Historically, Greenwich Village is the place where New York City’s creatives built their lives and made their art. Over the decades, though, just as in cherished neighborhoods all over the world, it’s become largely unaffordable. Change and development have pushed out many writers and artists, who’ve been forced to take their less-than-Wall-Street salaries and look for lodging in Brooklyn, Queens, or New Jersey.

So I was overjoyed when, at my interview to join the townhouse where I now live, the co-op president and his wife let me know, almost apologetically, that their son, Ari, played the bass and would sometimes be rehearsing with his jazz band in the building. A jazz band in the building? What might be next? Poetry readings in the basement? Mixing moonshine in a bathtub? Sign me up.

Indeed, Ari Roland, his singer wife Yaala, and their combo rehearse in the room right inside the front door. They are not amateurs. They have been flown all over the world by the State Department to represent our country. Once, I found a group of tourists standing outside, listening through the open front window. They swayed and danced and asked me if I felt lucky living here.

Indeed. What others pay for, I enjoy on my way out the door. What rainy dog walk or work commute isn’t made better by starting it this way?