Heat Isn't the Problem; Design Is
At about eight months pregnant, all kinds of new social encounters are starting to become more common: little smiles from women I pass. Men hastily opening doors at cafés and gas stations. Cashiers asking me, “How far along are you?” while scanning my groceries. And then there are the apologies I’ve received from well-wishers sympathizing with the experience of being pregnant in 100-plus degree temperatures.
At first, I was caught off guard by this last one: the heat really hasn’t bothered me. Maybe it’s because I don’t spend a lot of time in the sun. Maybe it’s because we have a well-shaded swimming pool where we live. Maybe it’s because my husband has a nearly academic knack for regulating the air conditioner in our apartment or maybe because I’m, in general, a hot-weather person.
Recently, I attended a weekend gathering where this conversational sequence played out almost a dozen times:
Well-wisher: “How are you feeling?”
Me: “Pretty good, no real complaints!”
Well-wisher: “Man, I’m so sorry… I can't imagine being pregnant in this heat!”
Me: “It doesn’t bother me too much!”
Well-wisher: “Really?”
I’ve joked with my husband that I might start telling people what really does bother me and it’s not the heat. First, it’s the experience of being in a car that has been sitting parked in the hot sun, yet having no other option for getting around but to drive trapped in a sauna on wheels. Second, it’s the fact that I can’t really walk or bike anywhere in my city during the summer. It’s simply too exposed, too dangerous, too hostile. This is problematic for pregnant moms: it’s advised to walk up to an hour a day, especially as we get closer to our due dates… It takes quite a bit of strategizing to figure out how to do this in a city with hardly any shade, numerous stroads, and neighborhoods with no sidewalks but plenty of unexpected stray dogs.
Perhaps folks might be amused or confused by such complaints and I’ve promised my husband I won’t actually respond to every sympathetic comment with a brief soliloquy on heat-appropriate city design. But seriously, I’m not joking! I wish more people realized the heat is only part of the challenge. The real problem is that our cities have been designed such that existing in the heat outside of a car is basically impossible.
Historically, this wasn’t the case. Before the advent of air conditioners, hot weather was something that architects and city planners had to respond to with creativity. The weather was something to adapt to, to work with, to manage…not merely to escape. For example, in Bologna, architects responded to hot weather by building a network of covered walkways that allowed pedestrians to wander the city fully shaded except for the brief moments during which they crossed the street from one walkway to another. We can see a similar sentiment at play with the ornate covered passageways of Turin, Italy. In the U.S. when touring old cities like Charleston, South Carolina, we can see evidence of similar accommodations in the deep, wide porches circling old houses.
Don’t get me wrong: air conditioning is great and, as in the case of some cities like Atlanta, they played a huge role in activating many cities’ economies. But sometimes, I wonder if we’ve come to rely so heavily on these kinds of technological improvements that we’ve ceased to see the city as a destination in itself that’s worth spending time in as a human, not just an environment to move through as efficiently as possible as a driver. Seeing the city as a destination for humans to inhabit and explore, and as a conduit for experiencing nature would lead to different design priorities, similar to what we see with public splash pads, rivers cleaned up for public swimming, or railways turned into parks for lounging (as in the case of Manhattan’s Highline).
If the main assumption is that humans won’t be spending time outside, that discourages these kinds of weather-considerate features and what we get instead is what my husband and I have come to call “lizard architecture”: a homogenous style of design imported to cities by developers who lack regionally specific weather consciousness and that would probably be more conducive to designing for reptiles than for humans.
Three examples:
(Source: Strong Towns/Tiffany Owens Reed.)
Here’s an outdoor seating area at a coffee shop in Salado, Texas. We pulled up and instantly started chuckling in disbelief at the sight in front of us. Not only was the coffee shop facing the interstate, with its back to the nearby neighborhood, but the outdoor seating area was totally exposed and unshaded. Not just that, but it was situated between the café and the drive-thru driveway. In other words, at its most “successful,” the seating area would be full of customers sitting under the blazing sun, surrounded by cement and idling cars, struggling to hear each other over the roar of interstate traffic. There wasn’t an umbrella or tree in sight. Great for sunning lizards. Terrible for humans.
(Source: Strong Towns/Tiffany Owens Reed.)
Case two: this walkway at a major shopping center in Waco. During a recent shopping outing, I decided to park my car at one store, walk to the remaining four, and then return to the car. By walk, I mean shuffle as quickly as possible, my eyes squinting against the bright sun. In the absence of trees or awnings, the brief walk felt like it lasted twice as long as the actual seven minutes it took to get from Marshall’s back to the car. The walkway was mostly empty because most people parked directly in front of the store they wanted to visit.
(Source: Strong Towns/Tiffany Owens Reed.)
Case three: A parking lot belonging to a new location of The Toasted Yolk location on the edge of downtown. I sigh heavily at the sight of an exposed parking lot like this because I know the absence of trees means dining here in the summer will mean our car will become an oven; it will barely be cool by the time we finish our seven-minute drive home. Great for bearded dragons, terrible for pregnant moms.
Lizard architecture might not be the most scientifically accurate name for this style of design, but it provides my husband and me much comic relief as we drive around, spotting massive, unshaded parking lots, exposed outdoor dining areas, and unshaded walkways…design features that make it extremely uncomfortable to be a human outside for extended periods of time. It’s the kind of design that indicates to me an overreliance on technology to solve our discomforts and an inability to imagine cities as spaces where folks might want to experience nature, even when it’s hot. More mindful, human-centric city designers would consider the possibility that humans actually want to be outside, not just as environments to move through as quickly and comfortably as possible.
(Source: Strong Towns/Tiffany Owens Reed.)
My well-wishers are not wrong: it really is hot in Texas and extended time outside, especially for pregnant women, can be uncomfortable. But before we left Salado we saw a perfect example of how such realities might be addressed, not through technology that seeks to control and escape the discomfort, but through well-maintained third spaces that allow us to negotiate with nature even at its most extreme.
After stopping at a few shops, we walked down to Salado Creek, where we found people of all ages and backgrounds lounging merrily in the shallow water, in no rush to get back to their perfectly air-conditioned living rooms. I slipped off my shoes and stepped into the cool water, immediately relieved. For a moment, Texas wasn’t so bad, after all.
For successful placemaking, small, consistent investments over time matter more than grand gestures.