September 11, 2014--The Poor Door

I am beginning to feel badly for New York City real estate developers. You know, the ones who build condo towers that they squeeze into the cityscape that rise 50, 75, 100 stories. Where third-floor apartments start at $10 million and top prices soar even higher than the triplex penthouses. It is not unheard of for some Russian oligarch or Persian Gulf gazillionaire to plop down $75, $90 million for a pad of their dreams that they inhabit at the most a few weeks a year.

The new mayor of New York City (who replaced Mike Bloomberg who is worth $33 billion), Bill de Blasio, a self-proclaimed man of the people, in now insisting that to get city approval to add a few more stories beyond the allowable limits, as part of the deal, builders have to agree to add some "affordable housing" units to the otherwise gilded towers.

As you might imagine, these real estate moguls are not happy about this. They fear that someone willing to shell out tens of millions for an apartment will not be eager to share an elevator with the unwashed. Much less the in-house gym, pool, game rooms, spa, or concierge services.

So what to do?

One project that hit the news a few weeks ago is at 62nd Street on Riverside Boulevard, a tony address facing the Hudson River where there will be 33 floors of condos with bargain basement  prices beginning at about $5 million and ranging up to only $25 million

They figured out how to handle the problem--build separate entrances, elevators, and facilities for those lucky enough to win the affordable-housing lottery. (That's indeed how buyers earning less than $50,000 a year will be selected--their names will be drawn from a hat).

Liberals in the city--most of whom are themselves affluent and living in their own upper-middle-class enclaves--are outraged, calling this plan separate but unequal and have labeled the alternate entrance a "poor door."

Under pressure, the developer agreed to spiff up the entrance with marble veneer, tasteful furnishing and appointments, and chandeliers.

Others have figured out even cleverer ways to protect their high-end clients from, well, the rest of us.

Reported in the New York Times a few days ago are plans for a new loft building in one of the city's highest-rent downtown districts--Soho.

The ten lofts there will go for $8.7 to 25 million, averaging about $3,200 a square foot.  But that's not the news. These days that's chump change.

The real news is about the ten underground parking spaces.

On a first-come-first-serve basis each will sell for a cool million. To be fair, they will be generously proportioned, about 200 square feet, so there is little danger of getting too many of those annoying dings in your doors.

But here's the real news--at a million each, depending on the actual size of the parking spaces, the square foot cost is much more than for the apartments--ranging from $5,000 to $6,666.

More news--you don't actually own the parking space. Rather, for your million, you'll get only a 99-year lease.

That shouldn't be a problem for most of us except, perhaps, for my 106 year-old mother. What would she do with her old Buick?

December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

November 5, 2013--Size Matters: Concluded . . .

We found ourselves last week in Renys general store. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of life-long habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes.

Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

"These's don't look that bad," I said to no one in particular. There were a pair of normal-looking Nunn Bush shoes on display atop a stack of shoeboxes. "A little clunky, but of the type that at least look that they won't cause any additional pain." Maybe, I thought, I should try them on.

"Thirteens, thirteens. I can't seem to find any." They had 9s and 10s, 11s and 14s, but no 13s. "Oh well," I said, again talking to myself, "business as usual."

"Oh well, what?" Rona had joined me, clutching a half dozen pairs of Earthworks socks.

"It looks as if one of us did well." I was full of attitude when it came to anything involving shoes and feet.

"I love them. They're expensive, but Renys' prices make them affordable. But what about you? You seem to have found some shoes to try on. The ones you wear all the time are ready to be dumped."

"I agree, but before I do that I have to find replacements. And for me, that's impossible. Timberland, of course, doesn't make my model any more.  I knew I should have bought six pair. But these, which sort of look OK, don't come in 13s. I mean Renys doesn't have any in that size."

"Why not try the 14s then? One never knows. Their 14s may be similar in size to Timberlands' 13s."

I was dispirited, moping around. If there is anything I hate these days it's thinking about my feet.

"Try them," Rona was attempting to be encouraging--she knew all about my shoe-feet phobias. "What have you got to lose?"

"They're so big they'll make me look like Clarabell the clown." Here I was again assigning myself to the circus. But, in spite of feeling grumpy, I pulled the box of 14s from the bottom of the stack and tried the first one on.

"To tell you the truth," I said with surprise, "it actually feels good."

"Try the other one too," Rona said, "And be sure to walk around in them for at least ten minutes. On the tiled floor too. Not just where it's carpeted."

Which I proceeded to do. Up and down, back and forth, up steps and down, I wandered all over the store. And then returned to Rona who was sitting, self-absorbed, on the bench stroking her new Earthworks. She looked up. "So what's the verdict?"

"Believe it or not they feel great and, even more amazing," I was genuinely excited about shoes, "if you can imagine, my feet, which have been killing me for years, don't seem to hurt at all. Could it be that . . ."

"Yes it could. That you've been wearing the wrong size shoes. Thirteens are too small for you. You've become a 14."

"How could that be? I'm not getting bigger," Rona restrained herself from having some fun at my expense, "In fact, I'm getting smaller."

"Indeed." That she couldn't resist.

Ignoring her I continued, "I used to be 6-5 but now I'm only 6-3. I'm shrinking, not getting bigger."

"You could stand to lose five pounds."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Though Rona is in fact right--I have been overdoing the desserts.

"But you know that as you age you're feet can get bigger. Actually, do get bigger." And she repeated, "You used to be a 13, but now you're apparently a 14."

So I bought the shoes (they were originally $110 but at Renys only $54) and have been wearing them day and night. All my foot problems have been miraculously resolved. In truth, most of them. And I am not using any Dr. Scholls' prosthetics. Just the new shoes and sensible socks.

There is, however, one problem--just as 13s were almost nonexistent back when I was an overgrown adolescent, 14s are now equally hard to come by. To cover myself, I got Renys to find a second pair so I can warehouse them. I'm gentle on shoes and these two pair should last me at least five years. I wish Renys had four more. Then I'd be set for life.

On the other hand I'm not sure I'll last five more years, much less longer; but at least when it comes to shoes, I'm in good shape. Any shoes left over, can be part of my estate.

While looking at my new shoes yesterday morning, Rona said, half to herself, "I think they'll be OK in the City. But maybe . . ."

I cut her off before she could complete her thought, "I think they're cool. So I, I mean we should be fine."

"You'll be fine," she corrected me.

November 4, 2013--Size Matters: Part 1

If you do not insist upon details, I will share a story about one of the few things that gets bigger with age.

First, some background--

I grew very tall very fast. I was at least 6-5 by the time I was 12. That was scary. If I kept growing until the typical time when boys stop, I calculated that I could get to be 7 feet tall.

My parents were worried I would become the butt of schoolyard jokes. They had cause to be concerned--there were quite a few nicknames in circulation about me, none of them flattering. "Beanpole" was the most benign. The others, I prefer not to recall.

One night I overheard my parents talking worriedly about my height.

Always not politically correct, my father said, "He's turning into a freak."

"No he's not," my mother said--she always tried to find ways to temper his frustrations, "He's just a little big for his age."

"A little big," he mocked, "Soon we'll be able to sign him up for the circus."

She was familiar with being disregarded, "The doctor said," attempting to change the subject, "we should Xray his wrists and feet to see how much growing room there is. That will give an indication of how much taller he'll get."

"So take him to the shoe store on Church Avenue. They have a machine there where you can Xray his feet. They use it to see if shoes fit. But you can just go in for the Xray."

And with that in mind my mother took me to the Treadeasy to Xray my feet.

Everything looked normal to me--I didn't see any big gaps between the feet bones, which suggested that there wasn't that much growing room left. Maybe, I thought, I'll stop growing soon and use my height to advantage when playing basketball. The only problem was that I was uncoordinated and had such big feet that when running up and down the court I kept tripping on myself.

But I did make a ritual of going to the Treadeasy store every Friday after school to Xray my feet. It's a miracle I didn't give myself radiation poisoning or cancer of the instep.

While there I pretended to be shopping for shoes. But in my size, 13, they had virtually nothing. Just an occasional pair of black Oxfords that to me looked like shoes for old men.

"Maybe," Morty the salesman said, "when you're older there'll be more people your height and size and you'll have more of a selection. In America, everyone is getting taller. Even girls."

"In the meantime," I said, "I'm doomed to walk around looking like I'm a 90-year-old immigrant."

But over time, what Morty prophesied turned out to be true. With so many very tall men around--6-5 nowadays is no big deal--for at least 15 years I have had no trouble finding shoes in my size. Even in Europe. Even occasionally shoes that actually look cool.

But in recent times my feet have begun to trouble me.

I hate going to podiatrists and thought I would either on my own figure out what the problem was and see if there were any Dr. Scholls' products available to ease my pain or, like other symptoms of aging, I would accept aching feet as part of my lot in life.

I tried Dr. Schools Orthotic Inserts (no help); Ball-of-Feet Cushions (no relief); Sport Replacement Insoles (worthless); Bunion Cushions (made things marginally better); and Molefoam Padding (about as helpful as Bunion Cushions). I even tired the good doctor's products in combination--I adhered Bunion Cushions to the soles of my feet and also inserted Molefoam Padding in my shoes.

But still I hobbled around. Now, with so much Dr. Scholls' product on my feet and stuffed into my shoes that they no longer fit and this made matters even worse.

Thus plagued, we found ourselves last week in Renys. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes. Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

To be completed tomorrow . . .