A web of elevated train tracks is flanked by sloped-roof buildings on the right and lovely Cooper Union—described in this postcard as “the Cooper Institute”—on the left.

Looks like some really sweet buildings have long since disappeared.

During the 1920s and 1930s, Seventh Avenue in the 130s was nicknamed the Boulevard of Dreams, a stretch of Harlem lined with top theaters and clubs such as the Lafayette Theater and Connie’s Inn.

Between these venues was a lone elm tree (see it above) known as the Tree of Hope, bringing good luck to any up-and-coming entertainer who touched it before hitting the stage—as Ethel Waters, Eubie Blake, and other legends supposedly did.

The tree didn’t last long though; it was chopped down in 1934 when the city widened Seventh Avenue. Part of it went to the Apollo Theater, while the rest was cut up into souvenirs.

A second tree was soon planted in its place by Bill (Bojangles) Robinson, but that too met the ax. 

This plaque, however, serves as a reminder of it on Seventh Avenue and 131st Street. 

Not too many Manhattan buildings feature terra cotta panels and friezes inspired by ancient Assyrian art.

Then there’s 130 West 30th Street. Constructed in 1927 as the SJM building (that’s for Solomon Manne, who made a fortune in the fur business), it was renamed in 2003 after going co-op in honor of its architect, Cass Gilbert.

Gilbert is the man behind many great early 20th century New York City landmarks, from the Woolworth Building downtown to the New York Life skyscraper near Madison Square Park.

The 20-story Cass Gilbert Building is no Garment District slouch. It has 45 luxury loft apartments, not to mention these triumphant, exotic panels above the entrance. Take a tour of the penthouse here.

Wallabout is either a dressed-up name for the gritty area abutting the Brooklyn Navy Yard and sliced by the BQE. Or it’s a true neighborhood with a vibe distinct from Fort Greene and Clinton Hill to the south.

Whatever your take, Wallabout is a stronghold of Brooklyn history that’s worth a look. The name comes from the Dutch word Waal-bogt, which means a bend in the river. This bend is Wallabout Bay. Here, the British docked 12 prison ships holding captured Revolutionary War soldiers.

More than 11,000 men died on ships like the one in the engraving above. Some of their remains are entombed in the haunting Prison Ship Martyrs Monument in nearby Fort Greene Park.

Wallabout grew into a residential district in the mid-19th century, housing workers who toiled along Brooklyn’s thriving waterfront. These workers lived in wood frame houses, some of which still stand.

These 2- and 3-story houses, with lovely porches, are modest and charming—especially compared to the mansions up the hill closer to the Pratt campus.

In fact, historic Wallabout, which the Historic District Council defines as eight blocks roughly between Myrtle and Park Avenues, has the largest concentration of pre-Civil War wood frame homes in the city.

Wallabout has literary cred as well. Walt Whitman is believed to have lived in the nabe; his former home is supposedly 99 Ryerson Street (not pictured, since it’s covered in cheap siding).

Back in 1979, 28-year-old FIT graduate Sydney Biddle Barrows decided that her fashion industry career wasn’t cutting it.

So the blue blood descendent (a Pilgrim ancestor came over on the Mayflower) embarked on a more lucrative career path: she started an escort service. 

The story was almost tailor-made for the New York tabloids. Called Cachet, her escort operation catered to mega wealthy, successful men. Barrows supplied attractive, well-groomed girls who she reportedly paid well and took great care of. 

Supposedly Cachet raked in a million bucks a year (this is 1980s money, of course).

Until 1984, that is, when she was busted. She spent a night in jail, plead guilty, and got off with just a fine—and a catchy new nickname.

But she never revealed the names in her so-called little black book. In subsequent years she co-wrote her autobiography, authored tomes on marketing, and has run a consulting business.

This old-timey sign belongs to a store on Myrtle Avenue in Clinton Hill. the UL exchange stood for Ulster.

But what was Ulster? It’s a mystery. A New York Times article from February 1947 announced that 4,200 households in Flatbush “who have wanted telephone installations since the beginning of the war” would be getting UL numbers.

Strangely, Joe’s Superette, on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens, also has a UL number. That’s a bit of a hike from Myrtle Avenue.

Meanwhile, on a residential building in Harlem, the “In Case of Emergency” number above still stands next to an elevator shaft. LE for Lenox Avenue.

In the 1920s and 1930s, painter Reginald Marsh depicted scenes from the seedy side of the city: burlesque-show floozies, Bowery bums, and life’s other bit players—including these characters hanging around the Lyric Theater on 42nd Street.

“20 Cent Movie” dates back to 1936. Marsh was also drawn to Coney Island; he painted a number of carnivalesque beach and boardwalk scenes similar to this one.

One was at Ninth Avenue and 33rd Street. Another stood on Spring Street. In all, fire-prone 19th-century New York City was dotted with 11 fire watchtowers.

Made of cast iron, each tower contained a huge bell that a guard, positioned there at all hours, would ring whenever flames were spotted nearby.

The only fire watchtower still standing is in Mount Morris Park—aka Marcus Garvey Park. This unusual structure sits high on a hill known to Dutch colonists as “Slangberg,” or Snake Hill, in Harlem’s East 120s.

Completed in 1857, the watchtower was only used for a couple of decades, replaced by telegraph alarms.

But the cool old bell still rang regularly until 1905; residents asked the city to strike it twice a day to let locals know the time.

Suburban drug-seeking kids of the 1980s: the cops from the East Village’s Ninth Precinct never believed your stories of randomly getting mugged on Avenue D on your way back to Great Neck.

Here’s what one detective had to say to The Soho News on March 16, 1982:

Later in the article, the reporter quotes another cop calling Avenue D “the world’s largest retail drug market.” 

During the final week of this month, buck tradition and celebrate Evacuation Day, November 25—a huge holiday in old New York marking the day the last British troops sailed out of the city in 1783. 

For most of the Revolutionary War, New York was under British control. Hours after the Red Coats left, a Union flag was yanked down from a flagpole at Battery Park and replaced with the Stars and Stripes. George Washington returned to Manhattan, leading the Continental Army triumphantly down Broadway.

General George W., post-Colonial New York’s first celebrity

Evacuation Day used to be celebrated every November 25 with the raising of the U.S. flag at Battery Park. But once relations with England warmed up during World War I—and a certain other late-November holiday grew in popularity—Evacuation Day slipped into the dustbin of holiday history.