2 Gold is trying for a comeback.

While Verizon is planning to move 1,100 workers out of Lower Manhattan after two building floods in as many years, TF Cornerstone is banking on the fact that luxury renters will still want to live in FiDi, even if things didn't go so well the last time around.

TF Cornerstone has invested $15 million to repair its severely storm-damanged 51-story tower at 2 Gold Street and the adjacent 201 Pearl Street, going so far as to install a 13-foot-by-11-foot aluminum gate that uses nitrogen-fueled gaskets to create a watertight seal for the basement.

The building was one of the most hard hit residential towers during Hurricane Sandy and even though TF Cornerstone agreed to let tenants out of their leases on account of the fact that they weren't able to return until March, the company is still dealing with a class-action tenant lawsuit for other damages and Sandy-related inconveniences.

Now, it's trying to lure somewhat wary renters back with upgraded common areas and no fee leases. There is—as a recent press release about the "golden opportunity" to rent in "FiDi's most desirable building" touted—fully-restored amenities that include a rooftop solarium with an indoor fireplace, a lounge with two full-size billiards tables and a 9,000-square foot roof deck with a "real grass lawn."

TF Cornerstone has been leasing apartments since March 1 and still has quite a bit of inventory to turn over. Streeteasy shows 42 active listings on the market ranging from $2,465 for a studio to $5,975 for a three-bedroom.

And, while some renters might be hesitant to return to the Financial District with or without a flood gate, the surprisingly empty halls do offer at least one advantage.

“It is a little quiet now," one returning renter told the Daily News. "I don’t ever have to wait for the elevator.”

Well, it all depends on if you're a faithful reader of The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal. We just hope that you're not both because then you're going to be really confused. In stories published just days after one another, the country's two intellectual heavyweights offer vastly different spins on the Post-Sandy market.

If you read The Times, things are kind of gloomy at the bottom of the island. A family walked away from a $17.5 million Tribeca mansion that wasn't even flooded. Prices are dropping by the millions. Chinese parents buying condos for their college freshman sons have recoiled in horror. Who even knows if they'll let their kids go to college here anymore.

Are you feeling a little depressed brokers? Well, we suggest you turn to The Journal, which would like to assure you that buyers are persisting come hell or high water. Buyers are demanding showings in buildings that have yet to regain power, like Superior Ink. Prices are rising as inventory disappears (a lot of listings in badly flooded buildings are off-the-market until repair work finishes) and banks are so eager to drink the milk of the downtown cash cow that they're easing restrictions on inspections, with many taking exterior photographs rather than making real inspections.

The Observer has also made its own predictions about the Lower Manhattan real estate market, in which we pronounced it hale and hearty despite everything, but that was a whole three weeks ago.

What's the truth? The answer is no one really knows. Some buyers have been more cautious since Sandy, a few have walked away and a lot of others couldn't care less. And most likely, the Lower Manhattan market will reach an equilibrium, possibly with some some relatively modest price reductions. We won't see any real sea changes if, and unless, Lower Manhattan gets hit with another hurricane.

kvelsey@observer.com

While The Observer shot a number of photos of the flooding in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn in the height of the storm, other parts of the city were heavily affected as well. In the gallery on the left, you can find a selection of what a few photographers were able to capture during and after the storm.

Rent breaks: who needs them?  (The Sonic Oscillators, flickr)

Are you sick and tired of people complaining about the crippling rents they pay? And the fact that said rents will only become more crippling in the future and most likely not be accompanied by commensurate pay raises? Downers, right? You should go hang out in the Financial District, where no one is even bothering to file some paperwork that would make their market rate apartments rent stabilized, reports The Wall Street Journal.

In a situation that is strangely befitting of the neighborhood in which they live, thousands of tenants who live  in potentially rent stabilized apartments haven't made any moves to secure the time-sensitive designation. The number who have—10!—is scarcely in the double digits. What the hell? Surely not everyone who lives in the Financial District has the cash to wallpaper their walls with $100 bills? And since when have Wall Street guys been averse to gaming the system for all that it's worth?

The eligible units exist in buildings renovated by developers after 9/11 who took advantage of a state tax credit called 421-g incentivized the conversion of office buildings into residential buildings. Two years ago a resident in one of the luxury building took his case to housing court and won, arguing that his building should always be rent-stabilized because of the tax deduction. To make their units rent stabilized, tenants would file a notice of rent overcharge or sue to have the unit converted.

Apparently, the required paperwork seems not worth the effort for the fresh-out-of-college people who work in high paying jobs and use the luxury apartments as crash pads that they generally abandon before rent stabilization would make much of a difference.

"Our area has always been quite transient. We don't want 15 college kids crashing in an apartment. We want people to hunker down and stay," Tom Goodkind, chairman of Community Board 1's housing committee told The Journal.

Poor Lower Manhattan! Overrun with tourists, but no one wants to call it home.

kvelsey@observer.com

Mr. Simmons has listed his duplex penthouse condo at 114 Liberty Street for $11 million, a listing first spotted by The Real Deal.

The condo has five bedrooms, 4.5 bathrooms, barrel vaulted ceilings, a huge chef's kitchen and a kitchenette (perhaps Mr. Simmons—a vegan and big time fan of homemade juices—needed some extra storage space for all the fruits and vegetables he eats?).

As Mr. Simmons once told The New York Times in response to a question about his Sunday morning meditation ritual: "My crib, the whole thing's an altar." In broker babble, that apparently translates to: "One must visit this property and experience the captivating aura of light, views, grand scale and drama."

Mr. Simmons once shared the spacious, sunny loft with ex-wife Kimora Lee Simmons, whom he bought out for $2.3 million back in 2007 after the couple divorced. The listing is held by Corcoran brokers Deborah Grubman and David Dubin.

Ms. Grubman told The Real Deal that the property offered a unique opportunity to buy in the neighborhood before prices—post WTC completion—shoot up. You know that we're living in a hyper-gentrified city when $11 million is the getting-in early price.

kvelsey@observer.com

Keeping up with the Spiegels!

While Oliver Stone may be the director most associated with Wall Street, Spike Jonze can now truly lay claim to the road of the 1 percent. Mr. Jonze (nee Adam Spiegel) has purchased a Wall Street apartment, city records show, along with his sister Julia Spiegel Lunn.

According to a source familiar with the sale, Mr. Jonze and his sister bought the 75 Wall Street condo for their mother, artist/author/activist Sandy Granzow. The three-bedroom, three-bath condo will accommodate Ms. Granzow and both her children when they come to visit, though her son could also easily walk the 20 minutes it takes to get to his own home in the nearby Forward Building, where he has lived for the past five years.

The home is located on the 7 1/2-floor—actually, no, it's about a dozen floors up from there, with much better views of the harbor and Brooklyn, home to Mr. Jonze's former flame. The 182-square-foot master bedroom comes with a mammoth bath and a walk-in-closet. A 498-square-foot dining room joins the open kitchen, and a separate living room affords the ideal space to kick back and watch Adaptation. Mom and son are very close, and Mr. Jonze actually introduced The Observe to Ms. Granzow at a screening last year.

75 Wall.

"It is a remarkable apartment because it was a custom combination of a two- bedroom apartment and a one-bedroom apartments," explained William Bish, the director of sales at Corcoran Sunshine, the group managing sales at 75 Wall. "Its one of the largest apartments in the building, with the exception of the penthouses," he told The Observer. Mr. Bish declined to comment on who exactly the apartment was for.

Originally listed for $2.58 million, Mr. Jonze and his sister paid just $2.35 million for the place.

The Observer seriously hopes we didn't just ruin their Hanukkah surprise.

eknutsen@observer.com

Zuccotti Park—a city block-sized privately-owned "public space" in the Financial District most New Yorkers had little to no familiarity with only a month ago—has been the home of Occupy Wall Street for 27 days, now. Over the last week, Zuccotti's now-world-famous occupants faced the threat of a cleanup by the park's owners, the publicly-traded Canadian real estate firm Brookfield Office Properties. The cleanup was presented by Brookfield as an effort to resolve unsanitary conditions in the encampment; but many pointed out that it conveniently served as a de facto eviction of the protesters.

For the cleanup, Zuccotti would require all of the protesters to leave, which would require the help of the police, who have been a perpetual presence at the protest since it started. It was ordered for 7AM this morning, against the wishes of local politicians, the reportedly well-coordinated cleaning efforts of protesters, and an offer by a hip hop mogul to pay for the entire thing himself if it meant maintaining the occupation. Failing any of these options, protesters had planned to link arms around the perimeter of the park in solidarity. Given the NYPD's interactions with the protesters previously—pepper sprays, use of night sticks, mass arrests, widespread allegations of improper police conduct—the potential for this strategy to go very south very quickly for both sides was considerable.

As we raced onto the crosswalk around the park, two things came to us: an immediate sense of relief that nobody was being pepper sprayed or arrested en masse, and then, the realization that more people were at Zuccotti Park at 6AM on a Friday than any other moment in the protest prior to it. The protest's organizers pegged the number at "over 3,000 people," which may have been exaggerating somewhat (or at the very least, counting the police presence, the media and onlookers in that figure).

Still, the effect was palpable: it was a packed house. An ring of lights from television cameras and photographer flashes around the park created an odd, spectral silhouette of those inside the darkened space, who chanted, sang and of course, cleaned.

A girl walked around offering to write "the number" on anyone's arm who asked; it was that of the legal nonprofit on the scene for protesters arrested during the cleanup. The lawyers readily answered questions and were easily found by their neon green baseball hats; they often traveled in clusters.

A "General Assembly" started moments later. These are the widely-reported meetings that employ a "human megaphone" technique—wherein protesters repeat what the speaker in their center is saying so the message reaches the far side of the crowd, in order to comply with an ordinance against amplified sound. Most messages or "mic checks" are repeated twice. This one? Four to five times.

Somewhere in the middle of the message being repeated outward—something from a Deputy Mayor—cheers erupted. The rest of the verbatim message didn't reach the crowd, but the idea being conveyed was clear: they weren't being cleaned up. Someone, somewhere had relented. The gathered mass at Zuccotti Park was jubilant, hugging each other, chanting. A brass band played in the park, muffling screams of "we won" and hampering the efforts of the mass of telecasters on the scene.

There was more cheering. The agenda and tone for the morning, it seemed, had been set. Until they were interrupted by distinct shouts from the corner of the park: "LET'S MARCH!" a younger guy screamed, and then another few people scream, before a steady line of protesters start moving off of Zuccotti Park, and right down Broadway, in the middle of the street. The feeling of "victory" over a landlord—with a Hydra-headed problem of logistics, politics, and intense media scrutiny —wasn't enough to sate them at that particular moment. The spoils of a media war's victory are, after all, only so rich. It was, without question, a conscious effort at confrontation, even provocation.

Marchers streamed through the street, as traffic honked in frustration behind them. They flooded past the infamous "Wall Street Bull" sculpture, a cheer erupted: "CAS-TRATE THE BULL! CAS-TRATE THE BULL!" The bull, recently fenced in and closed off to its usual audience of tourists who believe in its properties of luck, went without harm.

An older gentleman on his way to work spoke on the phone with his wife, walking parallel to the marchers on the sidewalk: "No, I'm walking with them, they're right here. This is amazing!" Tourists with brochures advertising tours for the Statue of Liberty cowered on the far side of the sidewalk, and in storefront doors. "We're taking this to the stock exchange!" another protester screamed. The crowd took a left on Beaver Street, across from Bowling Green park, and turned onto New Street. They jumped a barricade, and were stopped at a gate at the intersection with Exchange Place. "White-Shirt" NYPD officers streamed towards them as officers at the gate tried to hold them back. (A white-shirt was responsible for the now infamous video of a protester being mercilessly pepper sprayed; they have become an unofficial uniform of what to fear from the police presence at the protests, which is likely why many of those who made it all the way to Exchange Place started running in the other direction.) "We're not big enough," one protester screamed. "Go back! Go back!"

The crowd was dispersed without incident. The last wave started running back towards Beaver Street, doubling back on the the first. "They're marching at the park, now!" Another march was happening, the route, as yet unknown. Broadway was empty again, momentarily, and eerily silent. The two buses likely intended for detained protesters unwilling to move for the aborted cleanup sat idle up the street.

Nearby, the Wall Street Bull sat peacefully, guarded by no less than six NYPD officers and a gate.

NYPD officers stood in the middle of Broadway, shooting video on an HD-handicam.

It didn't appear they had anything to film, until it did: another march down Broadway had started. This one was louder, larger, armed with more energy and bigger numbers.

Police sirens started screaming from all directions. Gaggles of scooter-riding police honked at and herded the protesters forward. Protesters moved slowly; police were meeting them in scores through the front by cars, and as they resisted the push of the scooters, another wave of white-shirts pushed in through the front.

The protesters turned onto Beaver Street again; traffic, which had temporarily resumed at the intersection, had come to a standstill. Throngs of police moved to maneuver to the side of the crowd; others waited on the side. The Observer, hedging risk against a face-full of pepper spray, decided to refrain from following the chosen route any further. Police continued to flood into the crowd, screaming at the protesters, who rushed up the street again towards Broad Street. We called our reporting colleague. He explained in staccato that people had seen a scooter cop run over somebody's leg, and multiple arrests, finishing the call with "I have to run, like, actually have to run."

Working our way back up Broadway, we saw the worst case scenario beginning to paint itself in the form of riot police, being organized in single-file.

They marched up the block, and started receiving a briefing from a commanding officer.

To briefly editorialize: for someone acting as an outside observer to civil disobedience, there is nothing more ominously terrifying than someone clad in all black, with padding, shileding, weaponry, and the civic authority to use it on whoever they choose to in the name of restoring order, especially when you've just seen said order come under question. An eager tension within the riot police ranks was readily evident: one spun his club with his right hand, beating it into his left. Another bounced on the balls of his feet, the same way a prizefighter readying for the first round does. The only thing more worrying than their presence was that of the crowd who started in behind them, chanting: "The whole! World! Is watching! The Whole! World! Is watching!"

The riot police stopped in the middle of the street, facing uptown on Broadway; they turned onto a corner. A woman unaffiliated with the protests yelled at the from the sidewalk: "What is this, Star Wars?!" They retreated onto the sidewalk, in a holding pattern; a white-shirt addressed them again. They turned around, and headed downtown, back whence they came.

Back at Zuccotti Park, most of the marchers had returned to loud cheers; a few were still returning from a few blocks uptown with stories of arrests and abuse. Many of the news anchors were rushing the arrivals, trying to get the exclusive on their recent pavement conquests while they were fresh. The park buzzed with action and chatter, and police continued to clear the sidewalk for the morning commuters as they attempted to maneuver their way to the office. A clear picture of the morning's events, however, had more than emerged by then: plenty of people on both sides of this confrontation wanted palpable action. Thankfully, a violent climax was averted.

As it turned out, the morning's takeaway would largely be the images of Zuccotti Park being cleaned by self-proclaimed responsible, peaceful protesters. This, along with the sheer number of those attending the protests, is likely to help the movement gain traction on the ground, and in conversation worldwide? Paired with the carefully communicated endorsements of celebrities and local politicos, it paints a colorful picture of an intensely media-savvy movement, but one that inherently betrays their party line of being different from so many of the movements that came before it.

After all, the few idiots who fuck up the good intentions of groups of people—and the mass within that group who lets them—isn't really anything that new.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

What was the motivation behind converting 116 John Street into a residential building?

Mr. Gross: That was a complicated form of ownership that required some sort of financial engineering. But, as always, that tail should not wag the dog. The real issue had been, what’s the property worth and what’s its highest and best use, and who’s the best person to exploit that use.

Was the owner, Hacienda Intercontinental Realty, in a position that forced a conversion, or was it simply the best way to take advantage of that submarket?

In this particular case there was an owner who was absent, lived in Miami, and the building had always been office and ground-floor retail. He did not have capital for tenant improvements and building-wide improvements sufficient to keep it competitive.

So the building was actually deteriorating rapidly, and losing tenants. He had a loan that was looming and he had really kind of no way out because no new loan would come in and take that out.

In other words, the owner had few options when this was all unfolding.

The best answer would have been to find someone to come in and buy the property. But, as you’ll recall, at that point the office sector was really struggling, particularly downtown. And, in this case, Class B—or, frankly, this was more like Class C—was particularly struggling. So there was very little opportunity for him to refinance as an office building.

So the only option you really had was to adapt and reuse that property as residential. But not every property downtown is suitable for that because you have to have the right light and the right zoning, and that’s for starters.

How did the eventual joint venture with Metro Loft come about?

We were able to bring a really great, unbelievably successful and great developer named Nathan Berman, who came in and negotiated with our owner, and it was torturous for a while, as you might imagine, because in a situation like that where an owner is going to contribute an asset you have issues of valuation, for starters, and you have issues of control—and not to mention who’s going to carve up the pie on the back end.

Generally speaking, the non-financial issues are as important as the financial because you have two guys across the table deciding who’s going to be 51 percent and who’s going to be 49 percent…. But, in this case, we ultimately did the deal after long months of negotiations. But we were able to help them out with all that.

jsederstrom@observer.com

Retail renaissance in the FiDi? That's a bunch of my waste!

The Post's Steve Cuozzo this morning spoke for the financial district masses who actually inhabit the neighborhood much touted for its supposed 24-7 renaissance over the last decade.

The need for the shout-out? The fact that, while luxury retailers down there reap attention (we once called sales at the then-new Hermes store near the Stock Exchange "The Tie Jones Average"), workaday residents are bereft of more affordable, everyday shopping options.

The district's historic heart is particularly bereft of the kinds of midpriced shopping and dining options that residents and office workers have a right to expect.

While Tiffany and Hermes draw disproportionate attention, narrow old streets, including Nassau, Fulton, William, Ann and Gold, are dominated by low-end fast food, junk and convenience stores.

Right on, brother. As a former FiDi resident, we can attest to the fact that for every jewelry story catering to the Fairfield County resident in for the business day, there are literally three dry-cleaners of dubious quality, plus any number of pawn shops, bodegas and faux Irish pubs, legitimate actors in any New York streetscape, yes, but hardly a sign of retail Valhalla for local residents (maybe brokers and some landlords).

Mr. Cuozzo again, taking a shot at a favored rival:

A New York Times column last week cited dramatic hikes in asking rents along Broadway as evidence of a "revival." Absurdly, in some quarters the closing of the huge former Borders is regarded as a boon because the space might appeal to a popular apparel purveyor like H&M or Topshop.

They indeed would be welcome. But losing the 32,000-square-foot Borders can't be good news for residents or for merchants on Broadway nearby, which is mostly dead after dark.

A day when the drinks were on Mr. Joyce's tab.

Fans of James Joyce -- and fans of open bars -- flocked to Ulysses Folk House yesterday to celebrate Bloomsday with traditional Irish food, pints of Guinness, plenty of Jameson,  Irish dancing, readings from Ulysses and piles of oyster shooters served, for some reason, through an ice luge with a Guinness logo.

Bloomsday has always driven bibliophiles to drink excessively before the sun goes down. It celebrates June 16, 1904, which everyone knows is the day chronicled in Joyce’s most famous (and famously challenging) book, Ulysses. An extra reason to get drunk and ponder whether history is a nightmare from which you are trying to awake: like in 1904, June 16, 2011 happened to be on a Thursday. Another round of Guinness!

Outside of the tavern, on the hidden-away cobble-stoned section of Pearl Street, people dressed in period costumes and shirts recalling Bloomsdays past.

Christie Mannion, a woman that The Observer thought was dressed as Molly Bloom, turned out to be an upright bass player who dresses in Edwardian era outfits every day.  She ran from the West Village after hearing word of an open bar and the appropriateness of her outfit to the occasion. When tourists asked to take her picture, she very obligingly hid her cigarette.

"This is my casual wear," said Christie Mannion. "I just love the Edwardian era. Everything was  beautiful, it was decadent, it was rich. Women looked like women."

And what's with the pendant around your neck, Ms. Mannion? With the silhouette of a man's face? An important symbol from a long-lost past?

"Oh," she responded. "That's Tom Waits."

Not exactly Edwardian...

"You can't beat Tom Waits!"

A few feet over Michael Quinn stood polishing off the bloody mary shooter. His shirt was emblazoned with the iconic final words of Ulysses -- "Yes I said yes I will yes" -- and he announced that he teaches high school in Bay Ridge, but took the day off to stop by the Bloomsday festivities.

"I asked the head of the English Department if I could have a senior elective course, the whole year, for Ulysses," he said. "But there'd probably only be four kids who'd want to do it!"

Things were getting rowdy. Towards the end of the open bar, The Observer took a nearby seat at the center of the promenade, to enjoy a smoke and finish our Guinness. But the chairs belonged to another shop's owner, and he was none too pleased. After he kicked us out, a local Irishman, beer in hand, offered some friendly advice.

"Did that guy just take your chairs?" he bellowed over from a table, dog-eared copies of Ulysses nestled next to glassware licked with only a few specks of Guinness foam. "You shoulda put that cigarette out on his forehead and thrown the beer in his face!"

Tempting, but no thanks.

Of course, not everyone was taken with the literary spirit.

“What day?” asked a fresh-faced and fresh-suited J.P. Morgan trainee after The Observer asked if he was celebrating Bloomsday.

“Ulysses? So it’s the namesake of the bar and they are celebrating?” asked another flummoxed young banker.

With that the JP Morgan trainees went elsewhere. For some reason the lure of intelligent conversation on Joyce -- even if it came with free beer -- could not persuade them to stay.