Seaholm Intake Facility Open House

I was too familiar with seeing this structure on the outside.

The Seaholm Intake Facility held an open house this previous Friday.  It was interesting to observe the diversity (and number) of people who attended the event.  The space was filled with an eclectic mix of planners, architects, engineers, and locals, all present for a common reason:  to reimagine the abandoned facility.

Plywood boards served as railings around deep, cavernous spaces below.  Anxious visitors peered inside to gain a sense of the vertical space.  Horizontal space, on the other hand, was seemingly just as present.  The windows peered out to the endless bounds of Lady Bird Lake.  It was an ideal location for any new project.

It was interesting to observe some of the actions that took place among several clustered groups.  I engaged in some dialogue with a local resident and civil engineer; both were ecstatic about some of the new plans and often referred to the "beautiful visions" that were on display

Two foamcore boards were situated along a wall with the basic site plan of the park pasted on one side.  The resident I spoke to asked me to help her situate her location on the plan, explaining to me that it was "difficult to understand this architecture-stuff."  She read some of the suggestions on the board and later wandered away to view the drawings that were a bit more understandable to her:  photo-realistic renderings.

It seems that planners, architects, and engineers seems to know what is "best" for the City.  Afterall, hey are the entities that possess "adequate" knowledge on how to approach an opportunity like the one brought about by the Seaholm Intake Facility.

But what is the role of the resident?  Is there really community engagement in suggestions written on a board when they can be just as quickly dismissed by someone with greater authority?  Can questions be answered through drawings that cannot be understood?  And lastly, can a vision really be fulfilled in a single open house event?

Coffee, please.

Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Medici.
Medici who?

That is precisely the question.  What is going on over at Medici?

It's been about a week since the coffee shop's temporary closure on the Drag.  In very large print, the window paint reads that the shop is "remodeling" -- and thank goodness they are, because the floor was caving in and standing in there ha become immensely terrifying.

Yet, everytime I pass by the location, little progress seems to be made.  The doors are locked.  The lights are off.  The interiors are empty.

I know it's only been a week, but it seems to be affecting the coffee-drinking population at the university quite dramatically.  Medici's competitor has always been the Starbucks in the Union, and although Medici costs a little bit more, many people are willing in to chip in the extra change to support "quality coffee" at the local business (whatever "quality" means).

Lately, however, it doesn't really seem to matter.   All of a sudden, coffee is coffee.

Over a short period of a week, the lines at Starbucks have grown more than twice the usual length.  Coffee sales even seem to be boosting at Wendy's for the customers who don't have the patience to wait for Starbucks. 

So how could this possibly relate to planning?

It seems to me that people enjoy convenience.  The convenience of coffee from a national chain is superior to the coffee of a local shop when the local shop is out of service.  The nearest operating Medici is situated Downtown, and the likelihood of someone going out of their way to travel the distance for a "quality cup of coffee" doesn't seem to be a practical option.  Perhaps there will be the occasional customer who will boycott these chain alternatives, but the population is small. And who knows when Medici will open again?  Shall we give it another week?  A month?  A year?  When will defeat be declared?

In the world of planning, people like to see promised actions addressed -- and they like to see it happen quickly.  The problem is that good things take time, and time, unfortunately, is something that the majority of people are unwilling to spare.  Take the proposal for a new community garden as an example:  It takes time to simply have the project approved, let alone the time the project requires for it to be implemented.  The vegetation within a community garden is often rendered beautifully when it is initially presented, but it may be a matter of years before the first seed flourishes.  For an extended period of time, the community garden may be brown and bare, making it difficult for the public to understand any benefits coming from it at all.  People are willing to reject former ideas if immediate progress is not evident.

Maybe we just wanted a cup of "quality coffee" -- but how much does "quality" really matter?  How do you convince someone that "quality" is worth waiting for?

I'm a short person.

I'm a short person -- I'll admit that.  At five feet tall, I often find myself looking up.  I am rarely at eye-level with things.  Lately, I've been seeking solitude in Battle Hall, and each time I reach for the door handle to enter the domain, I notice that it is lower than usual.

It's a strange feeling.

Design is interesting in the fact that it often targets a general population: the "user" is usually a six-foot male of a slimmer figure.

But why?  Shouldn't design be a heterogenous entity, especially with all the diversity society has to offer?

At that moment, I wondered, is it strange that I find it strange that the door handle be... well, strange?

People enjoy routine, but routine varies from person to person -- especially if that person is in a wheelchair.  Would a person in a wheelchair be more comfortable with using that door handle that I did?  And if they were, would that be okay? But wait -- would they even be able to utilize that door handle?  It would be difficult to push the door and roll inside in a wheelchair, afterall.  And then there's another problem!  The door pulls outward, rather than pushes inward!

Oh, what a strange door, indeed.  Thank goodness for the automated handicap button.

... But is a simple button really enough?

I live in the city -- I think?

Suburbanization is an interesting subject; I'm grasping all of its underlying principles quite clearly, but for some odd reason, I'm still struggling to define the type of environment I personally grew up in.  I often hear about Sugarland and The Woodlands near Houston, or Grapevine and Plano near Dallas -- but what is Amarillo?  It seems that half of the Texans I meet don't even know where Amarillo is!

Amarillo is known for the Cadillac Ranch and the 72 oz. steak challenge at the Big Texan, but aside from these two attractions, it's usually just another place to pass through along the historic Route 66.  For the people who live there, it's more about the steak and cars.  Amarillo is home to approximately 200,000 people -- myself included.

.... Whether it's a city or suburb is what I don't really know.

The usage of the terms "urban" and "suburban" is quite arbitrary.  Given differences in the way cities and metropolitan areas are governed, what is suburban in one city would be part of the central city elsewhere.  Los Angeles, covering an immense territory, has some suburbs like Pasadena but also includes zones within its city limits which one could reasonably consider suburban.  Increasingly, "suburbs" are no longer primarily residential areas. The growth of the suburban trend has led to environments that have become larger and more economically important than the central city the suburb is attached to.

Perhaps the concept of the suburb is an outdated one.  I often see "The City of Amarillo" plastered around Downtown, but looking at the scale of Downtown Houston and Downtown Dallas in comparison creates a striking contrast.  Amarillo, in this case, would be more similar to the typical suburban character.  I feel that I've grown up in a suburban area, but the correct classification seems to be a city.  I ask myself, 'why is that?' It seems that the label for "the city" and "the suburb" is falsely understood.  Do these words only represent a set of trends and statistics rather than a set of actual values? -- and if not values, then what do they represent?

Good public policy promotes public interest.

Good public policy promotes public interest.
... But who, exactly, are we referring to when we speak of 'the public'?

To further investigate the subject, I referenced my roommates to capture a glimpse of their orientation on Austin's current approach to public policy and city planning.  This morning, I took a three-mile morning jog to Lakeshore Park with my roommate, Johnny.  Two miles doesn't seem too daunting, but a few hours later that day, I recalled some of the goals set by the city for residents and parks.  The Austin City Council strives to achieve the possibility of having every resident live within walking distance from a park -- specifically, a quarter of a mile for the urban core and half of a mile outside of the urban core.  Such an ambitious proposal made three miles suddenly seemed substantially excessive.  A quarter of a mile to the park would be such a delight!  Lakeshore Park had always been the apex -- the "stopping point" -- of Johnny and I's route, but how wonderful would it be to actually be able to engage with the park while jogging?

I asked another roommate, Bryan, if he would be more encouraged to go to the park if it was located within a quarter of a mile of walking distance.  At the least, he could join Johnny and I on our bi-weekly jogging adventure.

He said no.

He further explained that, as a student, he was too overwhelmed by the pressures of schoolwork and that the park would be poorly utilized by the student housing complexes in the area surrounding Lakeshore Park.  I viewed it from the contrary perspective:  the close proximity of a nearby park could be an opportunity to escape from "the pressures of school" and catch a bit of fresh air.  However, Bryan continued to insist that the extension of the park would be pointless.  "I just wouldn't use it," he said.

Eventually, I conclude that it is the honest opinion of the user serves as the crucial component of city planning.  A park may be implemented (or extended, in this case), but that isn't to say that it will be utilized for the sole fact that it is present.

On the other hand, perhaps it is reliant on the attitude of the individual.

I started to think about the new Boardwalk Trail at Lady Bird Lake, which seeks to close the southeasten gap of the hike and bike trail by connecting the current end of the trail by the Austin American Statesman Building to Lakeshore Park.  Newspaper articles indicate that currently, pedestrians, runners and bikers are forced to use the Riverside Drive sidewalk over Interstate 35 to complete the 10.1 mile trail loop.  And it's true -- I see these pedestrians, runners an bikers every single day, whether I'm on my way to school at 8:00 AM or on my way home at 8:00 PM.  The attitudes of those people are certainly important considerations in city planning.

Maybe it isn't about good public policy and how it promotes public interest afterall.  Maybe, instead, the focus is on defining what the public interest is, and how that it used to inform good public policy.

Because, in the end, good public interest promotes public policy.

Gentrification in Riverside

High-rises are soaring across the perimeters of Riverside Drive.  Throughout these past two years, I've watched buildings come up almost as quickly as old ones have come down.  With the scenic lake amenity nearby, it makes sense for developers to envision life along the edge of Town Lake.
For a while, I couldn't quite figure out why Riverside was the lucky candidate.  All too often, my peers made comments about the "inclined incidents of crime" assumed in the surrounding area.  I found it curiously nice that the city was implementing something new and refreshing to revitalize the barren Riverside community.

Until I realized it was all a part of the gentrification process, that is.

To understand gentrification, it is first important to clarify what gentrification is not.  Tom Angotti is a professor of urban affairs and planning at Hunter College, and he states:

"Gentrification is not the same as change in neighborhoods.  Change occurs all the time and in every neighborhood:  People move in and out, buildings fall into disrepair and undergo renovation, and businesses come and go.   Gentrification is not improvement of housing, public space, and the physical improvement of the environment.  That can and does happen without gentrification.  Gentrification is not the arrival of “different” people—although that is often a part of it."

What gentrification is, on the other hand, is very controversial.  It begins as an interchange of dialogue between the people moving out and the gentrifiers, or the people moving in.  Longtime residents and businesses leave the area due to increasing land values as wealthy, affluent newcomers seek the opportunity to create flourishing markets and homes.

I experienced a rollercoaster of emotions. I marveled at the fancy street-level retail and stacked condominiums, but wondered what sort of person would even be attracted to this area -- especially with such a strongly associated negative reputation.  Yet, if we continued to think of Riverside for it's characteristic flaws, then would the future of its community ever thrive? 

And could Riverside truly be a mix of people with polar differences on the scale of socioeconomic status?

The problem with gentrification, particularly in Riverside, was that I constantly pondered about where the leaving people were fleeing to.  Riverside wants to improve its physical environment for the people who inhabit it, but it seems to need a solution that involves improvement for the existing community.  The new populations seemed disruptive to the neighborhoods I initially knew and almost seemed to suggest that the existing residents were incapable of growth.  Additionally, if the existing residents migrated to new locations to begin anew, would the cycle of displacement not begin again?

The strange thing is that the gentrification process really does seem to be working quite successfully in Riverside, although (for me) it seems unfair from a social and ethical approach.  I don't know what alternative solutions may be at this point, but I am certainly determined to synthesize some options.

Everyone has belong somewhere, after all.