Lifelines

Last week, the New York area was hit with a mid-summer storm that brought a deluge of rain, not to mention the first tornado to Brooklyn in over a century. In the aftermath of the event, where New Yorkers were making new friends while waiting for the next subway train, or cursing to themselves while they sat in traffic on the region's parkways (which is where I found myself), a significant backlash hit against those who are in control of these lifelines of commerce and connections. The millions of people who crowd in and around the island of Manhattan rely on these modes of transportation to conduct their daily business, and their daily lives. When everything shut down for a time on account of a bit of rain (it was actually around 1.7 inches between 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. that fateful day), people turned to the holders of the puppet strings of New York's transportation system for answers.

Generally, the response was one of being unprepared for the onslaught, as the severity of the storm was not expected by the transportation hierarchy. The finger pointing merry-go-round went from the Metropolitan Transportation Authority to the National Weather Service to global warming. But in the end, after the water has drained away, the realization becomes how fragile the whole system really is. Together all of us head out into the world each day, seemingly, and in reality, in a multiplicity of different directions. Every commuter for yourself, so back off! But what we often forget is that we're all in it together, and need to work with one another to keep things running smoothly. And although the system appeared to crumble on the morning of August 8, 2007, in reality, it demonstrated how resilient New York continues to prove itself time and again. Within hours, most of the transportation network had been restored, and people resumed their daily tasks -- almost as if nothing had happened.

The fragility of our lifelines is a theme that has traveled across the nation recently. The deadly bridge collapse in Minneapolis was a national story. In New York, we followed it with the same attention as anywhere across the nation. The fallout from this tragedy was a renewed effort to inspect the bridges across America. The result was a staggering number of spans that require some significant attention. Where the money will come from is another story altogether. The theme of precarious lifelines spans the centuries as well. Archeologists studying the ancient city of Angkor in Cambodia, believed to have been as sprawling as Los Angeles, have learned that the crumbling of the Southeast Asian metropolis in the 1500s may have been caused by the collapse of its highly sophisticated water management system. The sheer scale of the endeavor was its ultimate downfall. The caretakers could no longer maintain the system. The connections between our own transportation issues are instructive.

No matter how great our monuments become, we must keep in mind that without the lifelines that serve them, there is no way to sustain, or support them. The Angkor Wat temple stands as a testament of Angkor's fate. As American metropolitan areas have fanned out to the far reaches of the hinterlands, it is imperative that transportation remains at the forefront of any planning for the future. It may not be the most intriguing aspect of a new project, but it may very well be the most important.

You Want to See an Eyesore?

Driving down to my parents' place over the weekend, my wife and I drove past the enormous complex of heavy industrial facilities that line the New Jersey Turnpike located at the foot of the Goethals Bridge. Belching noise, smoke and smells unlike just about anywhere else on earth, the epicenter of why New Jersey got the reputation of being New Jersey got me to pondering the way in which land use choices can produce an uncomfortable and unsightly place to be. Luckily, only the people who travel past lucky Exit 13 of the New Jersey Turnpike are exposed to what is an ungodly place to be. Let me just say that I enjoyed the time I spent in New Jersey as a resident, and have nothing bad to say about the state. And the Garden State is not alone in having its share of eyesores that litter the landscape. The question becomes how state and local officials contend with them, and attempt to incorporate them into the prettier parts of the landscape.

Take for instance the situation in Florida, where there is a growing attempt to regulate phosphate mines that spread across the state. Near the Peace River estuary, three counties are attempting to block a 20,675 acre phosphate mine from opening in their territory. Concerned with the loss of forest land and wetlands over the last few decades, the counties are challenging permits that were granted by the State Environmental Protection Department. Sure, the environmental and economic effects of these huge open mines seem to be sufficient factors to drive the opposition. However, it seems strange that there is no discussion of the operation of phosphate mining itself, and the way in which it scars the landscape. There are regulations that require mine operators to refill the affected areas when the sought-after materials have been extracted. Yet, just like their counterparts in New Jersey, the locals around the phosphate mines appear to accept the existence of the intensive activity, for some form of a "greater good," provided there are no ancillary effects on their way of life.

Shifting away from Florida, what about the eyesore that has defined America over the last half-century: I'm talking about the omnipresent suburban commercial strip lined with garish signage, fast food restaurants, roadside motels and big box retailers. In a place where they know a thing or two about garish decor, there is an attempt to spruce up one such strip for the better. In Memphis, Tennessee, the immediate area around Graceland, the former home of Elvis Presley, has deteriorated over the years into a run-down stretch of Americana that could certainly use a facelift. As the anchor of the community, the new controlling owner of Graceland, CKX Inc., is looking to invest $250 million in upgrading the facility. Plans have been announced, just before the 30th anniversary of the King's death, to add a new visitor center, a hotel and a high-tech museum on 100 acres next to the tourist destination. The head of Elvis Presley Enterprises, which is now a subsidiary of CKX, boils down the issue. "We've continued all these years to be a major destination attraction with a busy, pretty unattractive street running right through the middle of it." Having visited recently, I can vouch for this assessment. The tourist center is located across the street from the actual home -- plans are to put everything on one side. However, the intention is not to insulate the facility from the community. "We don't want to create an island," the head continues," "We want to be a catalyst for the right kind of growth and the right kind of revitalization of the commercial corridors." Seeing the need to remove the eyesore, which oddly enough isn't Graceland, the people running the facility have a keen sense how to eradicate it from the area.

In a world where we're all being forced to get a little closer to our neighbors (take for example a recent article talking about the greater Los Angeles region), the threat of constructing something that will offend one of the neighbors grows ever greater. There are many ways to go about it, but as is clear from above, the fight to eliminate them is on. Something like the New Jersey industrial complex may be difficult to remove. But for those that have either fallen out of favor, or fallen out of style, the tide marches on towards something new. Of course, as is true for anything built in America, this "new" proposal will no doubt face its fate as the eyesore of the next generation.

A Little Desecration Every Now And Then . . .

Land developers have always been painted as willing to do just about anything to make a buck -- think Craig T. Nelson realizing in Poltergeist that he built a new subdivision on top of an old Native American burial ground. But what about good old George and Mary Bailey, who apparently built Bailey Park on top of an old cemetery in It's a Wonderful Life? No one seems to make a big deal about that. Regardless, the point is that no matter where or how one decides to build something new, it's likely that the project is bound to offend someone. The affront can be big or small, real or perceived. And sometimes, "hallowed ground" means the public space itself, at least from a Constitutional perspective. Take the recent New Jersey Supreme Court case where a homeowners' association won the right to restrict the posting of political signs in certain areas of the housing development governed by the association. And as is so often the case, the lawsuit started with an affront, with certain homeowners bristling at the association's restrictions against political signs, the use of common spaces for political meetings and limitations on publishing contrary opinions against the board in the association's newspaper. The significance of this case of first impression is too early to know, but will be played out in other courts over the next few years.

But beyond the worldly there is the spiritual world, which can often encroach on our space. Some projects can border on sacrilege, at least in some peoples' minds. For instance, in Pequannock, New Jersey, a wireless communications carrier has proposed constructing a 100-foot cellular tower shaped like a cross on property owned by the Bible Christian Fellowship Church. As a practitioner becoming very familiar with cell tower applications, this one seemed a bit unique. Wireless carriers have been searching for ways to hide their antennas for years, in such places as church steeples, flagpoles and structures that look (sort of) like trees. The cross option, in fact, has been used elsewhere. However, the thought of it no doubt causes consternation to those who have not heard of such proposals. As one local resident noted, "As a Christian, I wouldn't want to do anything that would denigrate the idea of the cross." Who knew that providing cell coverage would force certain Christians to test their very faith? Nonetheless, one Township councilman focused on the worldly. "There's a big difference between a man made structure such as this and natural vegetation such as trees." For the Church, they're just trying to figure out what's best for the institution, and the people it serves.

On the other side of the continent, in Navajo territory in New Mexico, tribal leaders are considering the construction of a $3 billion plan to construct the Desert Rock coal-burning generator facility that would emit over the course of a year carbon dioxide amounts equivalent to emissions from 1.5 million cars. The expected environmental opposition groups have entered the ring like Environmental Defense and the Natural Resources Defense Council. Local citizens groups, including Dooda Desert Rock, or "No to Desert Rock" in Navajo, have also voiced their objections. Even Governor, and Presidential contender Bill Richardson has entered the fray, coming out against the proposal. But lost amongst the bustle is also the opposition from some Navajos who see the plan as a deadly "energy monster" that desecrates Father Sky and Mother Earth. With a history of exploitation when it comes to mining activities in the region, you can understand how the worries have manifested in the spiritual realm. Yet, this opposition received far less attention than the legal and environmental challenges. Nonetheless, it seems these concerns are part of the equation as well.

So how far should spiritual concerns encroach into the land use process? Obviously, as a public matter, and in a country ostensibly devoted to the concept of the separation of church and state, the answer appears to be self-explanatory. However, it is undeniable that one's religious beliefs cannot help but factor into one's opinion on such projects. No, this isn't the same as when people challenged John F. Kennedy's devotion to his country, claiming he would follow the Pope. Projects such as these question one's faith, especially if you have to look at them every day. Sure, there are other issues involved, but it cannot be ignored in such stark examples. Nonetheless, just as the Founding Fathers realized when they put their own finishing touches on the Constitution, circumstances change, as well as values. Just as courts will continue to parse out the meaning of the Constitution, religious leaders and practitioners will continue to determine how to define and redefine their faith, and what they want it to look like.

Don't You Remember . . .

Over the weekend, after prolonging the inevitable, I got my hair cut. The woman who shaved away the months of shagginess from my head was a chatty type, and listening to an oldies radio station, she fell on the subject of music, and how it marks the time. She remarked, "You know you're old when you hear a song, and it reminds you of a place you once were. The song puts you back there, and you can remember it all like it was yesterday." I noted the poignancy of her observation, and then gave the musing further thought. Walking back home from the gym the next day, the convergence of time, space and music hit me again, when I was listening to "Machine Gun" by the Commodores, a bizarre, but exceedingly catchy tune from the '70s that you'll hear in just about any movie about that decade these days. As I headed for home, and the music started blaring from my iPod, I looked up and saw this man, best described as a "dude," with '70's-style "Chips" sunglasses and a bushy porn-star mustache. In an instant, I was there.

But what do these chance moments have to do with land use? That's what I was wondering until I figured it out. It is not only the music that helps mark the time, it is the places that make up our built up environment themselves. The moments of our lives are marked by these locales, and in turn, the locales are defined by the moments. Two of the most jarring events of the past few American generations, the Kennedy assassination and September 11, 2001, are discussed amongst us using the same question time and again: "Where were you when . . ." The "who" and "what" supply the flavor for each personal testimonial, but it is the "where" that initiates the discussion. (For the record, at the first epoch, I wasn't around. On the second, I watched the horror from my office window in New Jersey).

Places mean what they do because of the moments that occur there. For instance, the first thing most people mention about Newark, New Jersey, is the riots that happened there forty years ago. Where JFK was shot, and where the Twin Towers fell, have become iconic, almost holy pieces of ground. But just as important are the endless places where everyone else was when they learned the news of these two horrible events. Another convergence of time and place occurred a few days ago, when I sat at a Continuing Legal Education seminar in the same room where I gave my best man speech to my brother and sister-in-law on their wedding day. The place will forever be connected with the moment that took place there before.

Why don't people like to buy homes where murders have occurred? Why does Victoria Beckham gasp when learning that her potential new digs were once owned by Lionel Richie? The answer lies in the meaning places acquire. A few years ago, in the middle of our move from the East to the West coast, my wife and I got stuck on the New Jersey Turnpike, running out of gas on account of a faulty gauge on the U-Haul we were renting. Every time we pass that spot, we mark it with a shaking of the head. Another way the spot is marked is with a new roadside hotel, which was in the midst of construction when we spent that fateful, stifling day on the side of the highway. What developers often forget when they bring the next new thing to town is that the place they seek to morph into their own conception was once something else meaningful to people. Most of the time locals will ignore the pull of their memories to allow the new project to proceed. But when residents protest, oftentimes the source of their objection is buried in the moments of the past that they clutch onto in their fight to halt the inevitable march. Not everywhere is there a Dealey Plaza or Ground Zero. Nonetheless, one must be mindful of the past when looking to reshape the future.

The Outsiders

There's a lot of news in the world out there lately. Here in New York, Mayor Bloomberg's plan to bring "congestion pricing" to lower Manhattan fell on deaf ears in the state legislature. In addition, there was a big hubbub about a parking space that costs $225,000, and has a waiting list, in Manhattan's Chelsea's neighborhood. HBO Sports released a marvelous documentary on the Brooklyn Dodgers, which carefully charted how Power Broker Robert Moses prompted the move of the beloved baseball franchise to Los Angeles by denying Walter O'Malley access to the Atlantic Yards, which are currently being fought over again as the future site of a basketball arena. Beyond the confines of NYC, down South, atop the Florida aquifer system, development pressures are putting an intense stress on the underground water supply of the region. If current trends do not change, saltwater will begin to encroach on the dwindling freshwater supply. News from the post-Katrina Gulf coast indicates that despite, and evidence indicates because of, the slow pace of redevelopment occurring in this region after the devastating storm, the people that have returned to the region, left with little of the social institutions they once enjoyed, have turned to the casinos that line the Gulf for solace. Casino operators are reporting record revenues, largely due to locals turning to them for escape.

But out of the spotlight of these bigger stories comes a simple example of the American land use system working as it always has -- on the local level seeking to solve small, yet vital issues that mean most to communities and their residents. Recently, I found myself sitting in on a Town Board meeting on the east end of Long Island. I was there to monitor a topic on the Board's agenda relevant to my practice. Aside from learning the Board's thoughts on this issue, I left with a reminder as to why land use regulation exists, and the undercurrents that so often go unsaid. The item on the agenda that caught my attention involved the Town's problem with dealing with out-of-towners who are using the Town's beaches, to great ire of the locals. Although each of the people who weighed in on the issue carefully sidestepped the obvious implications of the proposed action, which would make it more difficult for the "outsiders" to use the Town's beaches, everyone could see the white elephant occupying its spot in the Board's chambers.

At the core of the issue, the residents, one after the other, voiced their complaints that these "out-of-towners," "none of whom had New York state license plates," were using their beaches, leaving behind garbage, using the sand as their personal toilets, cleaning their day's catch on the street outside their houses. The angry residents suggested to raise the price of day passes to their beaches, increase police presence around the beaches and generally discourage these unwelcome visitors from coming back. Sure, they prefaced their remarks with, "I don't see anything wrong with people using the beaches," but then they proceeded to express how to keep them away. Granted, the way these visitors were treating their destination was deplorable, and something should be done. But such comments as, "my grown children were appalled when they came back and saw what was happening," and "it's not how it used to be," suggests that deep down, if these residents could put a fence around their town, and require people to present photo I.D.s to get in (which is essentially what they were suggesting to the Town Board), they would do it. By the end of the discussion on the agenda item, I was fearful they would spot me as an interloper, and throw me out of Town.

This issue of providing public access to beaches is an age old problem. For instance, in Los Angeles, the owners of exclusive homes in the enclave of Malibu go through the never-ending struggle to discourage people from crossing through their community to reach the beach -- even though these beachgoers are within their rights under the "public trust doctrine." Going so far as hiring private goon squads to keep out the public, Malibu types constantly battle with public authorities seeking to strike a careful balance. What causes normally reasonable people to hire private security forces, or to take pictures of people using the beach (as in the case in this Long Island beach community) with their spare cash and free time? What kind of condition creates some of the most important land use cases that have come from the U.S. Supreme Court in the last few decades? (See Nollan v. California Coastal Commission, 483 U.S. 825 (1987), for instance). It is these seemingly innocuous matters that determine whether a community offers a good quality of life, or a burden on top of the other stresses of modern life. The land use system encroaches on the day-to-day lives of all of us, no matter how big or small, and every decision has consequences. Who knows what the ultimate outcome of the battle waging on the eastern end of Long Island will be. But in the end, another issue will no doubt come along to raise the ire of the locals, oftentimes caused by those pesky "outsiders."

Warm and Fuzzy

When it gets to this point of the year, and you don't have air conditioning (which is the cruel fate we have been dealt for this summer), the very phrase "warm and fuzzy" is apt to give you the willies. The sensation against your sticky skin just screams uncomfortable and itchy. But putting that unpleasantness aside, the term "warm and fuzzy" also harkens to a very attractive feeling, especially when it comes to the question of place. Developers trying to sell expensive homes look to the descriptive phrase to entice high-salaried and/or -net worth types to buy into their new communities. Although developers try their best to generate it synthetically, it really takes the organic preexisting character of a locale, or the naturally-occurring trend of a certain breed of newcomers, to imprint the "warm and fuzzy" stamp on a place.

What got me into this disturbing realm? Well, besides the hallucinations of being subjected to over 90-degree heat at night, one recent tidbit aroused my attention. An unusual feature article found its way on the front page of the Sunday Real Estate section of The New York Times. Entitled "Park Slope Parent Trap," the piece explored the reputation of my current home as a place where "scores of 30-something couples who seemingly move to Brooklyn to breed." Comparing her neighborhood encounters to being in a "small country village, or in Australia," the writer's account forced me to hold my head in shame that I've willingly chosen to live in such a place. Prefacing her remarks by stating that she was unwillingly one of those "'annoying parent types'" that populate the area, the writer ended up embracing the warm and fuzzy nature of her home. Ahhhhh. Yeck.

But the attraction of warm and fuzzy places is not limited to a relatively small, self-absorbed enclave of New York City. Take for example the Texas Hill Country, a land with a rugged history, epitomized by one of its favorite sons, LBJ. The man, as president, showed off his gall bladder surgery scars while in office, for God's sake. How could he, too, have come from a land deemed "warm and fuzzy"? Unfortunately, it has come to be. The rolling hills, lakes and rivers of the Hill Country, a region located west of Austin, has attracted this type of crowd, to the horror of those who got there first. As one longer-term denizen noted, "'We just wanted a small house where we could enjoy the land and be left alone.'" After only eight years in his new home with his wife, this Hill Country resident sees the tide of development creeping into the territory. As one economist so concluded matter-of-factly, "'People want to live out in the country.'" Singer Willie Nelson has jumped into the frenzy, selling off a portion of his ranch in the area for luxury homes. One set of newcomers, from California no less, described the draw of the Hill Country for them by explaining that they "wanted [their] children to grow up in a 'warm and fuzzy area' with plenty of Southern hospitality."

It seems that no matter where the next frontiers of development are, be they in the urban center or the urban fringe, the common denominator is the omnipresent and aforementioned warm and fuzziness which I find so hard to embrace. People want that place where they can raise a family. (In the case of Park Slope, people seem to want to live in places where women freely expose their breasts in order to feed their hungry broods). As a newlywed looking to get started in this department, it doesn't seem to be that horrible of a request from the place my wife and I live. Then why does it concern me so? Why do I feel like I'm in 90-degree heat with a cat rubbing up against my leg? Developers spent the better part of the last century trying to impose a uniform built environment on Americans in the form of suburban tract housing developments. Today, developers are ostensibly adapting towards more diverse tastes, providing new offerings in preexisting urban settlements (such as the rehabbed buildings across Park Slope), and on the urban fringe with town center concepts allowing for pedestrian scale activity and community. But does this outlook necessarily comport with all of America? I'm not advocating the construction of unattractive, unsafe places to live, but does everything have to be perfectly polished, clean and bright? Does everything have to cater towards the well-off in child-bearing mode? Variety is a good thing, and "new" doesn't necessarily have to mean "warm and fuzzy." A little grit under your fingernails never hurt anyone -- take a look at LBJ and his scar.

Ah, Nature . . .

The other day I found myself on a site visit which required me to literally hike through some of the remaining woods of Long Island. Rather than curse my fate, I took a moment to look around at my surroundings. In this most delightful time of year, with the trees in full bloom blanketing the landscape, it seems fitting to think a little about the natural environment around us. Living as most of us do in metropolitan areas, it is hard to imagine that at one time not too long ago most of the places we live and work and play today once roamed free from asphalt and other forms of impervious coverage. But in our push further and further into the natural habitats of the fauna and flora that have resisted us thus far, is there a way to strike a balance? Nature has always worked on the principle of balance -- a push is always met with a response, with some semblance of resolution resulting from the opposing forces. However, with the human race clearly pushing harder than all other species combined, how are the other animal life forms on this planet to respond?

One answer comes from Florida, where the bald eagle, once only the symbol of American democracy, is now a symbol of adaptation in a world in which it fights a seemingly losing battle. Rather than accepting its fate towards extinction, the species has returned with a vengeance in the last few decades. Rather than fighting the incessant suburban development taking place across the state's peninsula, the bald eagle has embraced the new opportunities for habitat, including nesting in cellphone towers, landfills, airport runways and along highways around the Sunshine State. Since 1963, the number of nesting pairs of bald eagles in the United States has increased from around 400 up to near 10,000 today, with Florida at the forefront of this renaissance. The bald eagle has proven to be a tough bird -- fitting for the nation it finds itself to be an important representative. As one biologist notes, "If eagles were thin-skinned, there wouldn't be an eagle in the United States."

Aside from nature's answer to development, people have recognized the value of a little nature and have turned back to bringing it back to their homes. One story out of The Wall Street Journal chronicles the recent push to recreate parcels in the middle of metropolitan areas into parkland. ("The Focus-Grouped Park," June 29, 2007). But in this age where everything has to be bigger and better, the parks of the 21st Century need to offer something exciting and new. Aside from such ventures as Atlanta's Belt Line initiative, which includes a push to turn a fallow quarry into a new recreational space, and Gold Medal Park in Minneapolis, which has turned a sea of asphalt parking lots into a public green, the real emblem of cities bringing back nature is the fittingly named Great Park in Irvine, California. To be constructed on a portion of the former El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, the new public space will cover an astounding 1,347 acres, and include a wildlife habitat area. Part of a deal brokered with a developer seeking to construct on the remaining portion of the tract, the new park will offer Orange County residents easy access away from the modern realities of the region's built up environment. Of course, in true California fashion, most people will have to drive to get there.

Nonetheless, this trend towards bringing back nature is one that may hint at a continuing push back to a greener way of life. Sure, we won't ever abandon our greedy ways, pushing ever further into the hinterlands. But these small steps hint at the need for us to adapt our mindset. Just as the bald eagle has done with its chosen home, our own habitat is one that requires continuing change, in order to ensure that we stick around for awhile in an environment we actually can enjoy. Even though I must admit that it wasn't exactly my favorite thing to be hiking through the woods of Long Island, I was definitely glad that there was a little bit left still to see. Even if I never have to go back, the thought of its existence is just as satisfying.