That 46-story, 454-foot-tall bully with the face only a mother could love (I’m talking the Trump Soho, not the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man) is scheduled to open on April 9th “on Spring Street, where Soho meets Tribeca and the West Village.” Posh!
Unfortunately, what with that pesky recession and all, selling the units to investors didn’t quite go as intended, and per the Wall Street Journal, “only about a third of the 391 units are now in contract.”
The plan had been to follow the condo-hotel business model (aka, fancy timeshare), in which units would be sold — for no less than $1.2 million a studio — to investors who could elect to inhabit them 120 or fewer days a year, no more than 29 days at a time. The rest of the year the units would operate as hotel rooms, with investors and developers sharing the profits.
Which all sounds hunky-dory when you’re flush with cash for the down payment on your third home (a sweet little pied-à-terre with skyline views and location location location!), but less so after you’ve lost your job and your life savings and no one else has enough money to pay $600 a night to stay at a cheesy hotel for douchey types in New York City anyway, unless, of course, they’re foreigners, and then you’re renting to foreigners.
Meanwhile, Trump himself has remained as unfazed as his hairstyle throughout his namesake condo-hotel’s debacle, largely because he never fronted any of the money for it — or, in fact, any of his last 15 projects — in the first place.
America, we only have ourselves to blame. Turn off The Celebrity Apprentice and WALK. AWAY. NOW.