Ekaterina Rybolovleva is one lucky girl. Called a Russian princess by some, Ekaterina’s dad recently bought her an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for the ba
rgain basement price of $88 million. But not just any apartment.
It’s the most expensive one in the history of the Big Apple.
Sure it’s 6,744 sq ft, has ten rooms, 6.5 bathrooms, super high ceilings, a wraparound porch accessible from 19 glass doors, an oval master bedroom designed for unobstructed views of the sunrise, and overlooks Central Park through sprawling walls of windows. But I wonder, while her apartment is 13.5 times larger than my new one bedroom and costs more than 350 times what mine does, will Ekaterina’s father come visit her and sleep on her couch? Will he help her decide where to hang her pictures? How to organize the furniture? Will he give her his two-cents in choosing colors for the bedroom? Take her food shopping at Fairway market and fill up her fridge with soymilk, apples and yogurt? Will he make her scrambled eggs in her kitchen or go with her for walks in Central Park? Do you think he’ll take her to eat vegetable dumplings at Land or popovers at The Popover Cafe? Will he rest his hand on her shoulder as they walk around art galleries in Chelsea? Will he explain the history of the city’s buildings and describe the type of architecture as they walk along the streets? Will he hug her for no apparent reason when they stop along the Highline to admire the views? And will he tell her bad jokes?
Maybe. Maybe Ekaterina will get these other things from her father aside from loads of money, and if she does, I’m sure she’ll agree they’re worth much more than a multi-million dollar abode. And while her father is successful at running his fertilizer empire, to me, there’s something about giving a 22-year-old such a lavish home that just smells funny to me.
p.s. I was accepted by my new co-op board and will be moving soon. They like me! They really like me!