How to Look at Buildings for Beginners (part 1)

Architecture school sure is something. One of the more subtle and persistent changes I have noticed is that my taste, post-M.Arch, is no longer in line with a normal person. I’ll catcall a good box, for starters.

My desire to write this guide is not because I necessarily think architects are ‘right’. We make buildings that are often very difficult–to understand, appreciate, build–and the response from the public is usually resentment. I just want the average person to have the tools to understand why they do like something. I think it would help prevent the proliferation of crappy McMansion homes in gated communities, which are a very misguided attempt to recreate what it was that we liked about spaces and houses. Instead of getting something that is actually a good, solid home, with space that they not only like, but also functions in the long-term, people are buying houses that say “HOUSE!!!” as loudly as possible, with a bunch of parceled out parts and “features” that end up in cacophony. HIGH CEILING, SKYLIGHT, OPEN PLAN, GRANITE COUNTER TOP, MASTER BATH, PORTICO, EXPOSED WOOD, GRAND STAIRCASE, FLOOR-TO-CEILING WINDOWS, 3000 SQ FT. You know, that kind of thing.

Kate Wagner over at McMansion Hell is doing the Lord’s work in deconstructing why these houses are bad (though I do wish she spent more time looking at it holistically rather than room by room). I just want to help you, average-person-but-special-in-your-own-way, to look at all buildings. Who knows? You might end up liking boxes too.

There are many different ways to assess the most important part of a building, but rather than going at it in the order you’d end up using ‘in the field’, we’re going to sort through it easiest to hardest.

PART I: MASSING

The easiest way to assess a building is massing. Massing refers to the concept of the large, general shape and arrangement of the building. If you’re near a building right now, go ahead and get about 50 feet straight back from it, so you can look at it head-on. If 50 feet is too far, get as far away as you can while still able to look at the building head-on. Face your enemy.

Now squint, or take off your glasses.

The details should fade out. Instead, you should see a general blob in front of you. Perhaps there is more than one blob. What is the shape of this blob? Is it thicker in the middle, or the sides? Does it have one tall side with one short?

If you had to reduce this to a few simple shapes, how would you do so?

The arrangement of mass generally has deeper purpose, usually related to function or program, which means the various functions and activities a building has to support. The largest mass often houses the core function of the building or the most important one.

Massing can be used to highlight program pieces, or indicate ‘special’ parts of the building. Here the massing is the design.

In general, massing is mostly about the building in relation to itself; about its shape and its articulation. Sometimes massing will not indicate a single most important part, either deliberately or by incompetence.

PART II: MATERIALITY

This one is easier than others, just because material is often easier for the average viewer to identify. This means looking at a building and determining what it’s made of–or at least, what it would like you to think it is made of. Particularly in American (and Canadian) construction, the façade of a building is usually an entirely separate system than its structure. (When the structure is purposefully made visible, we call this expressed.) Sometimes the divorce of a building’s materiality and its structure can be used in a playful way:

Other times the architect chooses to re-express the structural material in the façade, so the building is more “honest”. Here the concrete on the exterior is not at all load-bearing.

However, this section is about the easier version of materiality, not about its relationship to structure. (That requires you to be able to identify a structural system, which, when they’re hidden, is often heavily reliant on your knowledge of reasonable thicknesses and material abilities. Something I’m still shaky at, even after four years of school.)

Materials are also chosen with a purpose. The first step is to ask: can I easily identify the material? Sometimes the answer is no. And it’s not because of a failure on your part–the architect literally chooses to hide the material, usually with gypsum. So when we look at the building, we are confronted with something purposefully ambiguous.

What the fuck is this even made of?

However, the answer can also be deliberately clear: brick is fairly straight forward, as is stone, concrete, wood, steel, glass. If the material is easily identifiable, the next question is where it’s being used, and what it’s paired with.

Certain materials have certain connotations–stone and brick are considered more “solid” or “heavy”, for example. Concrete can be thought of that way, but if you spend enough time in the architecture world, concrete is viewed far more as a plastic and sculptural material. I could write an entire post on concrete alone, frankly.

Anyway! Glass is often meant to disappear—

–or imply ‘thinness’, ‘lightness’, etc.

Glass paired with a heavy material can therefore emphasize the solidity of that material–

—or make us double-take at how something heavy apparently ‘floats’.

Wood is almost always considered a ‘warm’ material. There was (and possibly still is) a trend of reclaimed wood use to make buildings and spaces feel authentic, warm, and connected to the past. Wood can be used solidly, in such a way that makes us think of giant trees:

Or in a way that also feels light, airy, and sculptural.

Often, architects will use the same material in multiple ways to contrast how it can be perceived.

This particular example is interesting because it makes the wood solid yet light by the thinness of the staircase balustrades, and more traditional ‘light’ feeling wood with the wood slat screen lining the interior balconies.

Now go look at some buildings.

Ship Shenanigans

The other night, we had a ‘pub crawl’. Dani explained the concept as follows: everyone creates their own ‘pub’, and we go from place to place to enjoy it. You leave the pub before yours a little early ou can run to yurs and get it set up. Killer idea, super fun. We were debating just when we could actually do this, since Dani was leaving in a few days, and decided maybe to do it if she came back to visit.

Nope! Her last full day on the boat, right before work, two crew members decided that we would do it that evening. Cool,that gave us maybe three full hours to put it together.

For the first bar, we trotted down to the workshop, where Jon opened the door in his pit vipers and patterned shirt, going, “Woah, woah, woah! Chill the fuck out, guys. You’re here for the party?” We had arrived at a frat house. Before we walked in, he put out a hand and said,”Hang on. What’s the ratio?” The Santa Barbara vibes were strong.

Inside, the table was set up with red solo cups, and a giant soup pot with a ladle sat to the side—jungle juice. I clapped with glee. We settled in to play my favorite game from UCSB, Gaucho Ball–or as more commonly known, rage cage. On the wall, Jon and Molly–who was dressed in a jersey, sideways hat, and pit vipers–had hung a flag for the frat with the Greek letters: Mu Tau. And they (who demanded to be called Chaz & Chad) had created a chant as well, which we all yelled enthusiastically.

The next bar was by the shore, set up at two picnic tables. We diverged on our way, getting sidetracked by the kayak company who were still finishing out a keg from earlier. They beckoned us to the back of their equipment shed and filled up some of the red solo cups we had hung on to. Side quest accomplished, we went to the picnic tables, which to our raucous laughter, we discovered were ‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’. Hell was Cas dressed fully as a cholo, with makeup done to make herself look beat up, string backpack, and low-riding sweats, hounding us with, “Heeeyyyy you guysss need somethin’? I got somethin for u.” Single letter audible. She was serving Three Wise Men on a Hot, Salty Day Hunting Wild Turkey. Which if you don’t know, as I didn’t, is three half shots of the wise men–Jim (Beam), Jack (Daniels), and James(on)–plus a lick of hot sauce, a pinch of salt, and a full shot of Wild Turkey. Lots of aggression from Cas as accompaniment.

Heaven, on the other hand, was Gable sitting calmly at a table in a nice button up shirt, with g&ts. I stayed at Heaven and watched Hell with horrified fascination. Cas and Molly being who they are, they and possibly Jon finished the bar by impromptu wrestling on the grass.

On the pier, being restricted, we were not allowed to have alcohol. That was a-ok for Aiden, who set up a little tarp as a tent cover from the back of the shipping container. She told us to fetch our water bottles, and gave us paper bags to put them into. We sat obligingly in the camp chairs in the little lean-to, and she passed out gummy bears, explaining to us that we were in The Bozone. Hanging on the container was a cardboard sign declaring it so. The Bozone, Aiden explained, was what she and her back country crew had come up with on a job that wouldn’t let them drink. They would put their water bottles into paper bags like so to pretend that it was alcohol, and pass around candy and have the best possible type of Friday night they could, sans alcohol or drugs. The hydration break was much needed. Molly, being a woman of many talents, took the mandolin that Aiden had provided, and quietly plucked out a song with the mason jar lid I gave her to use as a finger pick while Jon told us a story of an adventure he’d had several years ago during a Pacific race.

We could hear loud yelling from the floating dock, indicating our next bar. Loud, eastern yelling. Dani and Tommy stood barefoot, in overalls, as brothers Hank and Earl. Tommy wore just the overalls, no shirt. “Listen here,” ‘Earl’ said, spitting to the side. “Y’all city kids are going to go fishing. We got some crawlers here–” pulling out a bag of gummy worms for emphasis ” –and you’re gonna go git us some more. Becawse everyone done knows that’s how you ketch the fish, is with some crawlers. Don’t ask us about the sharks.” Dani sneakily passed me a gummy shark from her pocket.

We broke away, inspecting the floating dock for ‘crawlers’–finding them swimming inside of little shot bottles hidden around the floating dock. Molly yelped–instead of a shot bottle, she had picked up a dead pigeon. It was surprisingly hard to find the bottles, and when I complimented them the following morning on that, Dani laughed and said the dark and the drinks before had done most of the work.

Keoni and I broke away for the final bar, back on the boat. We flipped on all the red lights. Keoni had already hung a Mexican blanket in front of the entrance to the long hallway below decks we called the bowling alley. He strewed cushions on the floor, while I fetched the frozen mango puree from the fridge and starting opening bottles of Chardonnay. We were El Barco, the hottest back alley bar in Barcelona–pronounced Barthelona, of course–and we served sangria and ‘tapas’, aka spiced pumpkin seeds, spiced popcorn, and…bagel bites. At that point, everyone was so drunk, I figured getting carbs into us was more important than theme. Also, I love bagel bites. Keoni blasted flamenco from his speaker, and I served out the ‘sangria’ and snacks while Jon arm wrestled people at the main hold table. Aiden and Molly danced a little, practicing what I had taught them a day or so ago.

“Wait! We have Velveeta mac’n’cheese upstairs. Didn’t Gable want to make that?” We turned questioningly to him. Gable, in his sweet Midwestern drawl, said, “Hell yeah I want to make some Velveeta!” We all trooped up to the galley, lounging on the counters and each other as Gable cooked for us. I had never had Velveeta before. I had three bowls.

The next morning, I found out later, the captain pulled Dani aside.

“Hey, why is everyone so… grumpy?” He asked her, looking at us. Some of us were clumped in a group, laughing a little, but apparently not very high energy.

“Oh! Um,” Dani laughed nervously. I don’t know what she explained, but she did convey that we were very hungover.

“I see,” he said. “Interesting choice in timing.” He looked around the deck, at the little groups of crew hanging about, desultory, and then at the other passengers–7 members of the Coast Guard.

My Post-hoc Wedding Toast

One of my friends asked why I don’t write more on this blog, and I said that it’s because I only really do when I have something I simply have to talk about. So this is one of those things.

I had the good fortune to go to a very, very good wedding this weekend. The bride is one of my closest friends, and I like her husband a lot as well. I am still floating on happily 48 hours later, even though I came home to ship duty and several other little annoyances.

But this wedding was so good that I’ve left with a good handful of new friends that I already have plans to see next week. And part of the reason that this wedding was so good was because the bride and groom have, to the point that it was mentioned in multiple toasts, built a relationship that flows outward to their friends in affection. Their vows were full of the quotidian details about a life together. I’ve always suspected I never like small-r romance because those grand and sweeping statements or things seem false, overblown, performative. That true feeling is expressed in spite of yourself, so deeply felt it is better to understate it, to concretize it with the small and banal. Their vows were full of jokes, affection, and mirrors to one another — morning cappuccino duties, praise of cooking, household chores, the delightful and affectionate bickering that can only signify a couple cheerfully in love. And part of their love is built on turning outward to their friends. It is a key part of what they cherish in the other.

This couple has excellent taste in people. They are steadfast to their friends, and as such, I can know that most of their friends are good people. Though I do rag a little bit on the bride sometimes for being judgemental, it is mostly because I am myself as well, and trying to do better. She and I, I suspect, have a very similar concept of what it means to be good. It’s not one I’ve talked about much on this blog, but one I’ve thought a lot about in a practical sense for the past couple of years. And I know that the people she chooses to cleave to are ones worth doing so. I don’t know the groom’s judgement quite as intimately, but I know enough of him on my own now, buffeted by his wife’s regard, to trust his taste in others too.

They are so good at choosing people to love that I could look around at the after parties¹ and know that everyone there was both a good person and someone I would probably like. Everyone. To be clear, I didn’t know many of them at all. Some of them I had only met 24 hours before, briefly; some I had met and liked before at the couple’s Shabbat dinners, but hadn’t really blossomed into proper friendship yet, as happy as we were to see each other again at a dinner. Yet I walked away from this wedding with many of those acquaintances turning yet more into real friendship.

A wedding can be said to be about affirming vows before your community; that your minyan sees and as such, legitimizes your marriage. This is an interesting take–it suggests that your marriage cannot fully begin without the people outside of it. It is an attitude that marvelously well suits two people who so prize their friends. It is a view of marriage that does not hold it to be an individual object contained to the two people within it (and perhaps whatever immediate offspring they acquire), but a relationship that exists in context, and is supported by that context. ² Distinctly anti-American, old-fashioned, and all together wonderful.

These two fashion a space for not just themselves, but for their friends to know and meet one another. Their relationship has integrated the building and support of their community as a core tenet. I went to that wedding and participated in the witnessing of a love that spreads outwards to nurture others and their own relationships with each other. It was a really good wedding.

1. Technically, one was a preparty.
2. I gotta say, it’s a good thing this isn’t a real wedding toast, because otherwise everyone’s eyes would be glazing over by now. You, however, can just click away.

Why is San Francisco ‘Like That’: City Planning Edition

Okay, so, oddly enough, I’ve discovered a lot about San Francisco’s historic city planning while trying to learn more about its maritime history. Only I would try to compile a basic maritime history and end up answering frustrations about SF’s city plan that I’ve had for yearsssss. Like, for example, why is Market Street Like That? Why is Muni’s system Like That? It’s such a BAD IDEA. Why???

Why is Market Street Like That–by which I mean, look at it. Half of SF is laid out on a reasonable north-south grid, that lines up with the Peninsula. Then there’s fucking MARKET and all of SoMa which swerves for no apparent goddamn reason. (Then the rest of the city like Bernal and West Portal which actually respect contours, blah blah blah. We’re not talking about that part.)

_{I think this map is by Hubert Roguski? Don’t quote me on that.}

The reason is One Dude named Jasper O’Farrell—sound familiar? Yes, he’s the O’Farrell that the street is for–and let me tell you, half of my research has just been me going ‘Oh THAT’S who it’s named for’. It’s always One Dude who is the reason for city plans being Like That. Daniel Burnham is the reason Chicago is Like That, Ildefons Cerdà is the reason the Eixample district in Barcelona is Like That (which is actually a very good That), Hausmann is the reason Paris is Like That (debatable if it’s a good That or not), etc. Anyway, O’Farrell was the city surveyor and was tasked to create a city plan in 1849 when it was clear that the city was going to expand because, you know, Gold Rush. San Francisco at this time has been established in a perfectly reasonable north-south grid first by William Richardson in 1835 with his ‘survey’–

and then by Jean-Jacques Vioget in 1839.

Don’t come after me for the diagonal you see there, that’s along the SHORELINE. And it was gone by 1848.

Kind of crazy how little there was in 1848.

Anyway. Then Jasper O’Farrell is asked to expand the city in anticipation of growth. This is what he comes up with.

Uggggggghhhhhhhhhh. I get it, at the time it KIND OF made sense. The little bay where Market Street runs to was the only deep water anchorage close to shore. (Please also note the extension of parcels offshore, which is a whole other thing.) Market Street goes directly to the cove, which makes sense. The larger city blocks are because being the only deep water cove, a bunch of warehouses and working stations would be popping up next to the water, and that needs more land, sure. But now ALL the streets are misaligned with the new section and crossing Market sucks. Market Street was aligned from the cove to the Mission, which, as a historian, I think is a very sweet idea to give precedence to the city’s founding, and it’s running along a road that kind of existed at the time. And as an architect, I think it’s fucking stupid because the Mission was more or less abandoned at this point so no one wanted to go there anyway.

So, that’s why Market Street and Soma are Like That. Thanks, O’Farrell.

As an apocryphal story, apparently when O’Farrell’s plan was published, it was so controversial that a mob formed and there was consideration being given to hunting him down and lynching him. Not because of the angle or anything, but because Market Street was too wide. (Which, to be fair, it was drawn at 120 feet wide, which was ten times wider than any other street in San Francisco. And that meant a serious amount of property would be seized to make the street.) Fearing for his life, O’Farrell jumped on a boat to Sausalito where he hid until the furor died down.

As to why is Muni Like That, that is a different post some other time. I’ve already wasted too much time away from my maritime history summary to write this up.

Before I Go

• I still have never had Franklin’s. I do want some brisket, and not just from Loro. I don’t know that I need to stand in line, though.
• I want to go paddleboarding one last time.
• Swimming in one of the holes! Maybe even a last visit to Krause.
• Dinner with R & M.
• At least two fusion dances.
• A last Sunday at King Bee.
• Sailing on the Elissa, just to see what “maneuvers” they “really put her through”.
• Ren faire, ideally.
• Dinner with T&O.
• Go out to a bar with S.
• Braid E’s hair.
• One last Tuesday night jam at Stay Gold—Long Play East, fine, whatever.
• Shopping at Blue Velvet & Top Drawer Thrift.
• Spend time with my aunt.
• A slice from Little Deli.
• Sort out ATX Fusion.
• Go to a fire spinner party.
• Spend time with S & N.
• Apologize.

That’s interesting, compared to last time I left. There was a lot of angst, disappointment. The frustration in part from having the pandemic stymie my ideas about finishing a long, awful slog. I am surprised a little by how little I need in order to say goodbye. I keep picking up new friendships and acquaintances and romances in Austin as I’m now turning to go, unfortunately giving myself a glimpse of what my next few years would look like here socially. I’m a little sad–it’s a new painting and I like the colors.

This was the year I would

Right now, I’m thinking about what my rabbi would say.

This was the year: This was the year that was supposed to be, for many of us.

Tragedy is not an interruption, my rabbi said once. We treat it as an inconvenience. But it is not—tragedy is as much part of our lives as any happiness, success, boredom. I took these words to heart when I was beaten by a dormmate in college. What happened was part of my unknowable allotment of pain that any life will hold.

There is, most likely, an urge in many of us to dismiss this year; write it off as a loss. Just bury it and move on. I read a poem at the beginning of the pandemic.

my god all the days we have lived thru
saying

not this
one, not this,
not now,
not yet, this week
doesn’t count, was lost, this month
was shit, what a year, it sucked,
it flew, that decade was for
what? i raised my kids, they
grew i lost two pasts–i am
not made of them and they
are through.

we forget what
we remember:

each of the five
the fevered few

days we used to
fall in love.

Olena Kalytiak Davis

So that’s one approach, that people may take to this year—to pan through the muck for any small nuggets of gold of the days of good memories. The smallest nice thing we can find: a minute watching leaves fall, finishing a long-left book, learning embroidery or nail art or weight lifting, a good kiss, a well-done dinner. The extra time we got to spend with our families or in ourselves.

But tragedy, as my rabbi says, is not an interruption. It is part and parcel of our lives and we should welcome it.

Who could welcome this, you will think angrily, bitterly. Who welcomes losing a job, becoming homeless, losing my grandmother and not even getting to say goodbye, learning my favorite composer died, no food in the pantry, watching my marriage fall apart, my kid got tear-gassed, sitting through this election—-

There’s a lot of clichés I could give: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, how do you know what’s good until you experience the bad, etc. They’re all correct, but also stupid. I’m not going to bother with them. I’m not really speaking to you, the reader, anyway. I have no ability to console the world or give solace, especially not through a blog post. The ones who have helped us this year have been the artists and spiritualists and the creators. They’ve made new albums, churned out tv shows, released video games, done an idiotic and poorly advised cover of “Imagine” that at least made us laugh at them, given virtual sermons, recommended readings, written new books. I’m just trying to figure out how to fold this year into my life.

I have had, like everyone else, a bad year. ‘Like everyone else’. My bad year looks different from yours; it’s probably not even as bad as yours.

I still have the urge to turn around and tell the universe thank you. With the extremes of teenagerhood, I was grateful. I knew some day I would calm down. The emotional thread of my life would unspool more smoothly; while that might mean I’m more functional, I would lose the almost daily excitement. No more of the electrifying highs and lows. It has happened—I can’t really remember the last time I was so obsessed with a fandom that I could feel my heart pick up at even the thought of it. The intensity of my emotions is still there in some respect, but it is less easily accessible. In some ways, I miss it. I am probably an easier person to be around, and a better one. I don’t forget that I paid for it, involuntary or not.

This is an old touchstone of mine, that misery is something to treasure. It feels wrong to urge others, who are not sitting in financial security or safe places to try it. So I’m not going to. I am only talking to myself out loud.

Life and being human is a unique, torturous experience. Misery is so much a part of it. It is horrible, and I am very lucky to have it. Not because it could be worse, not because it teaches me something, not because I can ‘find the good’. Just because. It’s part of life. And I would not be a complete, whole person without it. Some day I will not be miserable, and I will think about this year—about the loss. I have lost some this year; others have lost more. We’re not all necessarily ‘going through this together’. But most of us are going through something. What a unique experience, I will think in ten years, to have suffering laid so bare as part of everyone’s lives. When will we next see misery manifested so clearly, and so publicly understood? It has not necessarily inspired sympathy or empathy in all of us. But we’ve perhaps started to understand misfortune is always there. Always. “Rain falls on the just and the unjust.” Tragedy is waiting for you, no matter who you are.

This year, was shit, it sucked, it flew, for what.

For nothing. There’s no lesson to be learned. You can pan for whatever gold dust, if you want. People usually like to–depression can bring great art is a popular one (and one I use myself sometimes). You may have accomplished a lot this year, or maybe you barely managed to scrape by but goddammit, you did, and you’re proud of yourself for finding that strength. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you are at the bottom of whatever pit, and there is no glimmer of a good thing to find. Maybe you deserve it. Maybe this year has revealed that you’re so much weaker than you ever knew.

That’s fine.

One can try to filter out the muck–to pull some kind of ‘good’ from it. For me, that is just another way of separating it from life. That makes us worse in many ways; worse in dealing with sorrow when it comes again, less capable of sympathy. Because sorrow, misery, bad days, bad years will come again. That is a guarantee we can all rely on. It may not come like this—a worldwide pandemic—specifically or precisely, but it will come. There is no avoiding it. Those who do, I’m sorry for. I suspect your life may be easier, but I don’t envy you for it.

That kind of life is incomplete, in my opinion. It is a deficient, shallow existence to only have good times or neutral ones. Avoiding tragedy, trying to ward and protect against it is avoiding one of the most unique, quintessential parts of life. You will miss some of the most essential experiences of life and you will be lesser for it. Do not turn away from misery, do not try to only think of lessons learned. Make a place for it at your table and in your bed and welcome it when it’s there. It will leave eventually.

Misery is going to come again and again and again in my life. So will happiness. I am deeply unhappy right now in a way I can’t really face. Someday soon, I won’t be anymore, and then later I will again, in a slightly different way. Maybe it will be even worse than now, maybe not. That’s just life. You will find out you are weak and easy to hurt. If you’re lucky, you will keep getting hurt.

It is awful.

Say thank you.

when i clean my blog this will be the first to go

I did not expect to be so angry. I don’t think I’m a particularly patient person, and rarely am I even kind. I think I’m judgemental, high-strung (used to hate that phrase), needy—and, apparently, I am also defensive and dismissive. But still, I like to pretend that I’m kind and understanding. This means giving advice nobody actually asked for. It’s kind of annoying? When I notice it happening? That my immediate response to someone telling me about their problems is to act as though I am a qualified, sensitive professional who understands and knows how to approach the problem. Instead of just listening and saying ‘gosh that sucks’.

I think we can tell that I am extremely impatient and agitated with myself right now, no?

But yes, break-ups. I did not expect to be angry. We love each other, it was mostly mutual, it was planned and known well in advance, it’s been two months. I’m so angry with everyone. All the time. Even when I think I’m doing better, it’s just bubbling under the surface. I can’t listen to other people’s problems, if someone does something I think is wrong, I snap on them. I screamed at people three times over Thanksgiving weekend. When I was younger, I mean much younger, I used to have very bad anger issues. I would hit myself in anger, I would scream a LOT, and throw things, I would stand in spots and refuse to look or speak or move for what felt like a very, very long time. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m not her, that poor kid who was (is) so very loved and so incapable of dealing with her feelings that she wanted to just scream until her voice gave out and rupture everyone’s ear drums. I wanted them to leave me alone or hug me in spite of it or just hurt as much as I was hurting, for no good reason. When I was younger, I always thought the only superhero I could really be allowed to identify with was Black Canary, because all I was good at was screaming.

I am surprisingly bad at dealing with my own anger, even after near ten years of therapy. I am impatient, defensive, dismissive, snobbish, hurtful. That’s easy. But when I am actually mad—when I am angry because someone hurt me. I leave. That’s it. I was angry at some friends a couple of years ago for a while, and I kept talking about how I felt so childish to my therapist. That it was so immature of me to avoid them and snub them and be vaguely cold without telling them why I was upset. And she kept telling me, it was okay to be angry and to do all those things. I was upset at them, I was mad at them, it was okay to let them feel my anger.

I’m having a small epiphany now, it’s not a big one, but it’s important. The only people I could ever be angry at safely was my family. They were, bless them and I’m sorry, the only ones I would scream at. The only ones I still do scream at. Except, now, apparently, for my ex, who has been folded so deeply into my heart that I can treat him like I do family. So the tiny epiphany is that of course I’m scared of my anger, because the only way I know how to express it erases me. The borders of what I know to be reasonable are gone. The word ‘subsumed’ comes to mind. All I know how to do is scream at the people I love, because they are the only ones who will let me try to destroy them over and over and never leave me. I can’t even do that to my best friend. I love her, but she’s made it clear she won’t take that kind of anger. So I leave instead. I withdraw and snub, and am a bitch and have the angry out-loud conversations in my empty apartment where I say all the nasty things I wish I could hurt them with.

God. My poor sister. She’s probably reading this. I don’t lose my temper with anyone the way I do with her. She and my parents (and now my ex) are the only ones whom I have actually said all those horrible things to. They’re the only ones safe enough.

It’s very unsettling and upsetting that in a few weeks, I will have to say goodbye to Austin without getting to say goodbye; that I will slink out the backdoor, one degree heavier, and not see these people again for a long, long time. (Saying ‘if ever’ is melodramatic.) This is how ends: not with a bang, but with a whimper, and not even according to schedule. I was very certain of what I was going to do for the next year, post graduation. It’s all up in the air now. This is one of the tinier casualties of plague–plans and confidence. For once in my sorry brain, I knew what I wanted. I’ve conducted my life—if I’ve ever done something as active as ‘conduct’ it, which is unlikely–with more insecurity than a life so full of privilege and charm should merit. I am swimming in the golden pool of the luck of my birth, and I am some sorry idiot who continues to doggy paddle through it despite all opportunities to get good at freestyling. This metaphor has…swum away from me.

I have the opportunity or misfortune to graduate into an economic recession worse than what I barely understood in 2008. I thought I had gotten lucky, after all—I graduated high school in 2012, undergrad in 2016, grad in 2020. The only thing supposed to stand in my way of getting a job this time was my own incompetence at the thing I’d decided was a decent enough pursuit to invest four years of my life, despite being not very good at it.

I don’t know what I’m doing right now, except kvetching and being upset in public. I’m so unhappy that I will leave Austin and not get to say goodbye. I’ve talked about how to say goodbye to a city before, with a lyricality that did it justice. I don’t have anything to say to Austin itself, this low little Texas town with its pretty oak trees and porch bars. It is a nice place. I wanted to get to know it better. That’s what I had intended. I learned intimately, over the past four years, how to try at something without giving it my all and get no sleep anyway.

I learned Goldsmith Hall. It has 14 ft tall ceilings in the studios on the third floor. From the second floor landing to the ceiling in the stair well, it’s 20 feet. The Goldsmith Courtyard is the best place in the entire campus for photos, according to everyone not in UTSOA—and we hate everyone who thinks so. The courtyard is probably close to 95 feet long. The magnolia trees bloom in February. The fourth floor girls’ bathroom has a ladder to the service space above the ceiling, and it’s great for stretching out your shoulders or doing leg lifts. If you cry in the bathroom, people will ignore you, which is nice of them. The corridor in front of the landscape and interior studios is the best place for phone calls.  Cisco is probably in his office at any given time, even right now. There’s nowhere good to sleep in the entire building, and that is on purpose, but there IS a shower in the basement of West Mall.

I’m leaving the people of Austin. Unless things change come June, I won’t get to hug them goodbye. As far as graduation was concerned, I didn’t much care about walking. What I wanted instead was to have a dinner and have everyone who has helped me through the nightmare of the past four years sit down at a long table and eat food I (and my mother) made to say thank you. This degree was a mistake and a bad choice, and I don’t know what I’ll say in twenty years, but I have suspected I will still say the same then. But all the people who were kind to me and helped me through this utter nightmare in Austin, I wanted to thank them. They were kind to me when I had no capacity to be good back. They supported with no guarantee I could do the same for them. I wanted to stay and repay it all. And now I don’t know I’ll ever get to.  This fantasy dinner I had, this actual celebration of me finishing one of the worst periods of my life (so far), I wanted to stand under the trees with a glass of wine and make a long, long, long, dull toast, with a thank you to every single person– to those who had let me come over at hours normal people would be asleep when I just needed socialization, to people who had repeatedly invited me out to things with no guarantee I’d ever show up because they knew I needed the opportunity, to people who had helped me build my models, to people who fed me, to people who coddled me, to people who picked up the slack of my life, to everyone who took the time to be good to me when I have been consistently at my lowest, most useless, and most unhappy in the past four years. In three weeks, I graduate, and in two months, I leave. I was going to stay. I was going to try to repay every scrap of kindness I had received.

why do i have to make everything about feminism anyway, GOD

The topic of sous vide came up.

My father, being a rocket scientist and extremely curious man, is excited about this new (to him/us) application of thermodynamics. He’s obsessed with using his scientific background to innovate things, particularly where cooking is concerned. He designed an insulation system for our local coffee roaster’s machine because he could. He is also super, super into the idea of using frozen CO2 to make croissants fluffier and better without the laborious process of lamination, despite my sister and I straight up begging him to put it to rest. ¹  So sous vide is right up his alley.

What do I think of sous vide, my father asked me. And I was immediately dismissive–I don’t care about it. Why not, my father asked. Because I neither have the time, the money, or the interest—I am a poor, overworked grad student. But also because there are many, many things I am not good at when it comes to cooking, and I’m far more interested in mastering those skills instead. That’s it, that’s why I’m so uninterested in sous vide–because there’s many other things to learn to be a good cook, and sous vide is not one of them.

But as is typical when my father asks me to explain why I’m actively uninterested in something, I realized I am actually masking a massively sneering attitude about it in the politeness of disinterest. I do judge people who lAHHHHHHHVE sous vide.

Traditionally, I was an asshole about people who can’t or won’t cook. I’m not so much anymore–I recognize it takes time and effort and patience and not everyone is able or willing to do all of that for some food. ² So with a minute of reflection, I can put aside my knee-jerk judgement about those who are interested in sous vide’s perfection–what does it matter how they’re cooking, as long as they’re eating something that’s unprocessed, that they’ve made themselves, that is (hopefully) healthy? Best to stop being a snob about it and just be glad people are eating well.

But, I clarified with my father, I wouldn’t call those people good cooks unless they know how to do the thing without a sous vide. Like poaching eggs or braising meat or whatever. My mother nodded in agreement. Which is again part of why I don’t care about it–both my mother and I agreed that sous vide is a shortcut when it comes to skill. And again, there’s no need to be judgmental about shortcuts for people whom would otherwise eat poorly. But, I ruminated, my friend who introduced the sous vide concept to my father that morning uses sous vide to create poached eggs at scale. My father asked for clarification; she meant that she could have 10 or more people over for brunch and instead of dealing with the annoyance and time delay of normal poached eggs, she could have a bunch on hand that could be plated near simultaneously. Which meant she could create more complicated dishes elsewhere. That kind of use of sous vide, I felt no imp crawl out of me to be nasty and judgmental.

There was something, some nagging annoyance that had to do with the fact that it is so often men, and men interested in tech, who are in love with sous vide. ³ There is an unpinned frustration that I get when the men in my life (excluding my father, for various reasons) become fixated on some new piece of technology that will allegedly change how we _____. Why does ‘sous vide’ feel like a feminist annoyance? What about this annoys me as a woman? ⁴

Kitchen gadgets are supposed to be a labor-saving device, historically (by which I mean within the 20th century) meant for women, because women were the domestic caretakers of the 20th century. Sous vide is probably not meant to be ‘labor-saving’ the same way an instantpot or a slow-cooker is. You have to, like, vacuum seal shit before you can toss it in to the water, and it doesn’t do complete meals. I know I’m also going to get people yelling at me that the point is two different things, which is also fair. Sous vide is meant to create a consistent internal temperature across an entire item, and instantpots/slowcookers/etc are to….slow cook things. Okay.

But why, WHY am I annoyed? Because, as I thought about it, it’s men (or women) cooing over a device that is a shortcut to labor/skill—not a bad thing. But they’re cooing over a device that does work that they would otherwise ignore. Delegate. Avoid.

I thought about a comment I had read somewhere in the internet that a person (female) was getting frustrated over Thanksgiving because of how the male members of her family handled the labor associated with the meal. They offered to do the turkey—because they wanted to deep-fry it. And that’s all they were interested in. That’s where the penny dropped.

My frustration is that over the past twenty years or longer (about fifteen of me noticing it, I guess), it feels like men have been interested in the toys that have popped up around domestic labor. The commenter complaining about Thanksgiving prep because she was frustrated that the only part of the labor the men were interested in was the fun part. She and other women had to be inside, prepping all the side dishes that go with it, because the men did not offer and were entirely uninterested in the unglamorous work of traditional, boring-ass chopping and stirring and whatever. My frustration is over the general trend of men (and women) fetishizing the technology that saves labor while not bothering to engage with or appreciate the labor. It feels like people are excited about sous vide because of the technology and the results. It feels like there is no interest, a lot of times, for these people to learn cooking in general.⁵

The people (the men?) who are super into sous vide or deep frying or grilling aren’t typically interested in the boring domestic drudgery that is part and parcel of being a good cook. The boring shit like: assembling grocery lists, making sure there’s enough nutrients, accommodating different tastes, finding recipes, grocery shopping, washing produce, prepping it, sauteeing shit, standing over a pot of risotto for like an hour and a half and not being allowed to leave, setting a table, washing the dishes, storing leftovers. They want to play with their toys. And it feels like a disservice, like a dismissal of the labor that surrounds cooking that has nothing to do with cool gadgets. I don’t ask why are we trying to save labor, because that’s obvious. But I do ask why are we dismissing the value of the labor we save?  It’s just—you want to play with your toys, I get it.⁶ It’s just this frustration that there’s no interest in something that’s traditionally considered ‘women’s work’ until a sparkly new technology comes to ‘fix’ it. It’s excitement about the dismissal of labor that someone thought less of in the first place. Which is a little bit frustrating. ⁷

Anyway, my dad is probably going to get a sous vide.

---

^{1. My sister and I worked briefly at a local bakery, where we noted the process of making croissants. The patissieres would put a layer of dough, then a thin slab of butter to cover the whole thing, then another layer dough on top, and run it through a roller, flattening it. This process, repeated over and over, creates puff pastry or croissants or whatever. The layers of butter between the dough create an extremely airy and flaky pastry. My father is fixated on replacing the labor of lamination with chunks of frozen CO2 which would evaporate into nothing when heated in the oven, but still create air pockets. ↩}

^{2. It doesn’t help I grew up in a household that sneered at people who ate fast food; my mother would say, outraged, ‘Why don’t they get a chicken breast at the store and cook it? It’s not that difficult! It’s much healthier!’ And now I can pin her with a gimlet eye and tell her that when you are exhausted from working two jobs and supporting children and the general difficulty of poverty, it can feel incredibly draining to have to go home and make yourself the very basic level of nutrients, when you could pay five dollars and have a delicious, hot meal made for you. I’ve obviously gotten better at empathy, so I can certainly imagine that kind of situation, as Anne of Green Gables might say. But I’ve also been that exhausted very often over the past four years, where I want, more than anything something good to eat that I haven’t the energy to make. And to my mother’s credit, she’s gotten more understanding as well. ↩}

^{3. Clearly, I have to specify here that this is a) my perception and b) possibly untrue. I am friends with a LOT of people in the tech industry, and it stands to reason that most of my male friends are either involved with or idolize the industry. ↩}

^{4. It’s also worth asking, does this actually have anything to do with women at all. Why does everything have to be a feminist issue, I hear the tired populace cry, and sometimes I’m groaning with them. But I also tend to follow my instinct first and use logic second, so give me the benefit of a doubt while I figure it out. ↩}

^{5. I have to type a very important disclaimer here. I have a lot of male friends who love to cook and are good at it. Some of them are also interested in sous vide. Some of them OWN a sous vide. And they are still good cooks (from what I’ve had). I also know plenty of women who do NOT cook. The sous vide/gadget interest that I have noticed has happened to come from men, both online and in person. I am talking about cooking in a specific historical context, which is domestic, and therefore traditionally viewed as under the purview of women. My boyfriend is a professional cook, with a degree from culinary school. I KNOW MEN COOK. ↩}

^{6. Because I do too. I don’t want to sous vide, but fuck yeah I want to drop a giant turkey into a vat of boiling oil and see what happens. Because I have many, many lovely friends, men and women, who love to cook, chances are I may get to do that while they do the prep work. ↩}

^{7. To add a few things: this is not really such a HUGE DEAL. It is, at most, a trend I have noticed, that I have noticed irritates me, that I have not really examined as to why it irritates me, and why it feels gendered. I’m only a poor architecture student, not a women’s studies grad, so my reasoning here isn’t based on academic literature. This is not meant to be a haranguing of men, or of men or women who like gadgets. But it is asking if perhaps we can be less disingenuous about our interest and try to be better about valuing the work we think of as drudgery. Myself included! ↩}

Ariella’s List for Austin

I have lived here for two years now, but all of that has been in architecture school. When people ask me, “So, do you like Austin?” the answer is “Yes, I think” but when they say, “Hey, I’m going to come visit you the weekend before a review and I understand you’re busy so I’ll just entertain myself, also what can you do in Austin?”, I draw big, panicky blanks. No more, please and thank you.

This list is also notably free of food, drinks, and nightlife. That is on purpose.

 

Not Weather Dependent:

The Blanton

A modern art museum on UT campus. A lot of places recommend this. I still haven’t gone. I’ve heard it’s good, though.

The Bullock

History of Texas museum. Also haven’t gone. According to my mother, a museum snob, an A+ museum and worth a lot of time.

A movie at the Alamo Drafthouse or Violet Crown

The originators of the dine-in movie experience currently sweeping the nation. A great time. Check their schedules especially for cult classics or weird films you wouldn’t normally find in theaters.

Charles Moore House

Yes, this is definitely an architecture kid thing, but even the average person should check it out. It’s the house of famous architect Charles Moore and it’s really weird and cool, and furthermore, he left all of his weird af art/curio collection and it’s displayed in the house on every flat surface.

Pinballz Arcade

I was taken here on a date once and even if he never called me back, it was a great date—because of the arcade.  They have tons and tons of games and I could easily lose two hours (and twenty bucks of quarters) here.

Emerald Tavern

My favorite local gaming center, with a large game library, Adventurer’s League nights, and most importantly: sells wine, beer, mead, and snacks.

Half-Price Books

If you love to read (and if you don’t, I’m not sure why you’d read this blog), Half-Price is probably the best secondhand book store in Austin. Its got a massive collection and multiple locations! Though I love the one on North Lamar best.

Central Library

As much as we enjoyed critiquing and nitpicking this building, it’s actually pretty cool—on the inside. Ignore the rip-off De Young Museum exterior and head to the interior for a nice place to kill an afternoon. My favorite spots are probably the rooftop garden and the third floor porches.

Chess at Epoch Coffee

On Sundays at 2 pm, you can play a weird variant of four-person chess. The two guys who run it have been doing it for years. They have a special board and everything. Epoch also has pretty decent coffee, and is 24/7. And while you’re there, you can also check out…

Thrifting in North Austin

Austin has a lot of thrift and vintage stores, and there’s a nice cluster of them in North Austin. One group is on North Loop and has the very good, very affordable Blue Velvet which happens to be next to Epoch Coffee. Further up the street is Room Service Vintage which is mostly furniture. There are a few other stores on that block worth checking out including the ridiculously expensive consignment designer store Big Bertha’s Paradise with things straight out of Phryne Fisher’s closet. Also, if you find yourself wanting a drink along the way, The Tigress has excellent cocktails. If you’re looking for other places to thrift, Burnet Road has a nice collection of spots: Pets Alive! benefits the Austin Humane Society and has a good collection of clothes, as well as an upstairs grab-bag room; Top Drawer is my favorite furniture/curio place because everything is curated and not horribly expensive; AL Thrift benefits education for school kids, though their collection is iffy; and Next to New has expensive furniture but fun to look at. Our Goodwills, Savers, and Thrift Towns are also great, but those are more standard fare.

 

Weather Dependent

Most of Austin’s charm (that I have experienced) is available when it’s nice out.

The Greenbelt

Every dang “What to Do in Austin” article will mention the Greenbelt, and you know what? They are absolutely correct. It is a delight of nature that there is FRESH-WATER SWIMMING right in the middle of Austin. I have never had this. It is great. This article covers all the best places and access points. Also, Greenbelt has excellent hikes. This one covers all the access points for that.

UT Campus

I might have to drag myself to school every day, but it’s a nice view along the way. UT campus is seriously gorgeous with live oak trees and limestone buildings. It was designed by architect Paul Cret in 1933, a French architect born in my favorite French city, Lyon. Cret was trained at the Beaux-Arts in Paris (yes, that Beaux-Arts) and it shows. The campus is beautiful to wander around. Pop your head into the Harry Ransom Center while you’re there for some cool exhibits, probably curated by my professors. Check out the Goldsmith Courtyard where everyone who isn’t an architecture student invades every spring for their goddamn senior portraits, disturbing our one spot of peace—it is one of the prettiest courtyards on campus. (Shame we’re too busy to enjoy it.) Also check out the reading room in the Architecture Library at Battle Hall; it looks like it’s from Harry Potter. Pop your head into the lobby of the Energy Engineering Building and count how many different forms of mechanical engineering are on display as part of the architecture. (It was designed by, you guessed it, one of my professors.) And of course, the UT Tower; though it will cost you $5 to go up to the top.  Say hi to Barbara Jordan too, if you find her statue–she was the first black woman to be elected to the House of Representatives.

Ladybird Lake

Yeah, I know it looks like a river. The path running alongside it is a lovely walk, and one I strongly recommend; take the Pfluger Bridge to cross it and you might run into a practicing band. It runs right through Austin’s center so along the way you can venture ‘off-trail’ to look at Austin’s weird City Hall, the Library, or Rainey Street. You can also hire a kayak or go paddleboarding on the lake, which is an excellent time. You can’t swim–it’s illegal.

Barton Springs

Why pay for swimming when you can go for free? Because Barton Springs is gorgeous and goddamn delight. It’s a public pool that kept the river bottom, the natural grassy hills, and the rest of the river (through the fence). They added changing rooms, diving boards, and a nice concrete ledge. It’s really lovely.

The Bats at Congress Bridge

This is another one of those things on every list, and it’s fair. Go to the bridge at sunset and see the largest urban bat colony start their day.

Seaholm Plaza

I’ve written about it already. It’s a great place to people and dog watch.

Mayfield Park & Laguna Gloria

These places are right next to each other; some people know about Laguna Gloria but no one will tell you about Mayfield Park. These are two really nice ‘stroll’ spots, not so much hikes. Laguna Gloria is a park/historic home/art school and walking around the grounds, you will probably walk past some varying quality art sculptures. Some are really cool, and others you could do without, but it’s a pleasant place to walk, and sticking your head in the art school is always interesting. On the other hand, Mayfield Park is a delight because there’s a little more in terms of trails—though again, strolling, not hiking. More importantly, there are peacocks. Go to Mayfield House. Get me (and yourself) some peacock feathers. They drop them everywhere.

Zilker Park

I have not spent that much time here, but I drive past longingly on Sunday afternoons and look at everyone lounging or playing frisbee. They also have one of the best spots to look at Austin downtown, especially at night.

Graffiti Park

If it still exists—allegedly has been bought and is on its way to demolition. The remains of whatever was here is now covered in (good) graffiti. Check it out.

 

Things Everyone Recommends That I Don’t

The Domain

Look, it’s a giant, gentrified shopping center. One of my assignments for my public space class was to critique the Domain. It was not even a little hard. The place is as bland and Austin-free as you can get. Skip it.

South Congress

Everyone also recommends SoCo, which—why?? It’s another crowded part of Austin that has been almost gentrified beyond recognition. I described it in my public space class as ‘a low-quality San Francisco imitation’. Skip it and go wander around North Loop, Burnet, or East Austin instead. The lines for brunch will be shorter, the drinks less pricey, and the shops more interesting.

Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center

It’s not bad, it’s just after the Phoenix Botanical Gardens, nothing will ever compare, you know? Sure, it’s a nice garden, but I wouldn’t put it on the top of my list for Austin’s nature.