Who Knew? Greenpoint’s McGolrick Park


The impressive 9-acre Monsignor McGolrick Park, an urban oasis tucked between Williamsburg and Long Island City, is surrounded on all four sides by vintage row houses from fine to funky.

The park has been there since the 1893, a welcome leftover from the City Beautiful movement the swept the nation in the last decade of the 19th century, but I had never been there until an errand took me to Greenpoint this afternoon.

Established as Winthrop Park and renamed in 1948 for a beloved local priest who was instrumental in the creation of a new church, convent, rectory, hospital, school and playing field for the neighborhood, it’s a classic late Victorian New York City park, with wrought iron fences, wooden benches and towering sycamores.

Though McGolrick Park is new to me, savvy folk have already pushed the prices of even the vinyl-clad buildings past $1.5 million, and the renovated ones much higher (a minuscule house on the north side of the park, bought for 675K three years ago, turned over recently after being tripled in size for well over $2million).


Russell Street, along the south side of the park, has substantial, well-maintained turn-of-the-century brick and limestone buildings.


A curved Neoclassical pavilion with wooden columns, built in 1910, was restored in the 1980s and is now on the National Register of Historic Places.  


On the north side of the park, this row of humble two-story buildings looks like it belongs in another city altogether. Baltimore maybe? 


Monitor Street, along the north side of the park, is unusually colorful for Brooklyn.


I love the French blue trim against the terra cotta brick on this tiny house.


This one made me laugh. A bit of Venice in Greenpoint.


A Renaissance Revival school building elevates the architectural tone in the northeast corner of the park.


Among the few grocery stores and restaurants ringing this square of green (visualizing it in summer), there are none you could call upscale…yet.

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The Great Room Becomes a Greater Room


IT’S GETTING ON FOR SPRING, and I’ve got a decorating project to look forward to. Naturally, this makes me very happy. It’s been a while since I had an opportunity to indulge this passion of mine, since I’m a designer with no clients — only myself.

The room in need of decorating is the 400-square-foot great room at my rustic-modern retreat on the East End of Long Island. You remember my great room, don’t you? Here’s what it looked like last summer, when the interior walls were the same plank of wood as the exterior walls, and the room was (to my mind — some people liked it) dark and oppressive:


Last fall, over a period of about six weeks, I had the ceiling and walls of this room insulated, Sheetrocked and painted, and a wood stove installed, making it the only winterized space in what is essentially still an unheated summer bungalow.

The floor is still one sheet of plywood over a crawl space, and the new wood stove insert, which fit right into the opening in the existing mantelpiece — though I expect it to work well once I get the hang of it — hasn’t yet been properly fired up.

But my hope is to now be able to use the house a month longer on either side of my usual May-October season — from mid-April, when the water gets turned on, through November, when it’s turned off.  I’ll have at least one toasty room in which to hole up during those still-chilly shoulder-season months.

Basically, I’ll be moving the same furniture that was in there before back in. But I’ll have fun playing around a little with rugs and art and lamps and such.

What I’m happiest about, even more so than the already-warmer, already quieter space that’s been created, is that it’s classic, sparkling beach-house white instead of its former dreary brown. And I’m pleased that I was finally able to get at least this much done, after owning the house nearly five years.

Scroll down for the transformation. Stay tuned for the furnishing.


First the walls and ceiling had to be framed out with 2x4s at 16-inch intervals to hold the batts of insulation in place.


I used Roxul brand mineral wool insulation, supposed to be non-toxic and much more environmentally friendly than the pink fiberglass stuff (so don’t ask me why the workmen are wearing hazmat suits).


Next the Sheetrock went up between the ceiling beams, which were deep enough that I didn’t mind losing a few inches of them to the insulation.


The Hearthstone wood stove insert was delivered and installed in early November. It’s a self-contained unit, lined with soapstone, and with an integrated chimney liner (so I didn’t have to worry about re-building the chimney, which was cracked and not tall enough and didn’t have a good draft).


Over the fireplace and on one long section of the wall opposite, there was cedar paneling I liked. I left it for a bit of texture (enough with the Sheetrock) and had it painted white.


I might have left the ceiling beams unpainted, were it not for heavy stains from long-ago water damage. The easiest thing was to paint them white, too.

The plywood floor got a coat of gray floor paint as a temporary measure. Step by step and bit by bit…

P.S. The house is once again available for rent for the months of July and August (one month minimum). Read all about it, with more photos, here


Quickie Renovation in Philadelphia


ONE OF THE BEST PIECES of self-help advice I ever read in a magazine was: “Savor your accomplishments.” Ridiculous that I had to read it in a magazine, but I did, and I took it to heart.

Here we are in deepest winter, and I’m savoring. There aren’t any laurels handy, so I’m resting on my couch in Brooklyn, pleased that I managed to sneak in a second Philadelphia apartment renovation in 2017. It’s in the same three-unit Queen Village building where I created a duplex at the top of the house, combining unused attic space with the one-bedroom apartment beneath it, early last year.

That first reno, which began in late ’16 and took six months, was long-planned. In fact, I’d wanted to do it since I bought the building in 2005.

This second reno, begun in September, finished in November and rented in December, was completely unplanned. But it became necessary after the hot water heater in the second-floor unit burst one midsummer’s night. It completely ruined the floors of that apartment — no great loss, as they were cheap carpet over plywood, but it also pointed up the need to re-do the whole place, which was super-shabby and not at all chic, and hadn’t been touched since the 1980s.

The flood also messed up the ceiling of the unit below, on the ground floor. The repair of that was covered by insurance, but the stress of the whole thing, for both tenants affected and also for me, was one of those times when being a landlord seems pretty dreadful.

However, it ended well. The downstairs tenant was a trooper and put up with the weeks-long repair work and painting in her bedroom and bath. The tenant on the second floor, who had been there for about ten years, found a new place quickly. And the results were worth it.

I used the same contractor and many of the same sources and materials as for the previous reno. There was one big design move: removing the wall between the former kitchen and the living room, which had made the living room feel very narrow.

The apartment has a new kitchen, new bath, new pine floors, new baseboards, new window sills, a thorough paint job, and a happy occupant.


The floors are Lumber Liquidators’ cheapest. Yellow pine, $2 and change per square foot. Almost all their flooring is manufactured and pre-finished. This is what I wanted: actual wood.


The kitchen is just appliances, really, with a Home Depot sink base unit painted black . A stainless steel work table from a restaurant supply store (seen in photo at top) provides extra counter space. 

For upper storage, I used a vintage wood/glass-door cabinet from Beaty American, a terrific architectural salvage store in Kensington. 


The bedroom has a closet with a washer dryer and a walk-in closet on the opposite wall.


The new pedestal sink is from Lowe’s and the floor is black commercial-grade vinyl. 

Below, a couple of ‘Befores’ for context:



Hudson on a Tuesday Afternoon


THE UPSTATE NEW YORK TOWN of Hudson is an extraordinary repository of 19th century residential and commercial architecture.

Its main drag, Warren Street, is a mile-long stretch of clapboard and brick buildings — mostly row houses, many with storefronts, but there are also some grand freestanding homes from the town’s 1860s whaling heyday. There’s virtually nothing more recent than the year 1900 to mar the street’s historic purity.

For decades, Hudson had been an economically depressed community, like many Hudson Valley river towns that lost their industry in the 20th century, and its back streets still have their fair share of poverty.

I hadn’t been in Hudson for some years and had heard there were new shops and restaurants, a whole lot of renovation and restoration, and that real estate prices had gone up alarmingly since I wrote a tongue-in-cheek article in The New York Times about spending my weekends doing recreational house-shopping.

Antiques are Hudson’s stock in trade, and there are dozens of tony shops full of fine furniture and art (priced to rival NYC), architectural salvage and vintage clothing. One would think they might be doing some brisk business in the week before Christmas, but last Tuesday afternoon, most of them were closed. Likewise the restaurants.

Hudson is a weekend community, it seems; it does not have the population to support businesses in mid-week.

But the town itself is an open-air museum for the old-house lover, and it was fun to explore the shops that were open, including the impressive multi-dealer Antique Warehouse on Front Street, chock full of stuff that made me wish I had a new house to furnish. And what I saw through the shuttered storefronts made me want to go back again to Hudson…on a weekend.



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Van Morrison’s Belfast

IT’S AN EASY TWO-HOUR BUS RIDE from Dublin to Belfast, Northern Ireland, where I traveled last week to fulfill my original goal in planning an Ireland trip in the first place: seeing Van Morrison in concert in an intimate supper-club setting at Belfast’s Hotel Europa.


Belfast is Van’s hometown, and I (mistakenly, as it turned out) thought he would surely give his all for a local crowd. But there seemed to be more Americans there than any other nationality. I met people from Arizona, New Orleans, Texas, Oregon, Chicago.

I’m a longtime fan of Van’s and had seen him perform half a dozen times, so I knew the show could be either a transcendental experience or just him, as they say, “phoning it in.”


Rock chick with a Belfast blowout

This one was probably more the latter, with a couple of exceptional moments. Van did the requisite 90 minutes and ran off with barely an encore or a thank you, without properly introducing his fantastic band or even his daughter, Shana, who joined him onstage for one number.

Still, I had a blast, seated at a convivial table of mostly Americans, plus one Swede and one Irishman, in a room holding just 350 people.

I spent only a day-and-a-half in Belfast, a city with some truly grand Neoclassical architecture interspersed with harsh modern structures, staying one night in a stylish boutique hotel called Ten Square and moving the next night to the Europa.

My Belfast explorations took the form of a daylong pilgrimage to spots Van has written about in his songs over the years, about two miles from the center of town in gritty East Belfast. I walked there from my hotel, passing some of Belfast’s major Victorian landmarks, crossing the Albert Bridge over the Lagan River under dreary skies.

Roughly following a self-guided walking tour laid out by a local development organization, I headed for Van’s humble birthplace on Hyndford Street, where he lived until adolescence, evoked in a long spoken-word piece on the album Hymns to the Silence; Cyprus Avenue, mentioned in more than one song, lined with stately homes he aspired to as a kid; and bucolic spots like the famous “hollow” of Brown Eyed Girl, and Orangefield, the park that inspired a gorgeous, romantic song on Avalon Sunset.

I wasn’t in Belfast long enough to fully understand its history of sectarian conflict, now mostly calmed, or pick up on the cultural differences between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, which is part of the UK (the border my bus had sailed across was a sticking point in the Brexit talks while I was there, the TV news about nothing else). I didn’t have time to investigate Belfast’s restaurant scene or the galleries in the Cathedral Quarter, apparently the arty part of town.

But I saw plenty. Come let me show you what I did get to see of Belfast.


Above, an Art Nouveau relic, the first thing I photographed on getting off the bus from Dublin.


Lovely intact Georgian terrace (or, as we say in Brooklyn, early 19th century row houses), above.


The recently renovated Ten Square Hotel, across from the 1906 Town Hall, below (which I read somewhere is a “shameless copy” of London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral — not a bad thing to copy).


View of Great Victoria Street from my third floor room at the Europa, with the world-famous, putty-colored Crown Liquor Saloon, an 1885 extravaganza of tile work, etched glass and carved wood, on the corner.


Originally a Victorian ‘gin palace,’ I was looking forward to a gin and tonic, but The Crown doesn’t do cocktails — only beer and whiskey.


The Soviet-style Hotel Europa was once known as the most-bombed hotel in Europe, or perhaps the world. Its new history began in 1994, after “The Troubles” subsided.


Next door to the Europa, the 1895 Grand Opera House survives!

Below, buildings of interest seen as I wended my way toward East Belfast.


The enormous St. George’s Market, below, is used several days a week for produce and such.


The 1869 Albert Memorial Clock, below.


Views from the Albert Bridge, below, one of many bridges over the Lagan River. Belfast was once a shipbuilding powerhouse. The Titanic was built there, and the Titanic Belfast is a massive new tourist attraction. Not for me, however — I was on my way to Van Morrison’s birthplace!


East Belfast, below, was quiet on a Tuesday morning in early December.


My first Van-related site, above: the beautiful grounds of the still-extant Elmgrove Primary School, a leafy contrast to the barren surrounding streets.

IMG_0017Above, “the hollow”

You remember:

Hey, where did we go, Days when the rains came?
Down in the hollow, Playing a new game…


Hyndford Street, above, was deserted. Number 125 — the “two-up, two-down” house of Van’s first 16 years — is marked by a discreet (that is to say, minuscule) brass plaque.


Down on Cyprus Avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford and Fitzroy, Madame George


I really enjoyed my stroll through Orangefield Park, above, even calling up the relevant song on Spotify, plugging in my earbuds, and listening to it as I walked. Dorky but perfect.

On a golden autumn day
You came my way in Orangefield
Saw you standing by the riverside in Orangefield
How I loved you then in Orangefield
Like I love you now in Orangefield…


Then I hopped a double-decker bus back to Donegall Square, above, in the city center (only because I couldn’t get a cab to stop).


There was a Christmas market going on in front of City Hall.

I felt like I’d really been somewhere — not just to the other side of town, but to a different era, and I came back with a prize: a deeper appreciation for the source of the music I’ve so enjoyed over the years.

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In Dublin’s Fair City


THERE ARE 850 PUBS in Dublin — down from a peak of 4,000 in centuries past, when every other home, thanks to enterprising beer-brewing housewives, became a ‘public house.’ That’s one of the fascinating factoids I learned on my first-ever visit to Ireland’s capital city.

My cousin Susan and I visited quite a few of those pubs, with an emphasis on the historic, and sampled their fine products. I’m now a fan of Irish whiskey, neat (Red Breast, Yellow Spot, Teelings) and of Guinness, which I thought I wouldn’t like, but after a day of tromping around Dublin’s cobblestone streets and mingling with the Christmas-shopping crowds, I found it just the revivifying, delicious thing.

When it’s on draft at an atmospheric, 300-year-old Dublin pub, where they pull it at just the right angle and let it sit for a specified length of time before topping it off, and serve it at just the right temperature, one can easily begin to understand why Guinness is a national obsession.

Three-and-a-half days in Dublin — a place I’d long wanted to visit — was all good. The city is civilized, safe, friendly, easy to navigate. We had several outstanding meals without half trying. Our hotel, Staunton’s on the Green, in a Georgian townhouse, was centrally located, gracious and comfortable.

Days are short in Dublin this time of year, with the sun coming up just before 8:30AM (!) and setting at 4. but we packed them full.

We toured Trinity College, top, with its 400-plus-year-old library, The Long Room, surely one of the world’s great interior spaces, and saw the Book of Kells, a millenium-old illuminated manuscript, as well as the original harp that became Ireland’s national symbol.

We saw hoards of Bronze Age gold jewelry at the national archaeology museum; took a gleefully touristy nighttime “literary pub crawl” led by a pair of funny and talented old pros; heard live traditional Irish music with fiddles and flutes; visited the small Irish Jewish Museum, poignant in its modesty; got a sense of Oscar Wilde’s posh childhood on Merrion Square and George Bernard Shaw’s working-class birthplace; tried on hats in millinery stores; ventured to Dublin’s medieval Christ Church Cathedral; found ourselves on the main shopping drag of Grafton Street (not especially interesting) all too often, and on the main drinking drag of Temple Bar just once, which was enough.

On Day 1 of our visit, when the bright, low winter sun cast long shadows on the manicured lawns of St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin was uplifting. On subsequent days, when the sky was bleak and gray and damp (exactly the weather I expected), it wasn’t quite as, though the city’s over-the-top holiday lighting goes a long way toward making up for the hours of dark.

I enjoyed the streets lined with late 17th and early 18th century flat-fronted brick townhouses with tall paned windows, and especially their multicolored doors under arched fanlights. There’s a goodly amount of spectacular Victorian commercial architecture in Dublin, and an unfortunate amount (well, any amount would be unfortunate in my book) of brutally misguided 1960s and ’70s building, with which the city is now stuck.

Is Dublin a beautiful city? Yes, though a visit at another season would probably make me  even more emphatic on that point. Have a look at my photos below, and see what you think.


Festive lighting in the shopping district compensate for the long hours of winter dark 


Above, our elegant high-ceilinged digs


Above, St. Stephen’s Green, the city’s largest park, on Day 1


Above: Trinity’s campinile; our cute tour guide in the gown once required wearing for all students; the college’s awe-inspiring, wood-vaulted Long Room; the legendary ancient harp that is  Ireland’s national symbol (more prevalent than the shamrock, even)

Below, a sampling of Dublin’s old-school pubs, including Kehoe’s, Toner’s, O’Donoughue’s


Late-day walk past Dublin Castle to the Cathedral, below


The River Liffey, by day and by night:


Weird scene near an illuminated statue of Wolfe Tone, leader of the 1798 Irish Rebellion, below


Classical Revival doors galore, with columns and fanlights, below


Single-story 19th century rowhouses in the Portobello neighborhood, below, and the birthplace of George Bernard Shaw, one of  four Irish Nobel laureates in literature 


Funky storefronts I couldn’t resist photographing:


There are numerous independent bookstores in Dublin, including the beauty below.


We twice tried to get into the 1920s Bewley’s cafe, below, never succeeded. Long lines.


Oscar Wilde’s plays were performed at the 1871 Gaiety Theatre, above, still operational. 

There’s Wilde reclining on a rock in Merrion Square, below, and a Victorian fountain in Iveragh Gardens, right behind our hotel.


We had the requisite Irish breakfast a couple of times, and Susan sampled Irish stew in a pub, but mostly it was fancy foodstuffs in a ‘modern Irish’ vein. Butternut squash seems to find its way into everything.


Above, at the canalside Locks restaurant, recommended by a self-described foodie we met, a precious one-inch fried fish ball in a butternut squash “velouté” (sauce), on a 12-inch plate, as a starter, plus an exquisite cod and mussel main. 

Below, the lunchtime scene at Fallon & Bryne, Dublin’s answer to Dean & DeLuca but with a wine cellar and upstairs restaurant as well as a gourmet food hall and cafe. Note the chunks of butternut squash in the green salad.


Hearty Irish breakfast, vegetarian edition, at Taste Food Co., below.


Below, Etto, a chic storefront restaurant near our hotel, where they were able to squeeze us in at the bar without reservations because it was 5 o’clock. That’s butternut squash risotto with chanterelles, extremely comforting with red wine.


Below, the grandly sited archaeology museum, one of four segments of the National Museum in Dublin. We marveled at the modernist-looking 3,000-year-old gold jewelry, skipped the mummified “peat bog men.”


A museum on a considerably smaller scale, below, dedicated to Ireland’s ever-dwindling Jewish community. The upper level was a synagogue, closed since the 1970s.


More festive lighting, nighttime scenes, a random building and your goofy blogger, below. That hat is just so me — too bad it cost 300 euros. 


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Vicarious Visit: October in Paris


WHAT’S THE NEXT BEST THING to a trip to Paris? A friend’s trip to Paris, when you get to see pictures and hear about meals and fortuitous conversations and the discovery of unusual shops and forgotten streets.

These images came to me in almost real time, through the magic of texting, and some are so evocative I just had to share. (The friend in this case is my wasband, Jeff Greenberg. Commentary in italics is his.)

My sense is that Paris isn’t going the way of New York, at least not as quickly. I know there are chain stores along some of the major boulevards, but it seems that Paris still abounds with one-off shops and cafes. Not to mention perhaps the most stunning urban vistas anywhere.


The beloved Hotel du Quai Voltaire on the Left Bank, above, very close to Musée d’Orsay (we’d stayed there before, in ’98). Small rooms, big view. Note list of famous residents on plaque to right of entry.

Below, at Café La Palette in Saint Germain des Pres:


All around me, it seemed like Jean-Pierre Léaud and Bernadette Lafonte were deep in conversation. Every time I hear French in a setting like this, it sounds like they are discussing the fate of mankind, but they’re probably just talking about their laundry. 

Below, a bridal photo shoot in the rain. Do you prefer color (the original) or black and white (my doctoring)? B&W makes it look magically like Henri Cartier-Bresson.


Wish the one below was a video so we could hear the violin…


Below, a place I’ve never managed to get to, the Jardin des Plantes (botanical garden). Next time!


Nighttime street scenes:


An extraordinarily preserved 1950s neon-lit cafe on Blvd Saint Germain:


Some of the oldest streets in Paris, below, are in the 4th arrondissement on the Right Bank. The Tudor style half-timbered house, listing a bit, is one of the only remaining medieval houses, from the 1500s.


A random act of art:


Below, Picasso’s first atélier, in Montmarte.


Why does such an essentially simple scene, above, so clearly say Paris, and nowhere else?


Place des Vosges in the Marais, above, with and without people. The architecture is flawless, completely self-contained. A beautiful day with low sun casting those Last Year at Marienbad shadows. (Another film reference!)


Below, covetable items from the Marché aux Puces (flea market). Vintage posters priced around $300, which seems quite reasonable.


Mustn’t forget the food… a historic patisserie, below, and sesame-encrusted fish at Au 35 on Rue Jacob.


Dinner last night, plus parsnip soup, creme brulée and a perfect Sancerre. Lesson:  Let them pick the wine.

Yes, Paris is still there in all its Parisian-ness, and I find that very reassuring.

For more Paris, my own posts from my last visit there in 2012 can be found here.

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