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Foreword

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Constance Rosenblum

When we think of the modern American city, at least these days, we typically think of a cold and soulless place, one defined by gleaming towers inhabited by people with unfathomable amounts of money. And these structures can be found not just in the United States. They are quickly transforming the skylines of iconic urban centers such as London and are sprouting like the proverbial weeds throughout Asia—in cities like Dubai, Shanghai, Seoul, and Beijing, home of some of the world’s tallest buildings.

Cities defined by these towers are increasingly becoming the norm, both here and around the world. But there once existed a different kind of city, at least in America, one characterized by low or at least not-so-mammoth residential buildings, along with intimate and often idiosyncratic shops and businesses. Perhaps most important, this city was populated by neighbors who weren’t necessarily your best friends but were nonetheless people with whom you could exchange a friendly wave or a little chitchat on a doorstep.

This is the city beloved by the sainted urbanist Jane Jacobs. Its contours can still be found in a few places, such as Brooklyn Heights, a landmarked neighborhood of brownstones overlooking the spectacular Lower Manhattan skyline. And one of its most powerful expressions is the exquisite, intimate Bank Street, a six-block strip in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village defined by historic townhouses and adorned with trees and cobblestones. Perhaps most important, Bank Street had an intimacy that made it possible to have acquaintances and even friends in nearly every nook and cranny. This is the world that Donna Florio brings to life in this book.

Donna grew up on Bank Street and has lived there for more than half a century. For much of that time she has been amassing memories, in the form of conversations, oral histories, and deep dives into libraries and other places of research, in an effort to chart and capture the heartbeat of this remarkable place.

I first met Donna in 2014, when I interviewed her in connection with an article that was published in the Real Estate section of The New York Times. Over the past few years I’ve watched her book take shape and grow to its present form, an endearing portrait of a singular place, peopled by a captivating and sometimes heartbreaking assortment of characters, nearly all of whom helped Donna become the person she is today.

Even more important, the book is a reminder of the way cities used to be, a reminder of the closeness and camaraderie they used to offer, the spiritual nourishment they used to provide. This is not to romanticize the city of the past. Even the best of them suffered from a depressing assortment of urban ills—crime, poverty, and dysfunction, just to name a few. But despite their limitations there is a reason they have proved so attractive over the centuries: they fulfill basic human needs.

In many respects, Growing Up Bank Street is a portrait of a lost world—“my lost city,” as F. Scott Fitzgerald described the golden metropolis that existed before the Great Crash of 1929 turned so much to dust. In that respect the book is a moving reminder of what has been lost and can never be found again. At the same time, it’s a vivid, often hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking, but always beautifully rendered portrait of an unforgettable place at unforgettable times in its history.

This is not to say that Bank Street has remained untouched by market and social forces over the years. Apartments that when Donna was growing up were affordable even for fledgling writers and artists now can be had only for sky-high sums. At the rate things are going, we won’t see its like again. But thanks to Donna’s lapidary re-creation, we can lift the curtain that divides us from the past and briefly revisit a memorable place at a memorable moment in its history.

Growing Up Bank Street

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