When I was young, one of my favorite books was The Little House, by Virginia Lee Burton. I was reminded of this recently, while at Barnes and Noble, browsing through the bargain section. (Fear not my faithful readers, I haven't abandoned my beloved Strand or Biography Bookshop, but working in tourist-filled East midtown limits my lunchtime bookstore options). Suddenly, there she was, in all her nostalgic glory, on the 2nd shelf, oddly sandwiched between Ancient Mayan Paintings, and Celebrity Motorcycles. "YESS!" I squealed, startling the suit-clad man next to me, who was flipping through The Bartender's Guide to Aphrodisiacs. If I may be trite for a moment: This children's book, while full of wonderfully basic illustrations, isn't simple in its message. It's a tale of gentrification gone wrong. Perhaps Ms. Burton wants to illustrate the story of last year's infamous West Side stadium debate?
The book tells the tale of a quaint house in the country. As time goes by, her neighboring homes are dismantled, only to be replaced by highways, bridges, factories and skyscrapers. Once a gem in a fresh air oasis, the little house struggles to stay afloat, her gentle crossbeams now wedged between dirty smokestacks and the cold steel foundations of tall towers. (Robert Moses would be so proud). Needless to say, there is a happy ending, not unlike that of The Lorax, for children should be sheltered from the ills of society. (Insert sarcasm emoticon here).
Now before you exit my blog out of frustration with my randomness, on your quest to seek out other worthwhile web-rants (to heartily digest, in between creating excel spreadsheets, and batching invoices), I bring this children's story up for a reason. As a proud resident of Hell's Kitchen, I fear our little neighborhood is quickly being squished between modern glass highrises and spacious 24-hour banks. This construction frenzy is happening, right before our very eyes...
A futuristic eatery called Q-Thai has recently opened on Ninth Ave, in close proximity to Pam Real Thai Food, Cozy Thai, and Yum Yum Bangkok I AND II, as if there's a sudden shortage of Thai food in the area. I now find myself trudging much further to drop off my dry cleaning, as not one, but two local establishments have recently vacated their stores, due to rising costs. In their wake hang dejected FOR RENT signs, beckoning The GAP or Starbucks. ["Let's expand our markets; let's blanket the city," exclaim enthusiastic CEOs during sales meetings.] A small antique store on Tenth holds one last weekend sale: Clearance: 75% off all items, it boasts, with a heavy heart. Pseudo-fast-food chain Chipotle now fills the space where The Cheese Shop used to peddle its wonderfully smelly wares, and two luxury high-rises have just been finished, one on Ninth, and the other on 52nd. You might be amazed to know that VYNL, El Centro, Hell's Kitchen, Xing, Eatery, Therapy and Fluff (a bakery which opened and closed within 6 months), are all owned by the same street-swallowing company. Is that considered conformist dissidence? Can such a concept exist according to the laws of physics?
Galaxy Cafe, a beloved neighborhood diner with an outerspace theme and bad linoleum, has tacked up our most feared sign: "Thank you to our dear customers, for 32 years of loyalty. See you in another galaxy." One by one, as if by peer pressure, all the stores between 54th and 55th have closed, leaving broken radiators, dusty windows and a gaping hole in the financially escalating real estate market. Knock down walls, and it becomes the perfect space for a Best Buy or heaven forbid, Wal-Mart. Two weeks ago, my friend discovered a "secret" bakery on 47th, with hearty soups, garden seating, and fresh scones. The next day she went back with a friend, ready to purchase at least a dozen cookies. The bakery was closed. The sign was down. Kitchen supplies in boxes and crates. She actually shed tears.
Oh God, make it stop!
MBA students study this phenomenon: in a monopoly, businesses can sell a lower quantity of goods, for higher prices, thereby increasing sales. Can Hell's Kitchen be moving towards the new reality of standardization? But where will we get our fresh fish? Our cheap baked goods? Will they take away Tagine and Siberia too?
Obviously, Hell's Kitchen is not a little house, being squished by skyscrapers and factories. But the lesson is real. Is the once eclectic Manhattan becoming a generic playground, spitting out of its assembly line, neon-filled, trendy, expensive stores that all look alike and have a soundtrack for purchase near the register? As for the mom-n-pop dry cleaners, antique stores, awkward bakeries, and random diners... where are they going? To that dark place in the washing machine that sucks up our socks, never to be seen again?
So here's my message to you, dear readers: go on an adventure in your neighborhood. Support your local laundromats and Mexican bakeries and little establishments that make our cities diverse and colorful. Because unlike The Little House in the story, The Little Hell's Kitchen in the city can't be uprooted and transported, via flatbed truck, to a new lot in the country.
The book tells the tale of a quaint house in the country. As time goes by, her neighboring homes are dismantled, only to be replaced by highways, bridges, factories and skyscrapers. Once a gem in a fresh air oasis, the little house struggles to stay afloat, her gentle crossbeams now wedged between dirty smokestacks and the cold steel foundations of tall towers. (Robert Moses would be so proud). Needless to say, there is a happy ending, not unlike that of The Lorax, for children should be sheltered from the ills of society. (Insert sarcasm emoticon here).
Now before you exit my blog out of frustration with my randomness, on your quest to seek out other worthwhile web-rants (to heartily digest, in between creating excel spreadsheets, and batching invoices), I bring this children's story up for a reason. As a proud resident of Hell's Kitchen, I fear our little neighborhood is quickly being squished between modern glass highrises and spacious 24-hour banks. This construction frenzy is happening, right before our very eyes...
A futuristic eatery called Q-Thai has recently opened on Ninth Ave, in close proximity to Pam Real Thai Food, Cozy Thai, and Yum Yum Bangkok I AND II, as if there's a sudden shortage of Thai food in the area. I now find myself trudging much further to drop off my dry cleaning, as not one, but two local establishments have recently vacated their stores, due to rising costs. In their wake hang dejected FOR RENT signs, beckoning The GAP or Starbucks. ["Let's expand our markets; let's blanket the city," exclaim enthusiastic CEOs during sales meetings.] A small antique store on Tenth holds one last weekend sale: Clearance: 75% off all items, it boasts, with a heavy heart. Pseudo-fast-food chain Chipotle now fills the space where The Cheese Shop used to peddle its wonderfully smelly wares, and two luxury high-rises have just been finished, one on Ninth, and the other on 52nd. You might be amazed to know that VYNL, El Centro, Hell's Kitchen, Xing, Eatery, Therapy and Fluff (a bakery which opened and closed within 6 months), are all owned by the same street-swallowing company. Is that considered conformist dissidence? Can such a concept exist according to the laws of physics?
Galaxy Cafe, a beloved neighborhood diner with an outerspace theme and bad linoleum, has tacked up our most feared sign: "Thank you to our dear customers, for 32 years of loyalty. See you in another galaxy." One by one, as if by peer pressure, all the stores between 54th and 55th have closed, leaving broken radiators, dusty windows and a gaping hole in the financially escalating real estate market. Knock down walls, and it becomes the perfect space for a Best Buy or heaven forbid, Wal-Mart. Two weeks ago, my friend discovered a "secret" bakery on 47th, with hearty soups, garden seating, and fresh scones. The next day she went back with a friend, ready to purchase at least a dozen cookies. The bakery was closed. The sign was down. Kitchen supplies in boxes and crates. She actually shed tears.
Oh God, make it stop!
MBA students study this phenomenon: in a monopoly, businesses can sell a lower quantity of goods, for higher prices, thereby increasing sales. Can Hell's Kitchen be moving towards the new reality of standardization? But where will we get our fresh fish? Our cheap baked goods? Will they take away Tagine and Siberia too?
Obviously, Hell's Kitchen is not a little house, being squished by skyscrapers and factories. But the lesson is real. Is the once eclectic Manhattan becoming a generic playground, spitting out of its assembly line, neon-filled, trendy, expensive stores that all look alike and have a soundtrack for purchase near the register? As for the mom-n-pop dry cleaners, antique stores, awkward bakeries, and random diners... where are they going? To that dark place in the washing machine that sucks up our socks, never to be seen again?
So here's my message to you, dear readers: go on an adventure in your neighborhood. Support your local laundromats and Mexican bakeries and little establishments that make our cities diverse and colorful. Because unlike The Little House in the story, The Little Hell's Kitchen in the city can't be uprooted and transported, via flatbed truck, to a new lot in the country.
