Solid Foundation

I live in a decidedly analogue building. It was built in the 1920s, and beyond the faucets and appliances, it has maintained its unique charm in the form of old milk delivery boxes, thick walls, and wavy window panes. There's no air conditioning units allowed (a reason, I was assured, the rent could remain so affordable for such an esteemed neighborhood), and there is a property manager in the form of a mature gentleman who lives on the first floor, dutifully attending to the building's needs and amassing a cheap wealth of knowledge of the various comings and goings of us residents.

The building is a reassuring scene of antiquity amidst the many new rental apartment buildings in every small to mid-size city in the United States, those two bedroom, two bathroom boxes with big windows and central air conditioning. There are many times I fantasize about such boxes, especially staring up at my faithful yet insufficient ceiling fan on hot summer nights, but there is also a sense of particular comfort to my little corner of the world that feels decidedly real, solid, lasting.

When I was back in New York for a day in June I saw a giant new building that looked more suited for Dubai than Midtown. Upon Googling I found its name, "One Vanderbilt," and thought about how at home Anderson Cooper must feel in New York City - a cause I could not imagine requiring any further reinforcement - knowing its most ostentatious, newest building boasted his mother's maiden name. (I await the opening of "One Fitzgerald" at Extell's earliest convenience.) But it wasn't the giant-ness of it all as much as the computer-ness of it all. While some buildings were clearly drawn on paper, these buildings were conceived on a screen. I'm sure it's all more efficient and very exciting (and I would gladly partake in its undoubtedly exquisite central air), but as long as I continue to play the as-cheap-as-possible real estate game, I will take my pride wherever I can get it. While some buildings may have height, mine has depth.