these steps for a deeper dive:
- Check the Archives: The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey maintains digital archives with original construction photos that show the view before the surrounding buildings (like the World Financial Center) were even built.
- Visit the 9/11 Memorial Museum: They have preserved sections of the "Top of the World" elevator motors and signage. It gives a hauntingly physical sense of the machinery required to get people to those heights.
- Compare at Liberty State Park: For the best sense of the "missing" height in the skyline, head to Jersey City. Standing there and looking toward the current One World Trade Center helps you triangulate where the original South Tower would have stood in your field of vision.
- Study the "Tube" Design: If you're into architecture, look up Fazlur Rahman Khan. He’s the engineer who pioneered the structural system that allowed for those narrow windows, which defined the "slotted" view from the towers.
The view is gone, but the data and the photography remain some of the most studied perspectives in urban history. Understanding the engineering helps you appreciate why that specific view felt so stable, even when you were nearly a quarter-mile in the air.