The Financial District is this city’s most enchanting neighborhood. Period, full stop. It’s got everything you want. Well, not really -- this is still New York City, after all, a galactic bailiwick whose official motto was, until very recently: “Attention peons, relentlessly grab at tiny moral victories from this frothing maelstrom of chaotic melancholia until you die. Also, try our pizza.” You may not nab a washer/dryer, even here (though I did).
But still! The Financial District has the small moments of comfortable humanity that New Yorkers elsewhere simply could neither fathom, nor afford.
It’s got subways, those rumbling, lumbering shit-chariots that lurch beneath the oil-slick asphalt. The Financial District has the Five Boroughs’ highest concentration of lines, a varicose thicket of convenience that spreads out in either direction to span the entire city. Forget crosstown transfers and station-to-station schleppage. The city is yours for the swiping. Hell, with a single slide of that little yellow card, you can travel north from Wall St to Montreal, or to Mosholu Parkway -- whichever comes first.