THEN AND NOW

 The western wall of the South Park, then and now.

2017

The photo shows barbed wire atop a fence separating the South Park's garden from the private garden next door. The incongruity of such a pairing led to the founding of the Strange But True series.

2025

Then one morning, while walking through the South Park we noticed the rusty wire coils were gone, though the fence and a pair of security cameras remain. Whatever caused the barbed wire to go up in the first place was just as mysterious as its demise. Any clues, anyone?

The original post, here.

Strange But True: TUDOR CITY ON THE PRAIRIE

Manhattan, Kansas

Out of the blue, a new green space has suddenly sprouted in the huge vacant lot opposite No. 5, between First Avenue and the East River. For years, this lot has been hidden from street view behind a canvas-lined chain-link fence. Last week's tropical storm blew away the canvas to reveal an astonishingly verdant (if totally weedy) landscape.

The three-block-long parcel has been on the market since 2012, and, let's face it, future development seems a long way off. In the interim, we think the space would make a dandy miniature golf course. Just saying. . .

Looking north from 38th Street.

Eastern view with Long Island City in the background.

Looking south from 41st Street.

Strange But True: UN BAZOOKA'D

Daily News front page, December 12, 1964

World politics landed at Tudor City's doorstep with the opening of the United Nations in 1952, and decades of dignitaries, motorcades and dissenters followed. Today, a look at a notorious protest, one of the "wildest episodes in UN history" according to the New York Times.

The story begins on Friday, December 11, 1964, as Che Guevara, Cuban Minister of Industry, was denouncing US global aggression in an address at the UN General Assembly. It was the height of the Cold War, and Guevara's appearance had drawn angry crowds of Cuban exiles to the front of the building. 

At the same time, across the East River in a vacant lot in Long Island City, a bazooka [encircled above], loaded with a high-explosive shell and aimed at the UN, was fired as Guevara spoke.

The shell missed its target by 200 yards, landing in the East River, sending up a huge geyser of water and rattling the windows of the General Assembly. This didn't rattle Che Guevara, however, who continued his tirade. 

Afterward, when informed of the incident, he remarked it "has given the whole thing more flavor." 

Above, two editions of the Sunday Daily News with different headlines, but the same story: the rocket launcher had been traced to Cuba. This news proved to be false; it was later established that the bazooka was a German-made, World War II‒vintage weapon, purchased for $35 on Eighth Avenue. 

In the end, three anti-Castro Cuban exiles confessed to the failed attack, claiming their motive was a "misguided sense of patriotism" ‒ they never intended to hit the UN, merely to embarrass Guevara. Charges against them were eventually dropped on a technicality.

The bazooka left its mark on the UN: thereafter, the drapes in the General Assembly remained closed during sessions (to protect attendees from potential flying shards of glass). This custom was finally rescinded last year, and the drapes are now open, a nod to "transparency and openness" in the famed chamber.

Strange But True: SIGN EDITION

Strange but true, the Tudor City Sign is currently without letters. This freedom from expression, of course, is in preparation for its imminent refurbishment. Is everybody ready?

Thanks to Peter De Botti for the tip, and Diogo De Botti for the photos. Dear readers, this blog always welcomes submissions.

Strange But True: DIGGING IN THE PARK

This installment of Strange But True tells the story of Fela Biro, a Polish émigré, her two-year-old son, John, and a 10-cent toy garden hoe.

The incident begins on Sunday, April 22, 1934, when Fela takes her son out to play in Central Park. The child begins to dig in the dirt with his hoe, drawing a policeman, who tells the mother to make the child stop. "He's just playing," she protests, and one thing leads to another. In the end, she's brought before a magistrate and fined two dollars, which she doesn't have. It's the Depression. Her husband is out of work. Their meager income derives from her salary as an actress with the Artef Players Collective, a Communist theater group.

So Fela and her son are thrown into jail for four hours. The press somehow gets wind of it and is outraged at such harsh treatment for a petty offence. Says the Daily News, "The majesty of the law descended heavily yesterday upon an impoverished mother and sent her to jail for a day because her baby boy dragged a 10-cent tin hoe along the sacrosanct grass of Central Park."

The incident gets enough bad press to warrant a response from Parks Commissioner Robert Moses. Fela, he says, is a "so-called hard luck case" and a "Communist baiter of cops. All the evidence indicates that she was just looking for trouble and that the newspaper notoriety that followed was duck soup for her." [Fela was an avowed Communist; her son's full name is John Reed Biro, after the Socialist activist].

The New Yorker concludes the story in Tudor City in a droll Talk of the Town piece:

Mrs. Fela Biro and her two-year-old son John, who were sent to jail for digging in Central Park, made their latest, and perhaps their final, public appearance last Wednesday morning. One of the newsreel companies, anxious to film the celebrated excavator but unwilling to become accomplices to another crime by filming it in Central Park, took John over to Tudor City's private park on Prospect Place. John brought along his beach spade and his mother, and enthusiastically reenacted the outrage. The recording called for only a little superficial turning up of the sod, but as soon as it was over, John started digging like mad. "Hey, you can't do that!" hollered one of the Tudor City people, and made a grab at his spade. It took two grown men to stop him. 

TUDOR CITY, the Racehorse

Owners Debbie and John Breslin, jockey Fran Berry, and Tudor City.

Surfing the web recently, we came to the startling discovery that Tudor City is not only the name of a Manhattan residential colony, but also the name of an Irish bay gelding. Meet Tudor City, the racehorse.

The internet yields only the most basic information about our namesake. Tudor City was born in Ireland in 2012, the son of Yeats, his sire, and She's Our Mare, his dam. Trained by A.J. Martin, he's been run 37 times with 4 wins and 11 places.

Tudor City may be best known for the dramatic shot above, regarded as one of the top sports photographs of 2017. It shows our hero charging past a fallen competitor to go on to win the race at the Fairyhouse Easter Festival in Ratoath, Ireland.

PICTURES OF THE DAY

Souvenirs from a photo shoot several weeks ago for the fashion house Etro that involved a cast-of-thousands crew and one white horse. Pictured in the 43rd Street cul-de-sac, the horse is on a break, no doubt disappointed that the craft services lunch wagon does not serve hay.

The cul-de-sac has had unusual visitors before: it's been a setting in a French movie, served as a backdrop for model Jean Shrimpton's stateside debut, and was the site of an anti-war hunger strike.

Photos by Fabrice Frere, thank you sir! Dear readers, this blog welcomes your submissions.

See more about the horse here. 

Strange But True: SCOTCH, THE WONDER DOG

In breaking news, there was some excitement in the colony Wednesday morning after a fire broke out in an apartment in Windsor Tower. 78 firefighters and a fleet of trucks arrived on the scene, quickly containing the fire without any injuries. The FDNY ruled the fire "accidental, caused by cooking."

What made the story newsworthy was its rather unlikely hero, a black terrier schnauzer named Scotch. The sole occupant of the apartment where the fire broke out, Scotch managed to open the window himself, allowing the firefighters to climb up and rescue him. "He does it all the time, he loves to do it," said his owner, Susan Capozzoli. "With his nose, he opens the latch and then he pushes the window out."

A human interest story if there ever was one, Scotch's rescue ‒ via fire ladder ‒ ran in the Post, the News, and on local affiliates of ABC and CBS.

The daring rescue, above. Scotch reunited with his owner, below right.

More about Tudor City and dogs, here. 

Strange But True: YIELD SIGN Edition

This installment of Strange But True ran in the Daily News on November 16, 1958, an apparently slow news day.

"Driver leaves vehicle to inspect sign which faces non-existent traffic at 41st St. and Tudor City Pl. Motorists coming east on one-way 41st St. turn left because of dead ends ahead and to the right. Thus they can only see the back of the sign unless they pass it and turn heads around to read it. The sign's also puzzled residents, who've reported the oddly-placed sign to the Traffic Dept."

Strange But True: DONALD TRUMP, PARKS SAVIOR

Hard as it may be to imagine, Donald Trump played a role in preserving Tudor City's parks.

Trump and a model of Trump Tower, 1980.

Flash back to Manhattan, 1981.  Donald Trump is 35, a brash striver in the real estate game, not unlike another young up-and-comer from another era, our very own Fred French.

At the time, renowned real estate mogul Harry Helmsley is having problems with Tudor City. He bought most of the complex in 1970, and for the last decade has been trying to build apartment towers on Tudor City's two parks. There has been fierce opposition from the community, backed up by increasingly irate newspaper editorials. Helmsley's reputation is in tatters.

The current proposal on the table is a land swap ‒ the parks would be spared and Helmsley would be given a city-owned vacant lot on the corner of 42nd St and First Ave, the site of a public playground.

Enter Andrew Stein, Manhattan Borough President and parks supporter. Stein is friendly with Donald Trump, who has informed him that the playground lot is, in fact, waterfront property, and worth far more than its appraised value. Stein arranges a meeting on the eve of the Board of Estimate vote, and invites Trump to attend.

It's a set-up. Not long into the meeting, Trump effectively kills the swap by offering to buy the playground for the tidy sum of $25 million. He pulls out his checkbook and waves it in the air. "This is good," he announces. "You can call the bank to find out."

He doesn't have to say much more. The folly of the city trading valuable property for the two parks is quite plain. The playground land swap never even comes to a vote. Instead, a less desirable First Ave property is offered to Helmsley, and more debate ensues.

In the end, Helmsley finally yields in 1985, selling the complex altogether. His reputation never fully recovers from the Tudor City debacle. Years later, Andrew Stein is arrested for income tax evasion, and Donald Trump is elected President of the United States. Strange but true.

STRANGE BUT TRUE : The Gal, The Gob, The Diamond Ring, and The Carrier Pigeon

Today's Strange But True entry recounts the believe-it-or-not story of Pete the carrier pigeon, who flies a diamond ring cross country to a lucky lady in Tudor City.

Here's the story, verbatim, as reported by INS (International News Service, a competitor of AP and UPI). It runs in syndication across the country.

New York, Jan. 22, 1939 ‒ (INS)

  Attention ‒ Miss Emily Calloway!

  Pete the Pigeon came through. He brought you a note and a diamond ring from Larry, and police of the West 47th St. station are keeping them for you.

  Pete was eating corn with other pigeons in a leisurely manner in front of the Public Library on Fifth Avenue Sunday afternoon when Howard Lax noticed him. There was a carrier capsule on Pete's leg, and a diamond ring attached by a piece of wire.

  Lax took the bird to the police station. Police opened the capsule. 

  First of all, it was addressed to Miss Calloway at Windsor Tower, Tudor City, Manhattan, and was from Larry Nicehazo, US Navy, Setkan, Alaska.

  The message, dated December 2, read:

  "This comes to you with all my love. Wear it until I get back in August, and we can make it official. 'Pete' is bringing it to you. He arrived in San Diego as we were leaving, and this is the first chance I've had to acknowledge his receipt. Love, Larry."

  Police learned that Miss Calloway had moved. They found her roommate, Miss Elbrun Bomboy, who was to explain the situation to Miss Calloway when she returned from a cocktail party.

  Miss Calloway is 22, a salesgirl, and comes from Illinois. She occasionally mentions her sailor friend, who was here last summer.

  Pete is now at the ASPCA shelter, waiting a claimant. His registration number is TFC 142 AU 1935.

The trail goes cold here ‒ although things don't sound too swell for lovelorn Larry, whose would-be fiancée 1) speaks of him only "occasionally" 2) has changed her address without telling him and 3) can't be reached because she's out at a cocktail party. Pete's prospects are similarly dismal. 'Rescue pigeons', then and now, are an oxymoron.

At least the papers had some fun with it.

TUDOR CITY LIT: "The Plant in My Window"

In the 1930s and 40s, newspaper workers gravitate to Tudor City given its convenience to the Daily News, Daily Mirror and New York Times buildings.

Resident Ross Parmenter was one of them, a Times music critic, as well as the author of a dozen books. His first book, The Plant in My Window, is the story of a man and a potted philodendron.

The idea is hatched in 1947 when Parmenter moves into Woodstock apartment 1608, a modest studio with a northern exposure. The previous tenant has left behind a legacy ‒ a half-dead philodendron.

At first, Parmenter ignores it, but the idea of reviving the plant slowly seizes his imagination. He waters it. He makes drawings of its progress. He polishes its leaves. He names it Phyllis.

Nursing Phyllis back to health sets him to thinking about living in general, and he begins to write about it. The resulting essay ‒ one part botany, one part spiritualism ‒ is published in 1949. Subtitled "An Adventure of the Spirit," it's naturally dedicated "to whoever left me the plant."

The reviews are glowing. The NY Times says this study of "apartment-house botany" is "astonishingly fresh and unusual." Brooks Atkinson finds it "fascinating from start to finish." The LA Times: "extremely satisfying." The Chicago Tribune: "simple, quiet and absorbing."

The book, rejected by ten houses, is eventually published by Crowell. 
The cover photo is shot in Parmenter's Woodstock apartment.

Parmenter's first drawing of Phyllis.

STRANGE BUT TRUE: Hunger Strike on 43rd Street

International affairs collide with Tudor City in late November, 1963, when a Vietnamese exile parks his car in the 43rd Street cul-de-sac opposite the U.N. and begins a three-week-long "peace vigil." The man, Vo Thanh Minh, is a 57-year-old Vietnamese law professor who is intent on the reunification of his country, split into two rival states since the 1950s.

Minh's car, a battered, unheated Simca, becomes his home for the next three weeks. In early December, he begins a hunger strike "to bring peace to Vietnam." A sign on the car window states that his only needs are fresh air, drinking water, and a parking space. He soon receives (and ignores) two parking tickets. Locals offer a mixed reception, some bring him water and hot tea, while others think he's "dangerous" and call the cops.

On December 13, Minh is arrested for parking in a restricted area, and after failing to post a $20 bail, remanded to Brooklyn City Prison. His car is towed away.

Above, a nationally syndicated wire photo of Minh in his Simca.

Clad in a black tunic and cap, Minh is removed from his car and arrested.
Photo looks east toward the U.N. from the 43rd Street dead end.

Minh is eventually released, and next turns up in a Brooklyn church, where he resumes his fasting. In 1965, he travels to Cambodia with a Unitarian minister on a private peace mission, then drops out of sight. Back in America, protests against the Vietnam War escalate as the decade unwinds.

STRANGE BUT TRUE: Slumnest

Proving yet again there is no subject too arcane for this blog, here is the strange-but-true story of Slumnest, a memorably named dwelling that was the brainchild of architect/resident Theodore A. Meyer.

Meyer is one of a wave of upper-class pioneers in the 1920s seeing potential in the industrial wasteland along the East River (Sutton Place and Beekman Place are founded by similar gentrifiers around this time). In a letter to the New York Times regarding a proposed 14th Street power plant, Meyer lays out his vision for the river:

We must not abandon our East River waterfront to the 'greatest power plant in the world,' any more than to the greatest slaughterhouse in the world or the greatest leather tannery in the world, or any other greatest nuisance in the world. . . The East River should be one of the most beautiful waterways in the world. It should be bordered by parks.

Around 1920, Meyer puts his money where his mouth is and purchases a brownstone for his own use near the northwest corner of Prospect Place and E. 41st Street (current site of No. 2). The building is four stories tall, 17 feet wide, and 75 feet long, one of the many rundown tenements and rooming houses clustered together on Prospect Hill. He dubs the house Slumnest, an arch reference to its location, remodels it into two duplex units, and likes the result. He buys three adjoining properties at 348-350-352 E. 41st Street (today the 3 Hs), planning to do the same.

Arrow indicates Slumnest's approximate location. View looks west from Prospect Place down 41st Street, with the 2nd Avenue El at bottom center. Prospect Hill Apartments at far right. Photo circa 1926.

By some quirk of fate, pictures of Slumnest's interior survive, published by Good Furniture Magazine in February, 1922. Good Furniture describes Meyer's refurb as "singular," while dismissing the neighborhood as a group of "shabby buildings owned by landlords who permit their property to fall to ruin." 

Slumnest's interior, with Good Furniture's original captions, below.

Furnishings throughout are spare, no doubt due to the house's 17-foot width.

The living room and sunshiny kitchen comprise the ground floor.

Colonial furniture is in vogue at the time. Stairwell leads to two upstairs bedrooms.

Slumnest proves to be a short-lived endeavor. All of Meyer's properties are acquired by the French Company during the great Tudor City land grab of 1925 and eventually demolished. Meyer's hopes of developing a residential colony on Prospect Hill are dashed, trumped by Fred French's much bigger vision of the same idea.

STRANGE BUT TRUE #1

Today we introduce a new recurring feature, Strange But True, spotlighting Tudor City's more incongruous side.

We begin with something one wouldn't expect to find in the enclave ‒ barbed wire. And yet, here it is, hidden in plain sight, atop the western fence of the South Park.

It's apparently in place to protect the private garden of the 41st Street rowhouse profiled earlier. Along with the Fallout Shelter signs, it lends a groovy Cold War undertone to Tudor City's otherwise Gothic air.

The MIDDLE PARK

Direct from the Strange-But-True files comes this fun tidbit -- for 22 years there was a third park in Tudor City, nestled between the North and South Parks. The Middle Park, if you will. As shown below, the Middle Park was a narrow sliver atop the 42nd Street tunnel, bisected by Prospect Place.

This third park was in place from 1927, when the complex opened, until 1949, when the 42nd Street tunnel was torn down to make way for the new bridge.

The third park was bordered on either side by service roads leading up to Prospect Place. This view (made from within the park) looks west down 42nd Street, with the Woodstock, Chanin Building and 2nd Ave elevated train in the distance. The rowhouses at right were owned by the French Company, but never developed, and replaced by a playground in the 1960s. 

For some perspective, here's the third park (arrow) as seen from the Manor, looking south along Tudor City Place. In the foreground, is the North Park with its gravel paths, fountain and vine-covered pergola.

Tudor City and the GERMAN PROPAGANDA FLIER

One of the more arcane pieces of Tudor City trivia is this World War II propaganda flier, distributed by the Germans behind Allied lines in 1944. It fell into the hands of Corporal Francis Wittman, a member of the Special Service Unit of the Seventh Army. Wittman was a resident of Windsor Tower and shared the flier with Tudor City View, where this blog discovered it.

Front side of flier, an aerial view of Tudor City representing the "City of Marvels."

Back side, the propaganda.