You know those places you walk past so often they start to feel strangely personal, like the city is teasing you on purpose. For me, it’s 110 W 13th Street. A picture perfect townhouse tucked into Greenwich Village, close enough to my Chelsea apartment that it has become part of my regular route and, apparently, my regular delusion.
Every time I pass it, I slow down. Not in a dramatic way. In a very New York way, where you pretend you are simply checking a text message while actually staring at someone else’s front door and imagining a completely different life.
It starts with the facade. Red brick. Black shutters. A front door that looks like it has never once been slammed during a bad mood. The whole thing feels like it belongs in a film where the heroine owns one good coat, writes in cafés, and somehow ends up with both a townhouse and a man who is emotionally available.
Then there’s the stoop. The quintessential New York stoop that makes you believe you could become the kind of person who sits outside with a coffee in the morning and a book in the afternoon, like your life is a series of tasteful scenes. I can already see my future self there, pretending not to notice the occasional passerby taking photos, while secretly enjoying it more than I should.
What really gets me is that it reads as a single family townhouse. In Manhattan, that’s basically a unicorn. Five stories of privacy and space and quiet, which is a concept I understand intellectually but have never experienced long enough to trust. And yes, in my imagination it has an elevator, because my dream self is not climbing five flights in heels. My dream self is thriving, not training for a stair marathon.
There’s also a garden tucked behind those gates, the kind of hidden outdoor space that makes you forget you are in the middle of a city that will happily charge you a premium for a sliver of sky. It feels like a secret, which is ironic because I talk about it constantly.
I will admit I have looked it up online. Not in a creepy way. In a normal way. In the way every New Yorker has done at least once, usually while eating dinner over the sink, wondering why the rent for their apartment costs the same as a small nation’s GDP.
From what I could see, the interiors are exactly what you want them to be. High ceilings, beautiful proportions, that classic New York mix of old bones and polished updates. The kind of rooms that make you want to host dinner parties where the lighting is flattering and no one is checking the time because no one has to catch the subway home.
I picture a parlor floor that was made for a long table, candles, and friends who do not cancel. Fireplaces that make you want to buy a vintage book from The Strand and then display it with good intentions. A kitchen that is modern but not sterile, with a marble island that would absolutely convince me I could become the kind of person who bakes on Sundays.
And of course, in my imagination, the primary suite takes up an entire floor. Not because anyone needs that much space, but because if you are going to dream, you should not dream small. A walk in closet that makes you feel like your wardrobe has finally become the adult version you always promised yourself it would be. A bathroom that reads like a hotel, the kind where you could take your time getting ready without doing mental math about how long the hot water will last.
Then the views. Not the skyline, necessarily. The more intimate New York view. Tree lined street. Brownstone lines. The kind of quiet scene that makes the city feel like it is letting you in on a softer version of itself.
Obviously, it comes with a price tag that is not exactly within my budget, or within the budget of most people who have ever said the words “I live in New York” without immediately laughing. But that’s not the point. Dream places are meant to be admired from the sidewalk. They’re meant to be pinned to Pinterest boards. They’re meant to sit in the back of your mind as a reminder of what you’re working toward, even if the timeline is currently “someday, when the universe calms down.”
For now, I’ll settle for the walk past. New York is very good at giving you just enough to keep you wanting more.
