CHAZ HUTTON.

Dusting off the old chazhuttonsfsm for this one.

I’ve written about Kowloon city before, and before that. But now Arch Daily have posted up a beautifully detailed infographic 3D section by the South China Morning Post to mark the 20th anniversary of its demolition, which is worth checking out in its entirety. 

Hey folks, I’ve been slack on posting, but that’s only because there’s some other things in the works. This little guy is one of them. 

He’s now got his own blog over here, which I’d love for you to go check out, follow and if you’re so inclined, reblog. - and unlike this blog, it’ll be updated daily! - Cheers. 

Chaz.

Right now I’m trying to stay cool in an uninhabited (although thankfully air-conditioned) family apartment. It’s nice little place, five stories up, with a view looking over the park. Used infrequently by my out-of-town extended family, it’s mercifully empty during what feels like one of the hottest nights of the year.

It’s been warm all week. Our little share-house terrace did a good job of keeping out the heat for a couple of days, but after five days over 31°C the heat has finally crept in and now the same thermodynamic attributes that initially kept the heat out, are studiously keeping it in. So I left. Grabbed a bag, threw some stuff in, jumped on my bike and rode across the city to the well kept, conservative end of town like some refugee from the edgy hipster neighbourhood who’s just decided he’s not edgy enough for another sleepless night drenched in sweat.

Now, standing on the balcony, looking over the park at 12:45am, it’s actually quite nice. The traffic died down a while ago, leaving nothing but the occasional taxi shooting past, its tyres against the road strangely audible well before its engine, contrasting against the collective drone of a far busier road out of sight on the other side of the block.

It’s still very warm, but there’s a slight breeze which is taking the thickness out of the heat. It’s the kind of soft, consistent breeze that makes everyone’s hair look cinematically excellent. I’m just wearing shorts, with no shirt or socks, which is perfect. Once I go back inside I’m just going to sleep like that on a bed with no sheets. It’s weird sleeping like that. There’s no physical reference for the body to grab onto, and so I’ll tend to sleep on my side with my hand sandwiched between my knees, creating my own little tensile arrangement of limbs that for some reason I find comforting.

But before I do that I want to get my fill of moody balcony staring. I quite like standing up here semi-dressed while watching the unsuspecting scene below. There’s a shitty nightclub around the corner which provides no end of entertainment in the form of teetering high-heeled shrieks of drama stumbling down the wide empty road in the early hours of the morning. The same early hours that I like to stand up here, like I’m the fucking Batman, silently surveying the city with a vague sense of ownership and entitlement that I really don’t deserve. 

The sound of a cycling crash turns my stomach. The snapping of metal, the thud of meat slamming into bitumen, or the crunch of carbon coming apart, and often a tearing noise somewhere in there, possibly tyres, but most likely lycra, followed by flesh.

This audible representation of another person’s pain often triggers a sympathetic, sharp intake of breath from other cyclists, all too familiar with how those sounds feel. Because if crashing is anything, it’s memorable.

The speed is always surprising, or rather, the quick absence of it. It’s incredible how quickly a human body can go from traveling at 50kph, to laying stationary and bloody in a gutter, only a couple of meters from where the touch of wheels, or that stray rock, or that unseen pothole began the unstoppable process that culminated in that orchestra of destruction. If it weren’t for the pain of hitting the road, one must surely feel a good amount of G-forces as their body decelerates into that gutter, revealing it’s venerability by having it’s skin torn off, or it’s collar bones broken, or it’s teeth knocked out, or all of the above.

Like all moments of fast-paced, adrenalin producing panic, time slows down, or the mind speeds up, and the staggeringly quick mental calculations that pour through it have already discovered what the next 1.5 seconds have in store. From there, it’s simply a case of minimizing the potential damage. Whole conversations with a friend telling you to hold onto the bars all the way down, because breaking collar bones is preferable to wrists are replayed in your mind, suddenly you realise you’ve clipped out, which always happens more easily than you’d think, and then comes the impact, at which point time resumes it’s normal, comparatively fast pace while you mentally file through all those hideous sounds that each carry a yet to be discovered price tag of money or pain. And then, silence.

There’s a moment here, laying in the gutter, where everything is okay. The pain of your injuries are yet to register, yet the realization that you’re alive has. It’s beautiful: You saw time slow down, you fought your bike, you panicked, your mind did amazing things and now it’s over. A 1.5 second rush that felt like an eternity and it’s over, and you survived, and provided you don’t check, you’re essentially uninjured, and so your adrenalin affected logic tells you to relax.

Except you can’t. Because you’re on a road, and you’re acutely aware that there’s a Commodore you passed a few blocks back that should be following you around that blind corner any second. So you jump up, you grab your bike, and using it almost as a walking frame, you sidle over to the medium strip and dump it on the grass as the guy in the Commodore rolls past, slightly surprised, but predictably unconcerned.

And it’s while watching him drive into the distance that the pain begins. There’s a stinging down your leg, where you’ve grazed off a good swathe of skin and you notice that the tailwind that had originally propelled you to that speed now feels a lot colder and meaner without that delicate layer of protection.

Appreciation for the body’s largest organ aside, you’re also now aware that you can’t move your arm much, and during some investigating, move it in such a way that sends a bolt of pain straight through your body and weirdly into your guts. You drop to the ground, and the only comfortable position seems to be to hold your elbow close to your ribs, and push it slightly up. And then, countless images of pro-cyclists holding the same involuntary position come to mind and confirm to you that yes, your collar bone is probably busted.

Wrists seem okay though, you happily think to yourself.

Friends double back, or strangers assist, there’s the amateur medical and then mechanical speculations, the obligatory inspection of your reassuringly destroyed helmet, someone organizes a lift, and as you head to hospital you realise far too late that half your arse has been on show the whole time.

And then a few weeks later, in a sling and now with a bit of gut that those free Sunday mornings have brought on, you find yourself watching a crit-race, or some track racing, and a right in front of you a touch of wheels brings about that same cacophony of someone else’s pain, and as you sharply suck in that concerned, involuntary breath through clenched teeth, you realise you can actually feel it.

I’m sure there’s a psychological term for it, but I’m currently feeling what could be (clumsily) described as an inside-out version of ‘Stockholm syndrome’ feeling towards New York at the moment. A few months ago, my understanding of New York was a rough estimate of where the five boroughs lay, the fact there was a massive rectangular park in the middle of one of them, there was some impressive large bridges and that quite a few buildings I was very familiar with resided somewhere amongst it all. 

Having finally been there, my understanding of the place is now exponentially better, although, true to an exponential curve - my understanding is still probably miniscule when compared to that of a local, or even a year-long resident (and, for the record: whatever constitutes an NYC local is a question for a whole new post)

So I’m now armed with a relatively intimate understanding of certain streets, and what’s on them, and who’s walking down them, and where they lead, and where they are in relation to each other (which above 14th, isn’t really that impressive a feat). A basic knowledge, sure, but one that I’ve discovered is immensely powerful when I come across literate or a film that mentions specific NYC locations. Previously, to me it was just ‘somewhere in New York’ and now when I read those locations, I know exactly where, and what kind of neighborhood that is (or was, pre-gentrification) and that knowledge adds a whole extra layer to whatever story I’m reading. And it’s not just reading, I now look at the Satorialist, not out of habit, but because I’m wondering where on 16th st that blurry background behind that seemingly-oblivious-but-totally-aware person is.

Yet, it’s the post-Sandy images of New York (not that you need a link) that have been appearing over the last few days that have made this giddy game of ‘I’ve-been-there!’ feel less like an adult game of Where’s Wally and more like I’m identifying bodies in a morgue. (I know that’s not the most sensitive metaphor given the death toll, but it’s true)  

There’s streets that I walked down, now waist deep in water. The unstopping subway, which I caught everywhere, is no longer running. The cafe I drank copious amounts of average coffee at is out of power, and the excellent barista I chatted to there is presumably missing a shift or two. And what about that cool little water-side shack I took a photo of when I rode through Red Hook? I have no idea…

 And suddenly, I can’t disagree more with anyone who looks at the paper and says something like ‘Wouldn’t want to be in New York right now’.

The overwhelming feeling is that the small snapshot I got of the city, the one that I can refer to at any mention of the place, has just changed. I always knew that was going to happen, I just didn’t know it would change so quickly and violently. And now, I’ve got what I’m describing as ‘inside-out Stockholm Syndrome’ - where the spectators outside the hostage drama wish they were the hostages.

Every underground system seems to have the same smell. A warm blanket consisting of a mix of dust and grease and something vaguely metallic, a smell that you assume must be at least slightly carcinogenic, but then if it was, people wouldn’t go down there right? At least that’s what you think as you get caught up in the silently unimpressed and determined throng hastily descending into the metallic haze.

Due to some fairly poor travel planning, I managed to ride on the Paris Metro, The London Underground and New York’s Subway all within 48 hours of each other, and while each of those systems has vastly different attributes (and multiple lines with differing personalities) that same dusty, greasy, metallic funk permeates each one.

Train after train, sometimes barely a minute apart, day after day, year after year. Endless metal on metal, the weirdly harmonious electric wine as the train rolls to a stop, that pregnant pause before the doors sling open in an audio hail of warning beeps. Those things are also in every city, but unlike that smell, they’re all unique to the city above them.

Other differences include the pre-recorded announcements. London’s authoritative, yet calm and collected female voice wrapping her annunciation around ‘The Bakerloo Line’ contrasted with New York’s comparatively enthusiastic male voice, with its strange mish-mash of American accents that results in an awkward hybrid reminiscent of a time and place from another era that possibly never existed. His gleeful and slightly grandiose warning to, “stand clear of the closing doors, please!” almost sounds as if a part of him is hoping someone gets stuck, and certainly deserves that exclamation mark when written.

But it’s not just him under New York: It’s up to a female voice to inform passengers of upcoming stops. Together they’re like a couple, parents even, guiding you through New York’s sprawling subway, Dad sternly informing you to look out for suspicious packages, while Mum tells you that you’re now arriving at Union Square.

And then there are the maps: London’s iconic, rational grid of coloured lines that bear no resemblance to the actual distances involved, resulting in tourists catching three different trains, only to arrive four blocks away in real distance, subsequently making the movement of locals appear as if they’re bending time and space by comparison.

Meanwhile, New York’s grid, arguably iconic as London’s tube map, provides the means of navigation, this, coupled with the fact that subway lines are named by individual letters and numbers, makes a set of written directions look more like a complex algebraic equation. When the list of connecting lines at upcoming stations are announced, it sounds more like an episode of play school, where today, we’ll be learning the letters M… L… N… Q… and… R.

I could go on, the seating for example: The now ubiquitous and profoundly utilitarian wooden bench seats in New York, versus the sparsely placed, minimalistic seating of the Paris metro, versus London’s complete lack of seating, all in a way, give a glimpse into the personality of their respective cities sprawled out above them.

And it’s the ultimate source of that personality that makes for the most interesting aspect of underground systems. Marveling at the unspoken movement of masses of people, all knowing exactly when and where to stand, when to walk and which way to go, makes pausing to check a map feel as if you’re the literal spanner in the works, screwing up the seamless, choreographed flow of commuters as they push sideways past you, expressing their disdain for tourists with well timed groans and scoffs.

Their practiced movement through the system essentially casts them as human parts to a massive transit machine. What’s interesting is that those human parts sometimes start taking on decidedly non-human forms, like the way the last few commuters who cram into the door of London’s Northern Line during peak hour, expertly (and probably subconsciously) mould their bodies into a shape that perfectly mimics the profile of the bent doors wrapping over the carriage, so that they can slide closed unobstructed.

Somewhere along the way I’d overheard that the conditions in the London Tube were below the minimum requirements for the transport of livestock. I have nothing to back that claim up, but after traveling the Northern Line during peak hour on a particularly humid summer day, with a mass of half conscious robots playing human Tetris, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were true.

The only way to really survive that particular train is to get yourself to the small open window at the end of the carriage, and stand close enough to get the slight rush of air coming through it, and it’s there that you’ll get that smell. That identical smell that’s in every city, born of electrical circuits and metal sparks and years of dust, blasted relentlessly through the tunnels with each passing train, where it then lingers around each station, welcoming the robotic, collectively automated crowd of commuters, train after train, day in, day out.

So I finally emptied out the bottom of my bag, some 3 or 4 weeks after returning (turns out this blog isn’t the only thing being neglected) and suddenly realised that I actually saw quite a lot of stuff while I was away, and predictably, held on to just about everything that I picked up along the way.

You know that guy at a drinks party who just doesn’t shut up? On and on goes their inane story, while people feigning interest around them begin to stop listening as they try and formulate the best way to smoothly pretend to catch someones eye across the room and proclaim “oh is that Nic? I’ve gotta say hi to them, so sorry”

Meanwhile the remainder of the group sink into deep despair as they realise that that avenue of escape has now been played out, and they’re now stuck for another rendition of the same story they heard last time, while they all subtly eye each other off, wondering who’ll be the next to cut and run.

The story teller, on the other hand is aware he’s losing his audience, and so his natural reaction is to make the story more interesting, change tact, but most importantly, keep talking.

I’ve often felt like that guy over the last three years in regards to this blog. Post after daily post, constant, relentless frequency, all because in my irrational mind, if I slowed down or stopped, people would disappear.

But lately, I have stopped. You may have noticed this, but as I now suspect, you probably haven’t. What’s even more strange is that I feel completely fine about it. Three weeks without a post passed by before I even realised, and when it did, it felt good. Maybe it’s just the extra vitamin D I’m presumably receiving, or the extra time that I’m presumably making use of.

This isn’t a goodbye however. It’s half of one. I’m planning on continuing to post stuff, but the daily stuff that involves an hour or two per day of trawling through endless design blogs that half of you have checked already is certainly coming to a close.

Call it an attempt at quality over quantity, or an effort to be a bit more original, but really, it’s more about removing the metaphorical Russian goat from my balcony, which is an analogy for another post… Whenever that may be.

I’m back. The photo above is the last shot I took of New York. As for the absence of posts….

James Kent, someone who I admire for no immediately identifiable reason, made this comment to me: “A picture of an egg, a slab of cracked concrete and muddy stream. Frankly, your travel blog leaves something to be desired.”

Even though I was aware that I’ve sent my fair share of unwanted blogs critiques his way, this still cut deep. Largely because I’m well aware that he’s right. Three posts containing whimsical musings over 3 weeks doesn’t exactly make for the most enthralling ‘travel blog’.

Here’s the thing though, I had 3 weeks to do as much stuff as possible, and it quickly dawned on me that I didn’t want to spend that time writing stuff down. In the end, Instagram became my friend, and the whole ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’ certainly made a lot of sense over the last few weeks.

Now that I’m back, I feel I’ve finally got some time to digest everything, and so in a way, if I’m going to do a travel blog, then perhaps now is the best time.

Then again, there’s stuff that happened over there that I don’t actually want to write about, (and I’m not talking about my visit to the box). A chronological account of the trip needs to involve its central characters, because really, as in life in general, travel becomes about the people you run into along the way. Thing is, I’ve never really written about other people on this blog, let alone myself and I kinda want to keep it that way.

So fuck it Mr. Kent, I’m going to write stuff, but it’ll continue to be ruminations and observations, that won’t have much direction or much point, and probably won’t amount to too many more posts, because the other thing I don’t want to be is that guy who goes to New York and then doesn’t shut up about it - Everyone knows that guy’s the worst. 

Also james, that’s not concrete, it’s cork and it’s not cracked, it’s just badly lined up. Jeez.

Okay, updates. I’m not usually one to take photos of food, but this is one of the best things I’ve eaten. ‘Pigs liver and egg’ at St Johns in London - go there if you can, that’s a demand.

This was also literally part of the last meal I had in London, as the next morning breakfast and lunch got put aside when I discovered my flight was leaving two hours before I thought. 28 years old and still screwing up 24 hour time WTF?.

Good news is I made it, and I’m now writing this in a stinking hot New York apartment. Which also means I’ve done Paris, London and NY in 48 hours, which seems like the kind of behavior befitting someone with a far more glamorous lifestyle, or if the intense questioning from customs is anything to go by, possibly a far more sinister one.

Been a while between posts, got plenty to say but no time to write it (that’s a good thing, right?) - anyway, made it to Paris. here’s the view I woke up to today.

Currently staying in Goutte d’Or, which I’m finding out about via Wikipedia:

“This neighbourhood has been working class at least since the 19th century. Emile Zola set there the plot of his novel L’Assommoir, depicting the life of alcoholic workers.

The district is also known for the crack cocaine trade and its high crime rate.”

Currently questioning the relevance, or the particulars of Memory, and specifically, the confirmation, or re-confirmation of memory (if that’s even a thing… James?)

I spent a year living in Winchester back in 2003. Other than a quick visit in 2004, which caused me to fail at least two uni subjects, I’ve never been back until today.

That’s 8 years. 8 years that I’ve spent becoming a completely different person while simultaneously forgetting aspects of the place and then replacing those gaps with perhaps more improved or better reworked versions of those memories. At least, that’s what I assume, because everything else that I thought was amazing at the age of 19 has since turned out to be, well, not that spectacular in retrospect.

First thing I did on arrival is follow the old tow-path along the river that I used to coach rowing on. That path is, incredibly, exactly the same, even the puddles are in the same spots 8 years down the track (so to speak). At this point, the entire experience really is just a reconfirmation: yes, those spaces are exactly as they are in your memory.

The striking, and perhaps upsetting aspect however, is the realisation that those spaces are just that. Without the rowing, without the other coaches, without any of the original reasons I’m so familiar with that path, it becomes just an ordinary path along an unremarkable river.

Which means it’s always been about the people, a particularly tardy one of which I’m waiting to arrive at the local pub, another space I’m currently reconfirming. Thankfully, the only thing they’ve changed is the relaxation of the ‘no mobile phones’ policy and the edition of high speed wifi.

It’s a strange feeling seeing art exhibitions and galleries in reality, having seen them all before via blogs. I’d like to say nothing beats the real thing, but to be honest, a really good photograph will often make things look better than they really are (ask any real-estate agent). That’s not to say I’m disappointed with the reality, but more a comment on the power of good photography. For example, The Serpentine Pavilion has some excellent photographs taken of it, and on arrival, it’s certainly a great little project with some nice spaces, however (and maybe this is the architect in me) once I was there I couldn’t help but start picking out defects, and little mistakes. Even the pool that makes up the roof of the project was less the crisp, dark, reflective pool I’d been made to believe and more of a rusted, algae filled dish, which included quite a lot of wriggling, squirming life within it. Still amazing, for sure, but reality has certainly turned out to be a bit more rough around the edges. This of course has frustrating implications, as I’m starting to realise that the sleek, well designed detailing I’ve seen in beautiful close up shots on blogs and which I hopefully intend to one day design myself are A: not just hard to do, but B: almost certainly not like that in reality.