When I married in 1983, my friends were either renting apartments in Forest Hills, Riverdale or Flatbush. We chose Forest Hills. It was a nice Jewish community, only a 25 minute subway ride to Midtown.
We chose a junior 4, which consisted of a small hallway after you enter the apartment, which opened up into a small but nice dining area and then a nice-sized living room. The bedroom was roomy, the bathroom nice, a brand new kitchen had a dishwasher, and there was a room off the kitchen that could be used as an office area, eating area or small room for a baby. It was sunny and bright and only two and half blocks from the shul we were going to attend (only problem was, that after three months, everyone decided to daven in Dov Revel, which was almost a mile away). And let’s not forget it had a laundryroom in the basement, an elevator and, icing on the cake, a really nice doorman named Al. Everyone loved Al, except for the doorman in the building across the street who attacked Al and as a consequence was murdered by him, but let’s not dwell on that.
Fast forward 33 years. My daughter is getting married and is looking for an apartment in the city. “The city?” I cry! “What about Forest Hills? Daddy and I lived there for three years before buying a house in the Five Towns. We loved it. It’s so close to everything, and you can get a nice-sized apartment for much less than a smaller apartment would cost in the city. Why would you want to pay a fortune and live in a walk in closet?”
She looked at me with that same look as when I would discuss how amazing Grossinger’s was in my day, and how it’s sad that it’s not around anymore. Or Bernstein’s on Essex on a Saturday night, Sky Rink on Thursday night, and that wonderful disco Copa Cabanna. I got that same look, and it’s not a good look. Ok. It’s their lives, it’s up to them (I repeat that often to myself).