On the corner of East Sixty-third Street and Lexington Avenue, in a building where the apartments sell for anywhere from one million to thirteen million dollars, there is a woman who pays around a hundred and thirteen dollars a month in rent. She lives on the fourth floor, and has maid service two days a week, a front-desk staff to take her messages, and a private bricked terrace at the end of her hall. That woman is one of a handful who have lived in this twenty-three-story building for decades, through renovations and condominium conversions; as the World Trade Center rose and fell and was rebuilt; as miniskirts gave way to bell-bottoms and then to skinny jeans; as newspapers went on strike and transit workers went on strike and teachers went on strike; as civil-rights marchers and gay-rights protesters took to the streets; as crime waves gave way to market booms. These women checked into the Barbizon Hotel and—even though it technically no longer exists—they never left. Most of these hotels were curiosities of long-since-reformed real-estate regulations, exempt from building-height restrictions and from fire-safety regulations, so long as they did not have kitchens in their guest rooms. Some of them opened in the late nineteenth century, though most were built around the time of the First World War; few had the cultural cachet of the Barbizon.
When the Barbizon Gave Women Rooms of Their Own
The Barbizon: The Hotel That Set Women Free by Paulina Bren
Before her lunch with Eddie Walsh, she writes:. She and Eddie are meeting at a Thai restaurant downtown. Unless it feels organically relevant, she plans to make no mention of the project until after the arrival of the check, which she will pay. Curtis Sittenfeld on politics and ambiguity. Almost thirty years ago, as undergraduates at the U, Irene and Eddie both took Introduction to Ceramics.
Single Women Are the Most Potent Political Force in America
By the spring of , Missi Brandt had emerged from a rough few years with a new sense of solidity. At 45, she was three years sober and on the leeward side of a stormy divorce. She was living with her preteen daughters in the suburbs of St. Paul, Minnesota, and working as a flight attendant.
An events coordinator for a waste-management company in Chattanooga, Tenn. She had a large group of friends, a loving family she could visit in Atlanta and a cool apartment all to herself. She was told to keep off her foot and had to be confined to her home while it healed. Just as she was ready to go out again, the pandemic hit.