The Long Track Back
Why Downtown Los Angeles Feels Small Compared to Other Cities
Downtown Los Angeles often feels “small” compared to other U.S. cities, but that’s only part of the story. With some of the tallest buildings west of the Mississippi and skyline clusters spread across the region, LA’s downtown reflects the city’s unique polycentric identity—one that, if combined, could form a true mega downtown.
Last Updated on February 18, 2026 by Daily News Staff
Panorama of Los Angeles from Mount Hollywood – California, United States
When people think of major American cities, they often imagine a bustling, concentrated downtown core filled with skyscrapers. New York has Manhattan, Chicago has the Loop, San Francisco has its Financial District. Los Angeles, by contrast, often leaves visitors surprised: “Is this really downtown?”
The answer is yes—and no.
Downtown LA in Context
Compared to other major cities, Downtown Los Angeles (DTLA) is relatively small as a central business district. For much of the 20th century, strict height restrictions capped most buildings under 150 feet, while cities like Chicago and New York were erecting early skyscrapers. LA’s skyline didn’t really begin to climb until the late 1960s.
But history alone doesn’t explain why DTLA feels different. The real story lies in how Los Angeles grew: not as one unified city center, but as a collection of many hubs.
Downtown Los Angeles
A Polycentric City
Los Angeles is famously decentralized. Hollywood developed around the film industry. Century City rose on former studio land as a business hub. Burbank became a studio and aerospace center. Long Beach grew around the port. The Wilshire Corridor filled with office towers and condos.
Unlike other cities where downtown is the place for work, culture, and finance, Los Angeles spread its energy outward. Freeways and car culture made it easy for businesses and residents to operate outside of downtown. The result is a polycentric metropolis, with multiple “downtowns” rather than one dominant core.
A Resident’s Perspective
As someone who lived in Los Angeles for 28 years, I see DTLA differently. While some outsiders describe it as “small,” the reality is that Downtown Los Angeles is still significant. It has some of the tallest buildings west of the Mississippi River, including the Wilshire Grand Center and the U.S. Bank Tower. Over the last two decades, adaptive reuse projects have transformed old office buildings into lofts, while developments like LA Live, Crypto.com Arena, and the Broad Museum have revitalized the area.
In other words, DTLA is large enough—it just plays a different role than downtowns in other American cities.
View of Westwood, Century City, Beverly Hills, and the Wilshire Corridor.
The “Mega Downtown” That Isn’t
A friend once put it to me with a bit of imagination: “If you could magically pick up all of LA’s skyline clusters—Downtown, Century City, Hollywood, the Wilshire Corridor—and drop them together in one spot, you’d have a mega downtown.”
He’s right. Los Angeles doesn’t lack tall buildings or urban energy—it just spreads them out over a vast area, reflecting the city’s unique history, geography, and culture.
A Downtown That Fits Its City
So, is Downtown LA “small”? Compared to Manhattan or Chicago’s Loop, yes. But judged on its own terms, DTLA is a vibrant hub within a much larger, decentralized metropolis. It’s a downtown that reflects Los Angeles itself: sprawling, diverse, and impossible to fit neatly into the mold of other American cities.
🔗 Related Links
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Blog
Terminal Island: The Untold Story of Los Angeles Harbor’s Forgotten Community and Industrial Giant
Discover the remarkable history of Terminal Island in Los Angeles Harbor—from its thriving Japanese American fishing village to World War II shipbuilding and today’s global shipping hub.
Whenever I think about Terminal Island, my mind immediately goes back to childhood trips with my parents to San Pedro’s Fisherman’s Wharf. Those visits were some of my favorite family outings. We’d walk along the waterfront while my parents picked up fresh crab, shrimp, fish, and occasionally shellfish. The smells of the ocean, the sound of fishing boats, and the towering presence of the Vincent Thomas Bridge left a lasting impression on me long before I understood the incredible history hidden just beyond the docks.
As a child, I simply saw ships, cranes, and bridges. It wasn’t until years later that I learned Terminal Island had once been home to one of Southern California’s most vibrant immigrant communities—and that much of it disappeared almost overnight during World War II.
Today, Terminal Island stands at the crossroads of history, commerce, and remembrance.
From Sandbar to Strategic Harbor
Terminal Island wasn’t always an island as we know it today. Originally a marshy stretch of land in San Pedro Bay, it was reshaped through decades of dredging and engineering projects that transformed Los Angeles Harbor into one of the world’s busiest ports.
As railroads arrived in the late 1800s, the island became a gateway for commerce. Warehouses, rail terminals, and docks expanded rapidly, laying the foundation for the economic powerhouse that would eventually emerge.
The Village That Built an Industry
In the early 1900s, Japanese immigrants established a thriving fishing village along Fish Harbor.
Families built homes, schools, churches, markets, and businesses while creating a close-knit community unlike any other in Southern California. Many residents came from Japan’s Wakayama Prefecture, bringing generations of fishing knowledge with them.
Their expertise helped build California’s tuna fishing industry into one of the largest in the nation. Long before canned tuna became a pantry staple across America, many of the fishermen of Terminal Island were helping shape the industry that made it possible.
The community even developed its own distinctive blend of Japanese and English known as “Terminal Island lingo,” reflecting the unique culture that flourished there.
A Community Lost
Everything changed after the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.
Within weeks, Terminal Island became the first Japanese American community in the United States to be forcibly removed.
Residents were given little time to leave their homes.
Many men were arrested first under suspicion simply because of their ancestry. Families were separated. Businesses were abandoned. Eventually, nearly every house in the village was demolished.
For many residents, there was nothing to return to after the war.
Today, the story of Terminal Island serves as a powerful reminder of how fear and prejudice can overwhelm constitutional rights during times of national crisis.
Building Victory
As one community disappeared, another chapter began.
Terminal Island became one of America’s great wartime industrial centers.
Shipyards worked around the clock constructing destroyers, cargo ships, and support vessels for the Allied war effort. Thousands of workers—including many African Americans who had migrated west seeking defense jobs—helped build and repair ships that crossed the Pacific.
The island became a symbol of American industrial strength, contributing directly to victory during World War II.
The Bridge That Became an Icon
In 1963, the opening of the Vincent Thomas Bridge forever changed the harbor skyline.
The graceful green suspension bridge connected San Pedro with Terminal Island, replacing ferry service and improving access to the growing port.
For many Southern Californians—including myself—the bridge became more than just a transportation link. It was a landmark that signaled you were entering one of the hardest-working waterfronts in America.
Every crossing offered sweeping views of ships arriving from around the world, reminding visitors that Los Angeles Harbor is one of the nation’s most important economic engines.
Terminal Island Today
Modern Terminal Island bears little resemblance to the fishing village that once stood there.
Today it is home to massive container terminals, rail yards, ship repair facilities, Coast Guard operations, federal facilities, and the Federal Correctional Institution. Together with the neighboring Port of Long Beach, the Port of Los Angeles moves millions of cargo containers every year, supporting jobs and businesses across the United States.
The island remains essential to global trade while quietly preserving memories of the people who first called it home.
Remembering the Whole Story
Terminal Island is more than an industrial center.
It represents the American dream of immigrants who built thriving businesses through hard work.
It reminds us of the injustice experienced by Japanese American families during World War II.
It showcases the extraordinary industrial effort that helped win a global conflict.
And it demonstrates how one small piece of land helped shape the economy of Southern California and the nation.
The next time you cross the Vincent Thomas Bridge or see the towering cranes along the harbor, remember that beneath today’s shipping terminals lies a story of resilience, sacrifice, innovation, and hope.
Sometimes the most important history isn’t found in famous landmarks—it lives in the places we pass every day without realizing what came before.
Further Reading & Related Links
- Port of Los Angeles – Harbor Communities: Terminal Island History
- Port of Los Angeles – *Terminal Island: Lost Communities of Los Angeles Harbor*
- Japanese American National Museum (JANM)
- National Park Service – Japanese American Confinement Sites
- LA Waterfront – Japanese American Fishing Village Memorial
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The Knowledge
As Route 66 turns 100, what is it that we’re actually celebrating?
As Route 66 nears its 100th anniversary, a historian asks what we’re really honoring: the real 2,448-mile highway that reshaped towns and travel, or the mythic “Mother Road” nostalgia that often overlooks segregation, exclusion, and the communities the interstate era left behind.
Daniel Milowski, Arizona State University
Working in concert, the American Association of State Highway Officials and the Bureau of Public Roads adopted a uniform highway numbering system and corresponding map on November 11, 1926. The numbering system and map replaced the confusing patchwork of highways and trails, like the Lincoln Highway or the Old Trails Road, with an official network of numbered highways sanctioned by federal and state highway authorities.
Since then, a small group of these highways have attained the status of cultural icon. There’s Route 1, which snakes all the way from Maine to Florida. Route 101 is celebrated for its majestic views of the Pacific Ocean, while Route 6 was immortalized in “On the Road,” Jack Kerouac’s classic novel.
The most famous, though, is arguably Route 66, nicknamed the “Main Street of America” and the “Mother Road.”
Yet as the towns that dot the highway prepare to celebrate its centennial, I’ve found myself wondering what it is, exactly, that’s being celebrated.
As a historian of Route 66, I’ve written about how there are really two versions of this 2,448-mile (3,940-kilometer) stretch of pavement.
There’s the actual highway, which reflected the 20th-century expansion of the nation’s infrastructure. Then there’s the mythic highway – a cultural icon imbued with nostalgia for a specific, 20th-century idea of romance, adventure, freedom and the American West.
There was almost no 66
As state highway commissioners in the 1920s wrangled over the specifics of the nation’s new highway system, they prized highway numbers that ended in zero, since they indicated a cross-country route. The thinking went that these routes would get the most traffic and, with it, the most business.
Oklahoma State Highway Commissioner Cyrus Avery had been a big booster for a Chicago-to-Los Angeles road in order to juice highway traffic through the Midwest. He suggested calling it Route 60, claiming a coveted cross-country number.
But commissioners from Kentucky and Virginia objected, noting that Avery’s proposed road didn’t go from coast to coast. As an alternative, they suggested 62. Avery countered with a number that he thought had a better ring to it: 66.
With the numbering controversy settled, the map of America’s first highway system was approved. But another 12 years would pass before Route 66 was fully built out, making it the first U.S. highway to be paved end to end.
Adventure, redemption and reinvention
While it took over a decade for the full, physical stretch of road to be completed, the making of the Route 66 myth began almost immediately.
Construction of the road had barely begun when Avery, John T. Woodruff and other prominent civic leaders along the highway’s path convened in January 1927 to form the U.S. Highway 66 Association to promote travel along the route.
The association began advertising Route 66 as the best West Coast travel route and even trademarked a slogan for the road, “The Main Street of America.” The association also sponsored spectacles like the Trans-American Footrace to help publicize Route 66.
The race, which started on March 4, 1928, in Los Angeles, received widespread media coverage. Reporters breathtakingly described the epic struggles of the racers, coupled with vivid descriptions of the Southwest landscape. The effect was a marriage of Route 66 to ideas of adventure and romance in America’s collective subconscious.
During the Great Depression and Dust Bowl years, thousands of migrants from the Great Plains and Midwest traveled west along Route 66, hoping to rebuild their lives in California.
Author John Steinbeck dubbed Route 66 the “Mother Road” in “The Grapes of Wrath,” likening it to an umbilical cord that delivered Oakie refugees fleeing the Dust Bowl in the Oklahoma Panhandle to a new life in California. Working for the New Deal-era Farm Security Administration, photographer Dorothea Lange documented the same Oakies fictionalized by Steinbeck. Her 1938 photograph “Family on the Road” captured a husband, wife and their two young children hitchhiking on Route 66 near Weatherford, Oklahoma, after losing their farm.
Together, Steinbeck and Lange helped imbue Route 66 with new layers of meaning tied to loss and redemption. Then, after World War II, Route 66 came to mythologize the postwar boom.
Bobby Troup’s 1946 song “(Get Your Kicks) on Route 66,” first recorded by the Nat King Cole Trio, cast the road as a postwar rite of passage. Millions of Americans went on to take family vacations to the American Southwest via Route 66, staying at roadside mom-and-pop motels, grabbing burgers at neon-lit diners and posing beside oversized roadside landmarks.
Myth versus reality
But the iconic imagery and myths of Route 66 are often at odds with the reality of the road.
I’ve come to see Troup’s song as encapsulating the tension between these two versions of Route 66.
In 1946, when Nat King Cole recorded “(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66,” Cole and his band were unable to get their own “kicks” on Route 66. That’s because few businesses located along Route 66 were willing to serve them. Jim Crow-era copies of the Green Book – a directory of businesses that would accommodate Black road trippers – show just how few options there were.
It would take passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 – and subsequent enforcement efforts by the Justice Department – for the travel amenities and services along Route 66 to be equally available to all Americans, regardless of their race.
Yet by the time the highway’s motels, diners, auto repair shops and gas stations were open to all travelers, Route 66’s downturn had already begun.
The 1956 Federal Aid Highway Act turbocharged the construction of new, limited-access interstate highways. These new postwar highways prioritized fast travel between major cities and their suburbs, where Americans were flocking to in large numbers.
Fast travel, however, came at the expense of small towns bypassed by the new highways, depriving many Route 66 businesses of the customers they needed to survive.
In contrast to older mom-and-pop businesses, national corporate chain motels, restaurants and gas stations dominated the new interstate highway exits. Rather than risk exposing themselves to Justice Department Civil Rights scrutiny, they made it known that they welcomed all travelers, further enticing drivers away from older establishments.
Now, as Route 66 turns 100, there’s a gap between how the road is remembered by some and how it functioned for most. Free and easy travel on the road and “getting your kicks” were limited to white Americans. Much of Route 66’s iconography emerged from early highway association marketing efforts aimed at white Americans. Few African American or Latino travelers likely feel the same nostalgia.
Today, a lot of Route 66 nostalgia has a “back to the 1950s” vibe that celebrates pre-Civil Rights America as a purer, simpler, more authentic era. This faux-authentic America better reflects the place some Americans today wish they could live in – a less complicated, less diverse land of adventure, romance and opportunity, rather than the nuanced, complicated America they actually inhabit today.
Daniel Milowski, Adjunct Professor of History, Arizona State University
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
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Few transportation systems in the world are as instantly recognizable as the cable cars of San Francisco. Climbing steep hills with a steady hum and a nostalgic charm, these moving landmarks are more than just a tourist attraction—they’re a triumph of innovation born out of necessity.
🐎 A Problem on the Hills
In the mid-1800s, San Francisco was growing rapidly, but its geography posed a serious challenge. The city’s steep inclines made travel difficult, especially for horse-drawn streetcars, which were the primary form of public transportation at the time.
Horses often struggled to pull heavy loads uphill, and accidents were common. In some cases, animals collapsed under the strain. This dangerous and inefficient system needed a solution.
💡 The Vision of Andrew Hallidie
That solution came from Andrew Smith Hallidie, an engineer and entrepreneur who envisioned a safer, more reliable way to move people through the city.
Hallidie developed a system in which streetcars would be pulled by a continuously moving cable running beneath the street—eliminating the need for horses altogether.
⚙️ The First Cable Car Line
On August 2, 1873, Hallidie launched the world’s first cable car system: the Clay Street Hill Railroad.
This groundbreaking line proved that cable-powered transit could successfully navigate San Francisco’s steep terrain. Instead of relying on animal power, cars used a mechanical grip to latch onto a moving cable underground, allowing them to glide smoothly up and down hills.
The innovation quickly captured public attention—and demand.
🚀 A City Transformed
Following the success of the Clay Street line, cable car systems spread rapidly across San Francisco.
By the late 19th century:
- Dozens of routes crisscrossed the city
- Cable cars became the backbone of urban transportation
- The system helped shape the city’s growth and accessibility
For a time, San Francisco operated the largest and most advanced cable car network in the world.
⚡ The Rise of Electric Streetcars
Despite their success, cable cars faced competition from emerging electric streetcar systems in the early 20th century. Electric trolleys were cheaper to build and operate, and they didn’t require the complex underground cable infrastructure.
The turning point came after the devastating 1906 San Francisco earthquake, which destroyed much of the city—including large portions of the cable car network.
When rebuilding began, many lines were converted to electric systems instead of restoring the older cable technology.
San Francisco’s cable car system, first launched in 1873, remains the last manually operated system of its kind. According to the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency (SFMTA) , the system was designed to safely navigate the city’s steep terrain.
The cable cars are now designated as a National Historic Landmark, recognized for their cultural and engineering significance by the National Park Service .
Visitors can explore the history and mechanics of the system at the San Francisco Cable Car Museum , which preserves original equipment and archives.
🛑 Saving a Symbol
By the 1940s, cable cars were on the brink of extinction.
That’s when Friedel Klussmann stepped in. A passionate preservationist, Klussmann led a public campaign to protect the remaining lines from being dismantled.
Her efforts culminated in a successful 1947 voter referendum that ensured the survival of San Francisco’s cable cars—transforming them from everyday transit into a preserved cultural landmark.
🌉 Cable Cars Today
Today, San Francisco’s cable cars are:
- The last manually operated cable car system in the world
- A National Historic Landmark
- One of the most visited attractions in California
Three lines remain in operation:
- Powell–Hyde Line
- Powell–Mason Line
- California Street Line
While they still function as public transit, they now serve as a moving museum—connecting modern riders with the city’s past.
🎯 Why It Matters
San Francisco’s cable cars represent more than a mode of transportation. They tell a story of innovation, resilience, and community action.
From solving a practical problem to becoming a global icon, the cable car system reflects how cities adapt—and how people fight to preserve what makes them unique.
📌 “Now You Know”
San Francisco’s cable cars weren’t built for tourism—they were invented to solve a life-and-death problem on steep city streets. Today, they remain the last system of their kind anywhere in the world.
🔗 External Sources & Related Links
- SFMTA – Cable Cars Overview
- San Francisco Cable Car Museum
- National Park Service – Historic Landmark Info
- Britannica – Cable Car History
- History.com – Invention of Cable Cars
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