When I was younger, riding in an overcrowded subway car to school with 10 trillion others kids and navigating the treacherous terrain of distinguishing between “people to wave to,” “people to pretend not to know from math class,” and “people to aspire to waving to,” I regularly dreamt of having a private subway car. In fact, I thought it would be nice if New York City could commission special cars for all full-time residents and allow us to decorate them ourselves. My car would have looked like a miniature loft, with rustic wood floors and a nice graphic wool rug, a desk made of distressed wood, a very fluffy bed, and crown molding. Just a nice, livable, inviting space that did not allow parents except under special circumstances and did NOT allow freshmen.
As it turns out, there used to be people in New York who did have this luxury, one of them being FDR. Apparently the Waldorf-Astoria (aka the scene of my high school prom) has an abandoned train platform that is now home to an unknown number of vagrants and the ruins of FDR’s private train car. This car allowed him to enter and exit the building in his polio-ridden state undetected, though I’m certain that it lacked the homey feel my personal subway car was going to have.
There are plenty more pictures up at Gothamist if you want to see what you’ve missed by being not-President and/or not living in my high school fantasy world.