Life at the Webster

Life at the Webster is the non-glamorous side of life in New York: sure,the rooms are clean, the food is (mostly) decent, and the situation is close to perfect (34th Street, with the Empire State Building to salute every morning). And there is the wonderful roof terrace, though right now it is a bit cold, even when New York seems to want to skip to spring right at the start of January.

But you are lightyears from the 20,000$ a month apartments, the duplexes and the penthouses. The rooms are really, really simple. Small. A bed, a bookcase (though, seriously, 4 small shelves, that doesn't qualify as a bookcase), a tiny table, a chair, a dresser and a sink. There is a closet, useful to hide the contraband.

But I like this simplicity. Your life fits in tiny spaces, that you define as best as you can, using what you have: the top of the dresser becomes the amusement center if you lodge a TV or a radio on it. The closet is the kitchen because you can use the shelf to hide cookies and chocolates.

And it is this smallness, this almost monastic whiteness, that makes it strangely calming, when you close the door, even with the loud neighbors, the noise of the elevators, the showers that you hear, from down the hallway.

The only thing left is to read, write, reflect. And watch the light play on the facades of the buildings outside your window.