There's No Place Like Home

My Adventures in (and Obsession With) New York City Real Estate

I have always dreamed of living in New York. I moved here a few months before my 27th birthday in 2012 and have lived in 10 apartments since then. My first official room was in the basement of my friend’s Bushwick apartment for $300 a month. It had cement floors and lots of spiders. I filled it with objects from the thrift store I was working at and purchased a lime green fold-out chair from Wal-Mart’s website, using it as a chair during the day and a bed at night. I shared a bathroom with a lesbian couple, and while sitting on the toilet, would stare at the many strap-ons that hung from the door.

My second place was a railway apartment just off the M train (also in Bushwick), I shared with a friend of seventeen years and my younger sister. You could almost touch the tracks from the bedroom window, but the stop we lived off of was temporarily closed for construction, so despite our proximity, we had a bit of a walk to the train. Upon entering the building, one was overwhelmed by the smell of incense. Our neighbor Ray had at least three sticks burning in the hallway at all times, and for some reason, we never asked him to stop. I suppose it’s part of being a girl. You’re taught to be polite and agreeable no matter what the situation. The walls of the entryway and stairs were painted a bright blue, which I genuinely found to be a desirable feature of this dilapidated apartment building. I thought it was quirky. We lived there until our electricity was shut off and our slumlord refused to help us get it back on.

In 2020, I lived in the art studio of a 75-year-old sculptor I met by chance. The door to his building on Doyers was open, so I went inside. I walked up the three flights of stairs to his unit and knocked on his door, curious to know if there were any available units. We got to talking, and he showed me his work and the space he had been renting for about 40 years. A former flophouse, it was a floor-through unit; half art studio, half home, though the “home” half looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. It had a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom with a washer and dryer. Although I had a live-in boyfriend at the time, I had a strong desire to live there. I started visiting him regularly to see his art and hear stories of Diane Arbus and Jasper Johns. Two years later, I returned to New York after a break-up and he let me stay in his studio. Everything was covered in dust as he hadn’t lived there since sometime in the 1970s, so there was a lot of cleaning to do. One month later, the city was in lockdown, but I was so happy to be back in New York, it didn’t matter.

I currently live in a 2000-square-foot loft in SoHo for $50 a month (my half of the electricity bill). My roommate is 84 (though it’s likely he is now 85. He doesn’t strike me as the “it’s my birthday” sort of guy). I met him on Spring Street, walking our dogs. His two elderly Chihuahuas and my Pomeranian got along, which was rare as my dog mostly prefers the company of humans. He’s a retired electrician who now spends his time painting and attending ballroom dance classes. I liked him right away. He was straightforward and, like me, had an appreciation for Bette Davis films. We started hanging out. I would go to his place, drink green tea, and he would tell me what it was like growing up in New York in the 1940s. Two years later, my six-month sublet in Williamsburg was coming to an end. We were eating fries at a diner in Tribeca when I jokingly asked him if he needed a roommate. He didn’t laugh like I thought he would. He gave it some thought and said, “Maybe”. His wife had passed away five years before, and he was lonely. A couple of months later, I moved in. I have my own bedroom and bathroom, a washer and dryer, and an elevator that opens right into the apartment.

I am obsessed with New York City real estate. Not the picture-perfect new builds you see on shows like Million Dollar Listing or Selling the City, but rather the sort of buildings that have soul. The ones that have been standing for a hundred years. Over the past few years, I have compiled a list of every building and sometimes specific unit I am obsessed with. I walk through the city jotting down the addresses of buildings that pique my interest, eager to look them up when I get home. Many years ago, while walking through the West Village, I noticed an actual house (121 Charles Street, the free-standing wooden house built in 1810, which at one time was owned by Margaret Wise Brown, author of Goodnight Moon).

I dream of living at The Ansonia, a building I first laid eyes on when I saw the movie Single White Female. I can’t believe I can see it in person whenever I feel like it. It is so absolutely breathtaking that I blush every time I walk past it. Have you ever had a crush on a piece of architecture? I picture myself living there when I’m a rich and successful actress and writer, becoming close with the doorman, an older gentleman who gives me advice and the sort of long hugs that show you really love someone.

31 West 94th Street #3A is in a prewar townhouse with parquet floors and a lofted bed. I love this apartment so much that I have actually visited it three times. I stand outside and admire it, imagining what it would be like to live there.

My favorite buildings are in the West Village. I love the “hidden” buildings like Patchin Place, a gated cul-de-sac located off 10th Street between Greenwich Ave and Sixth Ave. It looks like a movie set, and if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it.

Grove Court, a famous West Village condo, is another “hidden” building. The red brick structure sits way back behind a small black iron gate, begging you to peer in. I fear that if I lived there, I would sit outside on a lawnchair flaunting my access to all the tourists who passed by on their way to the Friends House.

27 Bank Street was my dream house when I thought I would marry and have children. It’s a 3-story townhouse between Waverly and West Fourth Streets, and Malcolm Gladwell lives next door. I pictured us becoming friends and having dinner at his place when my husband was out of town and the kids were at camp.

114 Waverly Place is a 4-story house in Greenwich Village that used to be the most fabulous shade of pink but is now a pale yellow, which I think was a mistake. It has 14-foot ceilings and original wooden beams, but was purchased in 2019 by a “celebrity couple” who did a major renovation, so I doubt it looks as amazing as it once did.

I fantasize about having my very own place someday. Somewhere I can blast Fiona Apple and dance around with abandon wearing my ballet slippers. I will paint the walls cadmium red and decorate it with the treasures I’ve found at the Chelsea Flea Market. I’ll have plush wall-to-wall carpeting in the bathroom and soak in my claw-foot bathtub while watching old movies. Until that glorious day comes, I will continue to live with my 85-year-old roommate and our three yapping dogs in his dreamy SoHo loft.