JANUARY 7, 2008, 8:03 A.M. — thirteen minutes past sunrise but who can tell. Drizzles sketch the winter grayscale, slates to charcoals to umbers: sky, water, island, shore. I’m taking my usual walk along the riverfront path, the river today all drift-silt, rain-mottled skeins of mocha.
But soon my eyes are drawn up to glass and steel. The John Ross turns its thirty-one-story oval elegantly sideways to the view, imperial, convincing. Its neighbor, Atwater Place, is all Bauhaus severity, but two other towers, Meriwethers West and East (where I’m staying), are faced in granite of a soft, almost buttery color. Is this really a “neighborhood,” as the real-estate brochures insist? Four condo towers in varying states of habitation and emptiness, two more half-built, and a medical high-rise linked by its…
