Meeting Your Heroes

It’s often said that it’s not a good idea to meet your heroes. They may turn out to be drunkards, knuckleheads, or worse—intolerably boring. I wouldn’t know. Most of my heroes are dead.

But an interesting opportunity presented itself the day before my forty-fifth birthday.

SPOLIER ALERT - My hero is not a human, it’s a building. It is what it is with this brain of mine.

I left my place in the West Village around nine o’clock on a Saturday morning—with no plans, as usual. It started with a stroll through the Meatpacking District. Thanks to the crisp breeze that sailed through the cobblestone streets, I had every hook and awning to myself. Having a slice of Manhattan all to yourself is an indescribable feeling. As fleeting as it is, I slipped into my Bill Cunningham persona and pretended I was a legitimate photographer—for all of ten minutes before I realized my blue Patagonia wasn’t a French workman’s jacket.

So I got a coffee and a homemade Oreo at Maman on the corner of Washington and Horatio before hopping on the High Line. By this time, it had warmed up to forty degrees, but the wind off the Hudson cut through you like a scythe, which, once again, meant I had another part of Manhattan all to myself.

If you’ve been to the High Line, you know how packed it gets. All it takes is one jackass to stop for a selfie, and a reenactment of the parade scene in Animal House happens—which is to say, a bottleneck, for those unfortunate souls who don’t understand the analogy.

I enjoyed the most casual of strolls all the way to Hudson Yards. After checking out the Vessel and admiring the newly built skyscrapers, I had an idea: it’s time to meet a hero of mine, but I need to get to 145th Street. So, I hopped on the 1 Train at West 33rd, and off I went.

Fourteen stops later, I arrived at 145th and Broadway. I walked east, crossed over Amsterdam Avenue, hooked a right onto Convent Street, and there she was—my hero.

I stood in front of the house that Royal Tenenbaum bought in the winter of his 35th year. Fictitiously known as 111 Archer Avenue, it’s actually 338 Convent Avenue in Hamilton Heights—a mile north of Columbia University Business School.

You can throw all that “don’t meet your heroes” bullshit out the window. This home is EXACTLY what it looks like in Wes Anderson’s magnum opus. Even though you know Margot, Richie, and Chas don’t live there, you can’t help but hope to see Pagoda step outside in his pink trousers. I even looked up to see if Mordecai was flying around.

I stood there for a half-hour, checking out every architectural detail. Even if you’re not a fan of the film, it’s an opulent home that captures your attention. But if you are a fan, your imagination runs wild. It must have been a thrill to live in the neighborhood when the film was being made.

Anyway, I had a blast. And if anyone tells you to be wary of meeting your heroes, tell ’em to fly a kite.