Taylor Swift, bigger than Spotify or any other music streaming service in the universe, has achieved royal status in the music industry and is living requisitely large. Consider the “style”-ish singer’s NYC digs: A $19.955-million doubled-up penthouse that spans 8,000-square-feet atop 155 Franklin Street.
Combined from two units, the deeds show the 5,869-square-foot #PH6S sold for $14.850 million, while #PH6N (2,440 square feet) sold for $5.1 million. With 9 bedrooms and 9 bathrooms, Swift has no problem finding room for all her friends and, sometimes, some lucky die-hard fans (Swifties) that Swift allows in for a little look-see.
Some of us would call that Tribeca, but Swift’s got a plaque on one of the walls announcing that the downtown enclave is really “Taybeca.” Get the picture?
Rolling Stone magazine got a first glimpse of Swift in her loft and reported this about the Taylor-led tour:
There’s one way into Swift’s new apartment building, and much of the time it’s guarded by a former NYPD officer named Jimmy, who unlocks the door for residents and visitors alike. This may be a drag for neighbors like Steven Soderbergh and Orlando Bloom, who have dropped seven figures to live at one of Tribeca’s toniest addresses, but it’s an unavoidable fact of life when the 24-year-old on the top floor is one of the biggest pop stars on the planet. “Most of the neighbors know what’s what by now,” Jimmy says, locking the door behind him. Today is a good day for Jimmy, because the elevator is working again after a brief period of being broken. “It’s six floors up,” he says, frowning. “And we don’t travel light, if you know what I mean.” I tell him I think I do know what he means, and Jimmy laughs. “The shoes alone!”
Up in the penthouse, a barefoot Swift answers the door in a periwinkle-blue sundress: “Welcome to my apartment!” In the kitchen there’s an assortment of pastries from a hip downtown spot called the Smile (“They have these banana-quinoa muffins that I’m obsessed with”), and in the refrigerator are a surprising number of varieties of sparkling water. (“I have black cherry, pomegranate, blueberry, strawberry, key lime, tangerine lime . . .”
Swift shuts the fridge. “Do you want a tour?” She breezes into the living room, pointing out the fish tank filled with vintage baseballs (“I was like, ‘That’s so cool, they’re so old!'”) and some enormous scented candles (“I was like, ‘That’s so cool, they’re so big!'”). “There’s my piano,” she says. “Here’s my pool table that always has cat hair on it. That’s my skylight.” She bumps into a doorway. “That’s a door that I walk into.”
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