A Spy on Sylvan Terrace
Between the red and yellow façade of C-Town Supermarket and the blinking fluorescent lights of the Ven Y Ven merengue bar on St. Nicholas Avenue stands a simple stonewall with 12 descending steps leading to my neighborhood-upper Manhattan's Washington Heights. Here, the most popular food is tostones, locals speak Spanish and cheap rent rules. But climb that one flight and enter Sylvan Terrace, a quaint street of historical landmarks that have suddenly become million-dollar townhouses.
Dating back to 1882, 20 identical wooden row houses line the narrow cobblestone street sloping towards the grand Morris-Jumel Mansion, Manhattan's oldest house and George Washington's Revolutionary War headquarters. I've been fascinated with the houses since I moved three blocks away, and have taken to strolling past them on my way home. Only about half of the houses are occupied; the others are undergoing interior redesign.
One day I notice the door to No. 13 is open. No burly security guards in sight, I stamp wet sneaker prints on all 10 painted-brown steps, run my fingers across the smooth, wooden banister and step inside. A middle-aged Asian man catches me. I avert disaster by immediately fawning over the spiraling, pale-wood staircase and cooing about the marble fireplace, essentially inviting myself in before he can protest. Too dumbfounded to turn me away, he allows me to inspect everything from the upstairs master bedroom to the basement kitchen.
Lou's been working on the house for over a year now. Before his boss bought it, the house sat empty and in disrepair for 15 years. First they restored the outside in accordance with the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission, which has designated the two-block radius around Morris-Jumel Mansion a historic district, and now the entire interior is getting a makeover. The property will resell for a nice chunk of change; Lou figures they will net a million or more.
Three times he asks me if I want to buy No. 13, until finally I snap, "I live in Washington Heights. You think I can afford this place?" He laughs, adding, "It's not so bad now, right?"
It's true; I'm never afraid to walk around late at night, probably because even after midnight, the streets are never empty. Teenagers camp on the corners, whole families sit outside in lawn chairs and barbershops stay open seemingly all night. Still, it's not exactly an upscale paradise: The nearest Starbucks is 20 blocks away (unheard of in the rest of Manhattan), and Goya products far outstrip organic produce in the local grocers. It was a major event when they started carrying hummus.
Later that night, I'm struck by the quiet of the block. This is, I think, what it must be like to live in a rich Manhattan neighborhood like Gramercy Park. Or a rich Manhattan neighborhood like Sylvan Terrace, I suppose.
A man is unpacking groceries out of his mini-SUV. In his mid-thirties, long dreds pulled back in a ponytail, he stops mid-duck into his kitchen to chat. When he bought his townhouse three years ago, it cost him $300,000, which would now be considered a steal with its new, million-dollar price tag. The homes on the block were built in the 19th century on the former driveway to the Mansion, and were intended for middle-income residents. According to The New York Times, in the 1940s they sold for about $2,500 to, mostly, poor whites .
By the 1970s, the wooden faces were covered in stucco, asphalt sheeting and aluminum siding, retaining little of their original character. Still, the city decreed them landmarks, and in the '80s launched a major renovation project to restore the houses to their Victorian roots, at no cost to the mostly middle-class African-American residents. In 1998, one of the houses sold to the winner of a City Home lottery for about $137,000.
Less than 10 years later, that number has increased almost tenfold. A "For Sale" sign hangs in the window of No. 16. The asking price: $1.1 million.
I wonder, how would millionaires fit into this Washington Heights world, where Dominican children play in streets flooded by open fire hydrants in the summer? Will our new millionaire residents bring Barnes & Noble bookstores with them? Or can Sylvan Terrace remain a world unto itself?
As much as it pains me and my bank account, I can't deny that these houses are worth it. So, for now, I'll have to content myself with visiting Sylvan Terrace as a tourist, savoring the quiet luxury of New York City's living history, if only for a few minutes.