In my early twenties I learned that in New York City, if you can afford it, you can have it. In my late twenties I learned that if you cling onto it, you’ll lose it. The currency of this city is change — and if ever get too comfortable you’ll find you put your eggs in the wrong basket.
Which is why Forest Hills is such a strange neighborhood. It’s an oasis of stasis situated in the heart of Queens. When you walk out of the hand-laid brick train station, and walk along the manicured streets, you pass the hedges and lawns, dogs and babies, strolls and strollers, of an affluent suburban Americana lost a generation ago.
In many ways Forest Hills is the Robert Moses ideal. A suburban community of industry — that’s connected to the subway line.
