#on a fairly busy road. or cross the street at the intersection for the sidewalk

[caramel-mousse]

Saw some really cool agama picticauda (a funny rainbow lizard. The males are colorufl while the females are plaincolored) today on my walk. There was the one colorful male and a slew of either his mates or children. They were hanging out by a gas station dumpster. Unfortunately theyre invasive here but that doesnt make them less cool looking

[wafflebloggies]

17. where it lies

back - next The street running west from the bus depot was a long, drab six-lane road, quiet in the early morning, lined by flat concrete buildings set a way back behind crumbly walls and gravel lots. A deep drainage ditch ran most of the way down between the road and these orphaned businesses, clotted with grass so thick that if it wasn’t for a certain floating, swampy appearance to the green here and there it could easily have been mistaken for a very lush verge. It was an easy kind of road to drive, probably, eventless and easy to coast down on the way to somewhere else. It was not really a road meant for pedestrians. With its tiny cracked sidewalk, clearly an afterthought, and breaks every few metres for drive-ins and turnings, it was an awkward sort of road to find yourself walking along at any kind of speed. And Antonio had to walk fast, because Mark was walking faster. Generally, Antonio could have kept up with Mark at any pace, but there wasn’t a lot of room on the little strip of broken asphalt, and every time he tried to catch up enough to draw alongside, Mark picked up his pace, like a deliberately aggravating relative of Zeno’s tortoise. Concern that Mark would miss his footing and walk into the swamp, or simply pick the wrong time to step off a kerb and turn himself into road pizza, kept Antonio about five steps behind, more than a little alarmed, trying to make himself heard.

“Mark, I’m sorry about your phone!” he tried, for maybe the fourth time. A white-green semi roared by, throwing up mist and drizzle from its long spooling wall of tyres, and he had to wait until it passed to try again. “I’m sorry, I was only trying to- Mark that’s not a crossing-” He darted over the little side-road after Mark, picking up his feet to avoid getting clipped by a Toyota waiting to turn. The driver raised his hands at him in a frustrated pantomime behind the windshield. “See, even this guy gets it,” said Antonio, skirting the car’s front bumper and hurrying to catch up again. “Mark, listen, I’m sorry, I promise I won’t-” “I don’t care about the phone,” said Mark. Antonio could only judge the veracity of this statement from his sped-up sort of trudge, the hard rigid set of his shoulders inside the soft blue quilting of his jacket, the way his backpack was drawn too tight against his back by his arms set tight in the pockets, like a thing that had been assembled in store to only pose one way, ready to snap if you tried to make it bend. “Well, okay, but the- that video, Mark, can we-“ “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Mark. “It’s fine.” “I mean, it’s clearly not fine,” said Antonio, making a sort of wide panicky arm motion that encompassed the whole way they’d come, the bus depot a tiny grey clam-like lump somewhere in the far distance, the great empty stretch of road under the early sun. “You’re not fine, you’re- you’re mad! I can tell you’re mad, and- and this wasn’t the plan-“ “New plan,” said Mark. “-no, well, just, hold your horses, Mark, could- could you please just slow down and- talk to me? Come on, I- I thought we were over this.” “We are,” said Mark, to the horizon, or at least the closed-down steakhouse that was in the way of it. To his credit, although he was rather out-of-breath, to most people he would have sounded fairly calm, but Antonio knew him far too well to mix up Mark truly calm and Mark making a cold-blooded, conscious decision not to engage his emotions or his full attention, even if he couldn’t see his face. “We’re over anything we need to be over.” He was still going very fast. The next intersection had a long pothole-studded gravel trap instead of a kerb, and it just so happened that he stumbled and slowed a bit on the runoff when he came to the next turning, and therefore walked neatly behind the large Securicor truck as it thundered across, instead of straight under it. “Jiminy Christmas,” jittered Antonio, hopping on the spot as he waited to be able to cross and catch up. When he did, or at least got back to within raised-voice range, he said, “I’m just worried, Mark! I just want you to-” “What?” There was an edge to Mark’s voice now, something that might have been mockery if it hadn’t sounded so flat. “What do you want me to do? Smile? Turn that frown upside down?” “You know that’s not what I meant, Mark. Sometimes I feel like that’s the kind of thing you want me to say. Jeez, it’s like- it’s like you’re testing me or something.” Mark did look at him, then. His step faltered as if his legs had temporarily forgotten which order to go in, almost tripping him, and he stared back at Antonio like he’d just casually remarked that the Everglades had finally lost their patience with the planet and flipped back up into space. “If you were me,” he said, at last, “if you can imagine that.” He paused. “If you can imagine. If you were me, would you trust you?” Antonio had to unravel the various pieces of the question’s construction before finding an answer. There were at least less opportunities for Mark to turn himself into a statistic on this block, most of it being a wide fenced-off opening to what had once been a minigolf course. Attempts had been made to catch the attention of passing traffic, the most obvious remaining being a goofy concrete alien about ten feet high. It had probably looked pretty astonishing when the course had been open, when the CRAZY SPACE GOLF sign had been fresh and new, but time and neglect and the Florida heat had not been kind to it. The green-and-pink neon paint was holding on in shreds, and the stained rebar was poking through the concrete in places, giving the lumpy tentacles and clustering eyeballs a grim, zombie-ish look. “I mean... I trust you, Mark.” “I bet,” said Mark, drily. “Last time I checked I can’t tear fucking doors in half with my hands, why wouldn’t you trust me? What could I do to you?” “That’s- not really fair.” “I don’t have to be fair,” Mark snapped back, so quick he seemed to have been sitting on the response. “But you tell me, what’s fair, Antonio? Personally, I feel like fair is not blaming you for everything you did before you- before you’re telling me you ‘changed.’ See, I don’t get to know what that really means,” he said, taking a few incidental steps backwards, describing a vague shape in the air with the hand not wrapped in a death-grip around his backpack strap. “I just have to believe you’re not lying, and I’m a little short on belief, here. Have you got any idea how much I hated you?” “Eeegh,” said Antonio, sucking an unhappy little breath in his teeth. “Is, uh, is that a rhetorical-” “So, yeah, I’m being fair, and I’m testing you. Like how I took you to Dad’s place with me, because I thought watching me dig around and take all that stuff would upset you,” he said, with a clear and vicious emphasis, “if you were still just there to make sure I didn’t make trouble for them.” “What about the part where your new dad showed up and we pushed him off the balcony?” Mark looked away, across the empty yellow swathe of asphalt. The rain was getting a little harder, speckling the reflection of the road in his glasses with a fine blueish mist. “That... wasn’t part of the test.” “So- so when do you stop testing me, Mark? Because- because while you’re doing that, let’s just shelve that for a moment,” Antonio made a sort of cubing gesture, defining the limits of an invisible object between his hands, squaring it up neatly like a whole stack of Better Homes, “just tabling all that for a second here, if we can just have a little ol’ chat about all the stuff we’re doing now? I totally get it, and I get why it’s important to you, but- heh- I just- I’m not sure you know how much they...” It felt as if he was choosing all the wrong words, but the better ones were hiding. Antonio hesitated, swallowing another terminally nervous chuckle, finding himself suddenly way too far in to put on the brakes, with Mark’s eyes on him and his tongue withering in his mouth. He gathered his thoughts, or at least as many of them that he could drive into a corner. They kept getting away from him, scrambling everywhere like frightened sheep. The place he’d arrived at felt dangerous, heavy, needling in a way he didn’t fully understand. His guts felt tight, the bug drawing close, gripping like it was trying to hold him together. “I’m not sure you- I don’t think you understand, they really don’t like this kinda thing, Mark. They don’t like having their… they don’t like it when people…” He struggled. “I’m worried, if we go too far, I mean, if we don’t stop before… if…” “Stop what?” asked Mark. “Well, stop making them mad.” Yielding to a burst of nervous energy, Antonio grabbed a bunch of the front of his shirt in both hands and wiped his running nose and eye on it. “Stop poking that big ol’ bear so much, Mark. Be-” “How much,” said Mark. “Poking. Am I allowed. To do.” Antonio thought, not for the first time, that a person really should need to apply for some sort of license to use punctuation like Mark did, as if it was a deadly weapon. The next minute, he was too frightened to think anything at all, because Mark started walking backwards again, eyes fixed on him, and now with a sudden deliberate movement he had stuck out his thumb and was holding it out as he walked, aimed towards the road. “What are you doing, Mark?” Following again, quite slowly now, Antonio tried to smile, although it felt like the effort nearly tore something, just from the sheer resistance of his throbbing face and everything involved in the mechanism. “Is this another kind of test?” “Yeah,” said Mark. A few cars had passed without any signs of stopping, and he glanced to the road and stepped closer to the verge, for better visibility. “Sure. It’s the kind of test where I leave, and you don’t get to know where I’m going.” He kept walking. Antonio watched helplessly, fighting the urge to sprint forwards. It was hard enough for him to hold on to time and place, and his worry for Mark and his panic twisted the world, blurring it until he couldn’t be sure whether he was trying to keep pace with Mark on a long road under the rainy morning sky, or in a black twisting hallway where the ceiling gaped like a ruptured chest, if he was chasing after Mark or if Mark was trailing doggedly behind, or if there was no difference and they were trapped, chained to an unstoppable thing beyond both of them, a turning wheel crushing them both. Struggling to escape, going nowhere, dragging each other along or sitting side by side, his right shoulder to Mark’s left, meaningless cycles of motion and stillness, over and over and over and- The thought tripped him up, stopped him where nothing physical could have. Somewhere in his head he knew that he did not want to be trapped and he did not want Mark to be trapped, and although when he thought of Mark just picking up and being carried away without him the panic was horrible, that was all it was. The more he thought, the more something else rose under it, hot and lurching, destructive and new. He stuck out his thumb. Mark looked at it, and him, his own thumb still out like he’d forgotten it was there. “What- what’re you doing?” “Well, I guess I’m helping you get a ride, Mark,” said Antonio, with a kind of cheerful, gritted-teeth mania. The heat was behind his eyes, sending words into his mouth that didn’t come from anywhere he recognized, and he had to work hard to keep them out. “Two thumbs are better than one!” “I don’t want your help!” “It’s literally the only thing I can do, Mark!” “That’s not my problem!” yelped Mark, with a kind of frustrated low-energy flail that nearly sent him into the swamp. “You- you think anyone’s gonna stop for you? You know what you look like right now?” “Okay, well, you could be a little less personal!” “You could fix your fucking face,” said Mark, deliberately and very loudly. His voice carried across the maybe ten feet that separated them. The minigolf alien loomed above, almost exactly between, set back a little from the sidewalk, its mouth a yawning cave studded with goofy tombstone teeth. A dirty sign in one disintegrating feeler proclaimed that Nine Crazy Golf Holes could be played for Nine Dollars, including the Unmissable Gravity Well, and that the prizes were Out of This World. “Wow,” said Antonio, because what did you even say to that, honestly, “wow, Mark, you can’t just ask someone to-” “Do you think making me look at that little ouchie all day is gonna make me feel- what? Sorry for you? Or bad that I-” Mark made another sharp movement, like he was pushing something sharply away, forcefully sweeping an idea into the stratosphere. Rain glittered off his jacket, sliding across the waterproof quilting in shining beads. His voice was strained and harsh, shivering on the edge of fury.  “I don’t feel sorry for you!” “I don’t want you to! I just want you to be okay!” “I AM OKAY!” screamed Mark, spit flying, taking a wild kick at a small rock. It spinged across the space between them, smacking into the base of the concrete alien and splashing off into the hidden swamp. “I’m as okay as I need to be to get this DONE!” “Sure you are!” yelled Antonio. The heat in his insides burned through the last of the things holding it in place and snapped free, clawing out of him in a violent burst, just as loud as Mark. “Great, then I’m okay too! I am so amazingly okay right now! Clearly! Because only people who’re totally okay and truly happy with where they are in life wind up SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER OUTSIDE THE CRAZY GOLF!” They stared at each other, across the distance. If nothing else, Mark finally looked startled. He glanced up at the alien, as if he’d only just noticed it, but Antonio barely registered his surprise. He had started, and now he couldn’t stop. “I can’t fix this, Mark! I can’t fix my face, I can’t fix what happened to you, or what I did to you, I can’t fix ME! I would if I could! I don’t want to look like this! I didn’t ask to be like this! I didn’t ask to be made with something all hecked up in me, if that’s even what happened, I didn’t even ask to be MADE!” He struggled for words. Above the sign, the forest of badly-painted concrete eyeballs rose to the cloudy sky like so many grubby grey balloons. Some of them looked horribly like they were looking at him. Mark was definitely looking at him, speechless, like he’d just beamed down from whatever neon-crazy-golf-based planet the alien was supposed to be from. “Everything’s just hard, and… weird, and… I don’t know what I’m doing,” said Antonio. He felt tired, leaden like something only half-alive as the heat faded, like half of him was inert stone dragging down at the rest and it was an effort to even keep talking. It didn’t even really feel like an admission- could something be an admission if it was so clearly written on your face? It was as if something had popped inside of him, and even the black goop slowly dripping from his chin didn’t feel like it mattered enough for him to wipe it away. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, I don’t want you to feel like you’re- stuck with me, but… I can’t help that while I’m with you, while I- while I know I’m helping you- at least I feel like I’m... doing something right.” There was a distant, bassy rumble, the sky clearing its throat. The hiss and spatter of the rain falling around them picked up into a new gear, and a grey curtain came sweeping across the road and the dull lights of the few passing vehicles, blurring everything, driving the winding rivulets dyed dark from Antonio’s feet to the gutter and plastering Mark’s hair down into his face.

*

The overhang of the crazy-golf-alien’s mouth was an okay sort of shelter, damp and stale-smelling and a bit buggy. There was a sort of moulded lump near the floor against the back, a rough low bench flaking with streaks of neon-pink paint, part of some long-gone photo opportunity. Hugging his knees, Antonio watched a mosquito land on his arm, tiptoe its way fussily between hairs and raindrops, legs poised and antenna quivering with dainty care, picking out a place for its delicate proboscis. He watched it dip its head and pierce his skin, pause, twitch, convulse, head and body and legs twisting like a bit of paper curling in a flame, and fall stone dead from his arm. “I just wanted you to understand,” he said. Mark was watching the rain, or at least he presumably was, between the condensation and the strands of wet hair stuck across his glasses it was hard to tell. “I know you know what you’re doing, Mark. I’m not gonna stop you. I’m just... worried, about afterwards.” Mark looked down into his own lap, and smiled. Antonio could have put up with a lot more than the difficult scene they’d just floundered through- any number of additional personal comments about his face, for example- rather than see that smile. There was no surface to it, nothing for anyone outside to see, only a cold inner humour that said plainly it wasn’t meant for anyone else except Mark. Mark, appreciating the joke in something nobody else could grasp. Especially Antonio, who was only there, who’d only said the words. “Afterwards,” he said, like it was the punchline. Antonio sat quietly, knocked numb on the inside by the truth that had just sidled up between the two of them in this musty shelter and hit him smack between the eyes, the truth he’d felt in the heart of him but put aside for days, turned from and stopped his ears against and refused to hear fully, until he couldn’t ignore it any longer; that Mark did not want, or mean for there to be, an afterwards. Here, in the calm of the storm, it didn’t feel like a revelation, anything to be gasped at or leapt upon; just a sad, simple fact. “I thought I’d died,” said Mark, in the same neat, matter-of-fact way. “In there. I knew I was dead, or as close to dead as it was ever... going to let me be. It’s not really like I was thinking, but it’s like... you know things. I knew it was over, and this was my... afterwards. I knew I was never going to be able to fix anything, or make any of it better or... save anyone else from walking into the same trap. And I knew- that’s what I deserved.” He paused, his throat jerking as he swallowed. “So everything since you got me out of there... every day… it’s just been one more day to fix my shit. Just a whole bunch of one more days I never thought I’d get, to- to at least make them pay for everything they did. If I could,” he said, slowly, arming wet hair out of his eyes, “I’d leave everything no worse than it was before I started helping that fucking thing. I- I can’t do that, but I’m sure as fuck going to make them wish they never chose me. And I keep waiting for when the other shoe drops, and I’m going to lose the chance to fix anything, or it’s going to turn out I never had a chance in the first place. I keep waiting to find out how they’re still- playing with me.” This, with difficulty, through a clot of hatred in his throat. “But... what I have, while it lasts... you gave me this. If it’s real… it’s because of you.” There was a silence. Antonio sniffed. Mark had given him some napkins from the Waffle House, and he was holding a wad of them to his face. “I can’t think about afterwards,” said Mark. His voice was thin, small. “I don’t think I… even want to think about what that’d… be like. I… don’t know.” For once, there was no sarcasm, no front. As far as Antonio could tell, he only sounded as weary as Antonio felt, blank, and honest. It was strange to hear Mark speaking to him in this way at all- as if he was another real person, and there was genuinely something he wanted him to understand. “I hoped we could find that out, Mark,” he said, gently.  “I’ve just started too, you know.” They sat, quiet, the rain beating on the alien’s hollow shell and trickling through making a hollow, near-musical sound. To Antonio, this silence felt different, on the scale of all the silences he’d known- awkward ones, hating ones, dangerous ones, empty ones. This felt only like tiredness, without the tight restless anxiety that had followed them up until now. Despite the wet, the pouring rain and the smell like an old sneaker forgotten in the bottom of a laundry hamper for a year, it felt curiously comfortable. Mark took off his glasses, pulling a corner of his decrepit grey sweater from under his jacket and drying them off as well as he could on the ravelling wool. “We get this done,” he said, at last. “Then we talk about afterwards. Okay?” “Okay.” They looked at each other. Antonio kind-of-smiled, in a tentative, barely-there way that didn’t pull too much at his face, and Mark, replacing and poking his glasses, which always wanted to lean towards the mended side, as straight as they would go, almost sort-of-smiled back. Squishing the napkins into a wet black ball and tossing them into the rain, Antonio watched Mark pull his phone from his pocket, wipe the rheumy fug from the screen on his sleeve, and start to type. “We’re not hitching a lift?” “Fuck that,” said Mark. “Nobody in their right mind’s gonna stop for us. I’m calling an Uber.”

[atlurbanist]

Thanks to Atlanta Magazine for asking me to write about my favorite intersection in Downtown for the January issue! I picked Forsyth and Poplar.

It's hard to read in digital format (it's on page 51 in print), so here's the transcription:

-----

Darin Givens explains why this cross-section of Forsyth and Poplar streets in the Fairlie-Poplar District has it all

1.) Mix of uses, mix of people:

If you were to people-watch here all day, you’d see the diverse population of GSU’s student body and staffers pass by, along with customers for the small businesses here, residents of the Healey Building, office workers from nearby 100 Peachtree tower, people going in and out of the Court of Appeals — and lots of film crews. This swath of downtown has doubled for New York, Los Angeles, Amsterdam, and Paris.

2.) Prioritizing pedestrians:

When windows and doors sit against nice sidewalks, it’s an inviting sight for people on foot. Builders are increasingly trying to create places that resemble this to meet the expectations people have for city living. At Forsyth and Poplar streets, you can see this century-old version of urban walkability, from long before the BeltLine popularized it.

3.) Architectural interest:

Studies show that buildings with details on the facade are a boon for pedestrians, supply- ing a level of visual interest that makes walking more enjoyable. Compared to the bland structures and blank walls that sometimes fill our streets, the Healey Building (1913), Grant Building (1898), and U.S. Court of Appeals (1910) are stroll-stoppers.

4.) A transit dream:

You can hear the ding of the streetcar bell every 15 minutes as it pulls into the Woodruff Park station, and the entrance to the Peachtree Center MARTA station is a couple of blocks away. During the 2014 Snowmageddon event when roads were jammed, my family lived in the Healey Building; we walked to the MARTA station and took a train to Decatur for dinner.

5.) Connecting to the past:

Archival maps identify this tight street grid as the city’s old Financial District, when early downtown “towers” housed offices, banks, and hotels. The focus of the land use here was on commerce. The fact that this grid now houses GSU students and staff, residences, theaters, and stores is a testament to the resilience and adaptability of this urban fabric.

6.) The future:

One and a half blocks to the south, you can spot construction underway at 41 Marietta Street, where an old office building is being converted to residential apartments; it’s a transition that’s already happened to several office buildings nearby. Little by little, these adaptive reuse projects are increasing the number of people who call this place home.

[doomfisthero]

Magnum Residue

It's taken me a long while to post this, primarily because I wanted to make sure it was necessary. A while back, I saw the music video for "Magnum Bullets" and was so inspired that I had to create my own follow-up to the story. I sent it off to NSP in hopes that they might be interested in a follow-up themselves, but only heard back fairly recently that they couldn't accept unsolicited submissions.

In response, I asked them if there was any way that I could work on the project for them formally, and have yet to receive a reply. While I'm still holding out some measure of hope, I figure it couldn't hurt to share my work informally, at least until something comes of it. I do hope you all enjoy my work - I'm honestly incredibly proud of what I've created here.

I’ve also cross-posted this on AO3 here. 

Time: Immediately after the assassination of Hanley Moors; Location: City of Neoxsoma, outside the Manse

Trine weaved through the shadowed alleyways, getting further away from the Manse. The narrow crevices of Neoxsoma were a prison to all but the most familiar with them, but Trine had run through those cracks for years. Slowly, the alarms of NX Security swarming the blood-stained tower faded away into the starless night. 

There was a flash of regret as the triangle-crested wolf recalled leaving behind their companions. They'd felt such an urge to leave, to be anywhere else, that Stelle and Cube didn't even register to them. But those two would never let themselves be captured anyway; Stelle would tear barehanded through anyone in her way, and Cube would make sure to stay three steps ahead no matter how many arms he still had. 

No, when the police made their way to the penthouse, and passed through the grand doors, they'd find only the fruits of a well-deserved vengeance. The corpses of Moors' guards and hired guns, lifeless amalgams of fur, flesh, feather, and ferrous streaming dried blood onto the spotless floors. And at their head, a lifeless torso with a hole through its chest, the miserable bastard responsible for everything. The one with the bloodiest hands of all. 

Hanley Moors had been a symbol of power and opulence in Neoxsoma since long before Trine and Cube made their way to the city together. In a society where animated metal and mingled flesh was a status symbol, Moors created a new echelon of prestige, forsaking flesh entirely for a powerful, perfect new body and a face of constructed light hovering above. As if to look down upon his acquaintances and remind them with every glance that his power alone was enough to transcend the physical entirely. 

Not that it had mattered. For such a grand display, to perish by an old and ordinary revolver; an undignified death, exposing the hollowness that he'd hidden all along. 

Still, Trine wished that they hadn't dropped Gamble's gun when they'd left. They felt barren without it, even if they could only tuck it into their pocket. The weight in their hand, the solidity of the cool metal against their palm, would have been a welcome feeling right about now. 

But anything would, really. 

After what felt like a night's worth of running between buildings, Trine slowed as the narrow gap emptied out into the street. The mustiness of the alleyways cut out as the brilliant neon streetlights made Trine flinch. 

The buildings lining the street were dark, save for the stray light shining out from a window. It was a waste of neon to provide the back roads with the same extravagance as the city’s major veins. For now, however, the lack of light and life made an ideal escape route. 

Trine forced themself to slow down now that they were out in the open. They slid their hands casually into their pockets and strode down the sidewalk in long steps, moving in the direction of... 

The hideout. Trine stopped and grit their teeth as the image flooded back in. Blood and agony, tangible smells on the air. Cube – dear little brother – bleeding and torn on the floor. Beloved friends strewn lifeless across the room. 

And Gamble...

Gamble...

Trine sank to the ground, their whole body curling painfully inward. Their claws curled around thick handfuls of their jacket. They should have been there, with everyone else. Laying down their life to protect their own would have been so simple. 

But they'd been gone – too busy perusing the back alleys for people seeking Gamble's newfound arson bounty. They'd been the mouth and ears, and Stelle the sword carving a message into any would-be hunters. 

It hadn't done a flicker of good. Not when Moors and his militia stormed into their den and slaughtered everyone where they sat. Even with the prize of Moors' gold back in their hands, there was too much that they could never take back. 

Even with Moors' cold, metallic heart snuffed out, everyone and everything that Trine, Stelle, and Cube had loved died with it. Stelle's family would never accept their daughter back knowing the truth of her gang activities. Cube's missing arm and eye would make his mechanic’s training so much harder, if he wasn't outright dismissed for it. 

And Trine...Trine felt nothing. Nothing but nothing where their heart and friends and family and hopes for the future once rested. It had all been blown away. 

It was a long time before Trine could rise back to their feet and continue onward into the black night. 

#

Time: Two months after the assassination of Hanley Moors; Location: City of Neoxsoma, Residential Structure Vega

Stelle adjusted her scarf and the wide brim of her hat as she descended yet another flight of stairs. There were even fewer residents in this part of the structure than the preceding ones, but it would only take one intruder to throw herself and Cube back into the sights of a firing squad. She continued along the cramped gray hallways through the middle of the structure, curving through intersections at a seeming whim. 

The part of Stelle's mind that once accused her of paranoia no longer made such claims. Moors' blood hadn't even dried before every screen in the city lit up with news of that night’s gold-fueled vendetta. Stelle, Cube, and Trine alike had all been thrown up into the neon along with their lost friend Gamble. 

(She'd only been an arsonist and a thief, but Stelle and the others were terrorists and murderers atop that.) 

Trine had left on their own after firing the bullet that robbed Moors of his life and his gold, leaving the spoils to Stelle and Cube. Once it had become evident in the next few days that seeking them out wasn't an option – not with security and every hunter in city limits after their newfound bounty – the two remaining wolves chose to lie low for a while. Renting a half-decent apartment from one of the mass-produced structures in the residential district had cost mere shavings of a gold bar, once they'd run that money through the proper channels with what influence Stelle still carried. 

As Stelle moved outward toward the structure's shell, she finally stopped in front of one thin, metal door. Once she knew that the hallway was empty, she quietly unlocked the door and slipped inside. 

The lights in the single-room apartment were already on, and its other tenant turned his head as Stelle entered. 

“Hey,” said Cube – so named for the glowing green square on his forehead. He sat on his mattress with his back against the wall, his long legs stretching out onto the coarse beige carpet. “I thought you'd be home later. Is everything okay?” 

Only once Stelle had shut the door and sunken onto her own mattress opposite Cube's did she remove her hat and scarf and allow her fur to breathe. “One of my deliveries was canceled. He said he'd been replaced at the algae refinery and couldn't afford a gift for his partner anymore.” She sighed, sliding her delivery tote off her back. “Pity, I would have earned a bonus for keeping that necklace safe.” 

She dropped a bag from the local deli onto her mattress – dinner for the two of them tonight. 

Cube's prosthetic whirred as the four fingers spun slowly around his rounded 'palm'. “Sounds like we both had a rough day,” he said wearily. “I got stiffed on a repair job for one of the bars downtown. They said the jukebox was too jerky when it switched songs.” He picked at the half-assembled cassette player on his lap. “I spent two hours on it, too.” 

That was the sad reality of holding a job in Neoxsoma; if the person paying you was getting screwed over too, then you could call yourself lucky, because at least you weren't alone. But mostly you got pushed down and left behind. It was rough for anyone, but a freelancer like Cube only had his reputation, and reputations were so much easier to break than to keep standing. 

Suddenly, Cube looked up from his lap. “Hey, Stelle?” He started slowly, rubbing the claws on his right hand together as he thought. “We're not, uh, using the money we took from Moors for anything right now, right? If we're running a little low on cash—” 

“Cube, no,” Stelle cut him off firmly. “We can't raise any suspicions by spending money we shouldn't have. We'll find another way to get by this week.” 

“Who's even gonna know?” Cube shot back. “Nobody dangerous pays attention to anyone from here. We're just vermin in their gutters.” 

He waved his hands at the dull metal walls of their apartment. “And can you blame them, if everyone here lives like this? It's nothing – and we can still barely afford it! They're not going to notice if we spend a little more than usual!” 

Stelle stared him down. She had wondered about this, whether their current situation was tenable. Cube wasn't a fool; even without the exact numbers, he had to know that their shared income was barely keeping up with the costs. A couple weeks of low pay could easily do them in at this rate, and Moors had given them at least several million dollars in gold even with all of the fees paid under the table. They could afford their apartment for well past a lifetime, or a much better, safer home with plenty to spare. 

But Stelle had borne witness to the allure of riches for her entire life, and what it could drive decent people to. She'd left that behind, left them behind. She didn't think she could do it again. 

“We can't risk it. Not until we're certain that everyone has stopped searching for us,” she said, firmly keeping her eyes on Cube. “I'll take on more deliveries if we need them, and you can keep doing your repair jobs.” 

There was a tense moment of silence, and then Cube slapped his mattress and shot to his feet, sending the cassette player clattering to the floor. 

“For what? To stay cooped up in this goddamn metal box?!” Cube shouted, pulling his lips back to reveal his fangs. “I hate it here, Stelle! I want out! I'm sick of acting like we're doing something when we're just hiding! We need to find Tr—” 

“Trine wouldn't want you getting killed looking for them, Cube,” Stelle cut him off. “They would want us to be safe first. They can take care of themselves just fine until then.” 

She hoped. 

“Are you listening to yourself?” Cube growled. “They just left us – they didn't even say goodbye! Does that sound just fine to you? We need to find them!” 

“Not yet, Cube.” 

“Then when?!”

“When you can go outside without feeling once like anyone could be watching you,” Stelle finally snapped back, glaring up at Cube with the most forceful look she could manage. 

It must have been impressive, as Cube flinched back, mouth open but no sound leaving it. Eventually, he gave up and sank back onto his mattress, furiously returning to tampering. 

Stelle welcomed the feeling of regret that replaced her obstinate anger. It wasn't fair to knock Cube down when he'd already been through so much, when his older sibling was still gone without a single sign of life. He was still far too young to have deserved any of it. At least Stelle could have pointed to her high-class parentage and called it an exercise in humility. 

Things had been very different just a few months ago. The kid had been working through his apprenticeship with a local mechanic, and he'd been doing good work. Most days he came back to the den with a tired smile and stories about all the people he'd met and fixed things for that day, surrounded by friends and with Trine the proud big sibling holding him to their side. 

Cube lived off of spreading that joy more than any money he could have brought in. He made what could have been a difficult life so much better. 

Then Moors ripped his eye and his arm from him, and no prosthetics could make up for how far Cube had been set back. Stelle felt bad most days for the lackluster robot arms she'd been able to obtain for him; the first one had been a hefty crab claw, good for throwing thugs around but not so much for refined work, while his current one was a slender but sturdy limb leading to a rounded end with four jointed fingers extending from the ‘wrist’. 

It was certainly more dexterous, especially as Cube mastered moving his fingers along the circumference of his new hand, but even the most lifelike robotic limbs required time to figure out. Coupled with the wolf's ruined left eye – which he'd furiously refused to replace with another prosthetic – it was clear even before Cube went on the run that his education had met a cruel end. 

The rest of the evening passed quietly. The two of them sat on the floor together and ate dinner, and then Cube tucked all of his tools away and crawled onto his mattress with a quiet “good night”. Stelle watched him until she was certain that he'd drifted off, and then she laid down upon her own bedding. 

Her body sank into the mattress, just barely kept off the hard floor underneath, and Stelle turned to face the wall away from Cube – and away from the window that was still pouring the beginnings of twilight into their apartment. Most rooms in this structure didn't have windows at all, and Cube had begged to live somewhere with natural lighting. It had been one of Stelle's few concessions. 

Stelle closed her eyes and let out a quiet sigh. She had been too hard on him, she could accept that now. The past two months had been so very hard for both of them, but at least Stelle had no family to miss, and no need to beg anyone for a little bit of sunlight. 

Tomorrow, they could start looking for someplace else to live. They would still need to be smart about it, but there had to be somewhere in this city that let them hide with a little more comfort. 

And Trine...Stelle still didn't know what they would do about Trine. She could only hope that they'd found sanctuary, if not for herself than certainly for the little brother that they'd left behind. 

Amidst all of the plans, thoughts of comfort, and worries for tomorrow, somehow Stelle found the strength to let go and fall into slumber. 

As the sun slid below the horizon and the night marched into the quiet hours of morning, neither wolf was awake to see a dark shape hanging from the building outside of their window, and neither of them heard the rectangle of glass being slowly, quietly cut open. 

By the time the cool air from outside flowed into the room and shocked the two awake, the figure would be gone, leaving only a package of their own in their place and a brief message scrawled in red ink on a piece of paper. 

Won't you help us break this wretched city? 

P.S. Security is on their way, you'll want to hurry out of there. 

#

Time: Meanwhile; Location: City of Neoxsoma, outside Tsunokeji Tower

Wherever the privileged went, they had both the blessing and the curse to cast shadows. It wasn't possible to hold so much light in their hands without a looming darkness stretching back behind them. And there was always going to be somebody, even one person, who would be lost in that darkness, unseen and uncared for. 

Nowhere did that ring true more than a city like Neoxsoma. In daytime, the buildings were tall enough to cast their own shadows, drowning everyone below in a shaded sea. In nighttime, their penthouse lights cast synthetic auroras over the skyline, too high to ever be reached; everyone below could only make do with the flickering neon and harsh digital screens supplied as placation. 

Of course, people spoke of climbing up toward the lights at the peaks of metal, glass, and stone, and making a home among them. Many watched the skyline with spiteful eyes, dreaming of the day that somebody would be cast down from on high and perish upon the pavement. But most didn't dare dream, only averting their eyes from the lights and seeking contentment in the shadows far below. 

None of them had any idea of how simple climbing a mountain could really be. 

Trine slid their keycard from their pocket and waved it in front of the card reader. The reader beeped and flashed green, and Trine pushed through the door into the lobby of Tsunokeji Tower. In the dead of night, the high rise was silent and empty, lit only by the soft glow of the light fixtures on the walls – a glow seemingly absorbed by the deep chestnut-stained walls and dark red carpeting. 

On the opposite wall from the residential elevators was the penthouse elevator – no different from the others save for the swirling golden trim – and Trine slid their key into the reader and entered the elevator code. The doors swung open almost immediately, as though the elevator had been waiting for them. 

They stepped inside and pressed the up button, adjusting their hoodie as the elevator closed. Trine was pretty sure the Horans had installed cameras in the elevator, and they needed to keep the glowing purple triangle on their forehead away from electronic eyes. 

Trine fixed their grip on the grocery bags in their hand as the elevator finally slowed down and stopped. The doors opened obediently into the penthouse living room, a vast area with walls painted soft white, and an enormous glass wall on the opposite side that opened into a large personal courtyard. The couches and chairs were decadent, each one a piece of heaven worth thousands. 

The Horans were new money, having risen to wealth through an urban development empire that had built the last few decades of this city. They'd wasted no time snapping up part of the skyline for themselves, so much wasted space that they were far too busy to ever use. 

The thought made Trine's hackles raise and lips curl in disgust. 

They carried their bags into the kitchen area nearby (near spotless from disuse and cleaning) and quietly flipped on the light switch before setting the bags onto the counter – gently, to avoid jostling the fifty-cent pistol buried underneath everything that Trine had picked up from the market. There was also a change of clothes tucked in there, but that wasn't as much of a hazard. 

“What were you doing?” 

Trine stiffened and turned all the way around. A small, skinny oryx stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room, dressed in pajamas made of the softest, likely most expensive silk that one could find in this city. He rubbed his tired eyes, regulated breaths audible in the silence. 

Trine's initial shock faded into a warm and gentle smile. “Hey, Luka. Did I scare you?” They asked softly, kneeling down to meet the young boy at eye level. “Sorry about that. We haven't picked up groceries in so long that I thought I'd run out and get something.” 

“But it's two in the morning,” the oryx whined, stifling a yawn. He winced as his artificial lungs pumped in another breath, cutting it off with a choking sound from his throat. Trine reached out to him, but Luka held out his hands to stop them. “I was waiting for you. I thought you left me...” He said, curling into himself. 

Trine exhaled and reached out again, this time to wrap their arms around their charge and hold them close. “I'm so sorry, little guy. I was just swinging by the store real quick. I thought we could have something special for breakfast tomorrow.” They rested their cheek against the side of Luka's head, and held the child's head and back in one hand each, careful to avoid his straight, pointed horns. 

Luka moaned quietly in Trine's grasp but didn't pull away. “Everyone leaves eventually, you know. I figured you'd gotten tired of me too,” he said, burying his face into the crook of Trine's neck. 

“Hey, that's not true,” Trine murmured. They stroked Luka's back with their fingertips, just the way he liked it. “I'm not going anywhere, I swear. If you hadn't hired me, I'd be homeless right now, you know? You saved me, Luka. So I'm gonna stay right here and look out for you, like I promised. However long you need me.” 

The penthouse was silent, save for the sound of Luka's artificial lungs rising and falling in his chest. Evidently he'd been born with a respiratory defect, and at some point his parents decided it would be simpler to just tear his lungs out and replace them – and everything else below his larynx. Trine couldn't begin to explain how everything connected inside his chest, but it kept him alive. 

It didn't keep the boy's parents around, however. They'd enrolled him in online education, bought him everything he needed to succeed, and then left him behind like a pet. Their only remaining consolation was hiring a caretaker, and they still left most of it to Luka himself. 

The young boy pushed his face into the crook of Trine's neck. “I could need you for a long time, Trine,” he whispered. Such sorrow in his voice, but he never shed a tear. Maybe he never found a point. He gripped the front of Trine's shirt in two small bundles of cloth. 

“Then I'll stay for a long time,” Trine whispered back. Until they found Cube and Stelle and figured out what to do next. Until Luka's wretched excuses for parents returned home, and...

They smothered the burning feeling that oozed into their chest. Tonight had gone on long enough. 

Finally, Trine pulled away and put a smile on their face for Luka. “Now let's get you back to bed. You’ll have to be up early for your online class.” 

Luka's lips pursed, like there was something he wanted to say. Trine waited patiently until the oryx spoke. “Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?” 

Trine brushed the top of Luka's head with a feather's touch. “Of course, little buddy. Always,” they said, taking his hand as they rose back up. Once Luka fell asleep – however long that took – they still had to put away all of their groceries. 

By morning, the story would likely be everywhere, how real estate tycoon and esteemed philanthropist Ingrid Meir had been shot dead in her apartment following a bomb scare and evacuation, killed with a pistol so scratched up inside that any markings on the bullet would be useless. Her fellow point-one-percenters would trade sorrowful stories of her fierce, generous spirit, of the woman who had given so much to help the downtrodden of the city. 

Trine would know better. And although the void in their chest wouldn't be filled by the death of a single socialite, they would remember that Neoxsoma ran deep with rot. And there was always another infestation to cleanse. 

And one day, Trine didn't know when, the void left behind by Gamble and the rest of their family would be full again. It would be. 

So few people understood how simple climbing a mountain truly was. Once you dedicated your entire being to a purpose, once you forsook the notion that there were actions you couldn't take in that pursuit, it left so very little that you couldn't do. 

[clovertrails]

Finding a new trail

Leaving my front door, I turned left, walking south. After a few intersections, I hit Mosholu Avenue, a commercial street whose name derives from the Algonquin word for “smooth stones” or “small stones.” Oddly, the river that does run through Riverdale, which likely created the “smooth stones” which the word mosholu describes, is named Tibbetts Creek, after a European settler. It’s kind of odd to name a commercial avenue after a geographic feature of a river, no? But perhaps that could be read in a hopeful manner—to think of the urban commercial avenue as a river incarnate, a life-giving force through the town.

At Mosholu, I turned right (west, toward the river), following the avenue as it rounded corner, passing the local Tudor-style NYPL branch. Past the Riverdale Neighborhood House, a quaint colonial building with a pool and playground that looks vaguely hospitable for a certain kind of respectable citizen. Past the weedy baseball field, past the playground, mostly empty during the pandemic, but sometimes with a gaggle of teenage guys, chilling.

I usually crossed the street at this point and walked up a sidewalk to a curious little park that exists as an island amidst a crisscrossing web of highways. I walked up the street mostly because I didn’t feel like crossing the six-lane avenue just yet. Wanted secluded lanes that would allow me to keep to myself.

The park consists of a hilltop, a green island that just peeps over a loop-de-loop of highways, another one of Robert Moses’ concrete graffiti scrawls over the landscape of the Bronx. There’s a dog park in the middle that’s sort of falling apart; I’ve never seen anyone using it, dog or human. Mostly there are a lot of benches, facing outward and inward.

I kept walking, down garden-style, five-story, red brick apartments. Turned onto a quiet residential road with suburban single-family houses. No sidewalks, just gravelly weedy transitional spaces between grass and pavement.

I remember the gates first. I didn’t yet know it was a school; all I saw was a gate and behind it, trimmed lawns rolling up to a genteel brick building. A gated compound, vast flat fields, lacrosse fields, parking lots – of course, a private school. I followed the road as it sloped downward, hugging the edge of the prep school. There is something so sinister about a totally manicured lawn. How much labor, how much capital, do you need, to sustain this ugly face of control? Walking alongside the compound, I thought of all the iterations of this sort of gated, fenced-in, land – estates, kingdoms, plantations. 

At the end of the hill, the road spilled into nondescript dirt space. From a handful of cars, I gathered that it was a parking lot. The air changed, becoming cooler, denser. Ahead, the gravel met a chain-link fence tagged with the NYC Parks logo, a green maple leaf. This was a park? An old traffic cone and squashed cardboard boxes lay fallen against the fence. If you were walking quickly, or even driving, you would miss it entirely. My mind flashed to other Hudson parks I knew – Riverside Park, Riverbank State Park, Fort Tryon, Inwood. But this one was new, never previously encountered on a map or in person.

It seemed out of nowhere, a glen of hickory and oak, between mansions and railroads. No surprise, my mind flashed back to the gated private school that I had just passed. It was not lost on me that the serendipity of slipping into this trail occurred next to a private school with a 50K tuition in one of the richest neighborhoods in this zip code. Technically, this is a public park, but it is geographically located for the wealthy elite.

Not knowing what was inside this park, or how far it extended, I entered. Dusty paths, tall hickory and oak, flush with undergrowth. I followed a dirt trail and saw the glimmers of sunlight through the kaleidoscopic canopy of trees. I soon found the chain-link fence that formed the eastern perimeter of this park, and glimpsed the water beyond, drinking in its murmuring waves. Wandering more, I came across a dried-up gully, with a fallen tree trunk spanning its width. The top of the trunk had eroded into a temptingly flat surface. Certainly passable, if one had the guts to try. I walked five steps forward, paused, and retreated. Too old.

One thing to know is that the trees there were very tall. They do not rival the California redwoods, but the distance between the bushy undergrowth and the swaying canopy overhead felt vast. The treetops were so tall that they caught all the river wind, swirling it amongst their branches, so that I, a small ant standing below, heard the roar of the wind more so than felt its touch on my skin.

In the immediate vicinity of my body, there was the peace and quiet of overgrown trails and mossy trunks, but several leagues upward (what does a league measure? I do not know, but it feels like the right word), the treetops were in a great upheaval—maple, oak, hickory, all mingling—caught up in the wind, swaying and fluttering in one uplift.

The trail itself is fairly narrow, walk about 15 meters one way and you will see the faint outlines of a chain-link fences. On the riverside, you’ll catch sight of the railroads ahead, and on the roadside, the outlines of secluded houses, lights of vehicles driving by.

But this place, it felt like a little gem, one that, momentarily, was all my own. I knew that if I pulled up Google Maps, I would find this trail on the maps, and that if I searched it online, I would find the NYC Parks page for this trail, explaining in byte-form. The zoning, the planning committee, the pushback, et cetera. But it would say nothing about how it felt, walking through desolate suburban streets and posh gated lawns to then discover, without notice, relief. A windy green corridor, tucked by the river, rushing, still, roaring, quiet—all at once. 

I returned to the trail the next day, and the day after that. I found my legs craving, turning toward the park. One day during dinner, my mom inquired after where I went walking that day, and I mentioned that I went to Riverdale Park, by the river. They were puzzled – where?

Is it by the train station, my mom asked. By the train station, I sometimes see a little trail there and wonder what it is, she said, referring to the Riverdale Metro North station that services the Hudson Line, connecting Grand Central in midtown to Poughkeepsie up north in the valley.

No, I shake my head, no, thinking that she was referring to the pathetic concrete strip accessible to pedestrians by the train station. It’s basically a 15 meter long sidewalk with a single bench and overflowing trash cans where you might sit down and look over the Hudson. It’s certainly something, at least, but one cannot feel antsy, gazing upon the vast sweep of the Hudson while hemmed in by these arbitrary fences for “viewing.”  

Mine was a place that I had resisted placing on a map; it was this little gem of a shady glen pocketed into the outskirts of a suburb. It’s further south of here, next to Wave Hill, I said. You walked there? My dad asked, incredulous. Yes, I walked, I said, hiding my pride in my nonchalance. It’s only like twenty minutes.

Of course, my parents did not understand. They keep to their established routes – to the train station, to the field, to the grocery store. Whatever trail that my mom was referring to was not it. Besides, the trail was quite far from the train station – at least half a mile or so south of it.

I showed them the trail on Google Maps, pointing out the green rectangular patch. Ah, we have never been there, they mused. A week or so later, Saturday afternoon, instead of taking the car to the beach on Long Island, as is our tradition, we drove over to the trail. They were astonished when they arrived at the dirt entrance of the park.  A secret! They exclaimed. They’ve been keeping this a secret! Five years and we had no idea this place existed. Who would have known? So out of the way. Who was keeping this secret??

I chuckled at their astonishment, their indignation, that they had only now discovered this place. Part of my reaction is a weariness of knowing my parents calcified habits. They have lived in New York City for almost a decade now but still – my dad especially – are still suburban in their bones. Their favorite store remains Costco, where they shop at least once a week, despite having been empty nesters for more than a few years now. During the weekends, they drive up north to the suburbs to go hiking more often than they drive south to Manhattan for entertainment. The most urban that they venture is to the local Asian neighborhoods – Chinatown, Flushing, Elmhurst, for shopping and eating.

But their indignant exclamation, they’ve been keeping this secret! lingers with me and evinces, I think, a kernel of truth. If you zoom out from where I’m standing, in this little park in Riverdale, and run your eyes down the western length of New York City, you will see green hugging most of the coastline, corresponding to the richest zip codes in Manhattan. I think about the other, far larger and more famous park, Van Cortlandt Park, that sits next to the 242nd street subway station and attracts more populous crowds of Black, Latinx, Asian, and white residents, picnicking, playing baseball, soccer, flying kites, working out. Of course, Van Cortlandt has far more acreage and resources to avail itself to such recreation, but the park is well-trodden and busy, evidenced not only by the multitude of bodies but also the glass shards that depressingly litter its trails. Most of all, I guess, Van Cortlandt is unmissable, obvious, in plain sight. 

On the other hand, the trail running through Riverdale Park is sequestered away, on the margins with a nondescript entrance and overgrown signage. This trail offers the illusory feeling of having discovered it by yourself, a feeling of privacy within a public space. And within this privacy, unexpected and lively things emerge. But how might relishing the serendipitous joys of stumbling into one’s own world of green manifest not the sublimity of nature (or the self, touched by nature), but rather the hoarding of wealth, in its material and immaterial forms, across private and public lines? How might we deem both of these to be true and think of them together?  Things to keep thinking about…

[gingerandwry]

Brasilia, Brazil

Few people have anything good to say about Brasilia, the country’s capital. Built from nothing only sixty years ago, it is now the third biggest city in the country, yet it draws few tourists. Even many “residents” leave on the weekends-- they are only here for work during the week and return to their home towns whenever they can. But from an architecture and urban design standpoint it is one of the most distinctive, unusual cities in the world, and that’s why I wanted to see it.

A quick history... For most of Brazil’s colonial history, cities along the coast competed to be power centers. Many agreed that the capital should be moved to a neutral location in the central interior, and the new republic’s Constitution of 1888 even called for it. But it wasn’t until after WWII that a president, Juscelino Kubitschek, put a plan into action. He assembled a team of designers and architects-- most notably Oscar Niemeyer-- to design the new city. In 1960 (59 years ago this week), Brasilia was inaugurated, and the capital officially moved from Rio. Niemeyer (who had strong communist leanings) wanted it to be the city of the future, where rich and poor would live and work side-by-side. His distinctive Modernist buildings still define the cityscape and were the main draw for me.

The main city of Brasilia is shaped like an airplane (it’s surrounded by 25 satellite towns too). The cockpit, fuselage and tail (the “Eixo Monumental”) contain most of the government buildings, museums and other attractions. The wings are divided into a grid and areas are named after what they contain, such as shopping, hospitals, sports clubs, etc. (Yes this is very strange as you would think it would behoove everyone to have these things spread around.) Beneath the wings is a large (manmade) lagoon. In many ways it’s a brilliant design (not unlike Burning Man) but it’s executed very poorly.

I arrived Monday afternoon to a relatively cushy AirBnB in the Hotel Saint Moritz in the “Northern Hotel Sector” (at the top of the fuselage). I needed some food, and the only real option was a giant mall (Conjunto Nacional) across the street. Brazilians love malls, and that’s especially true in Brasilia since there is effectively no street life (more on that soon). This mall was massive and yet there were no maps or directories. I really couldn’t fathom how that works tho I tried to as I wondered for half an hour to find the food court. That night I decided to take it easy, but I did enjoy the rooftop view of the axis.

On Tuesday morning I stepped out to begin my walking tour, which, if you’ve been to Brasilia, you probably find laughable. First, the distances are much bigger than they seem on a map, mostly because there is so much dead space to cross (lawns, parking lots, empty lots, grassy knolls, etc.). Two, Brasilia is famously made for cars, so there are few sidewalks or crosswalks. This means forging trails where you can (including on medians), waiting for a break in speeding traffic on four-to-six lane roads so you can run across, teetering on narrow curbs, walking in the street alongside parked cars, etc. It is extremely unpleasant, sometimes terrifying and often inefficient. It’s also surreal as when sidewalks or staircases (some of the few concessions made to pedestrians) just end abruptly at a busy road; the city planners know people will walk across that road but have done nothing to aid them. I know that in some places (like parts of southern California), the lack of sidewalks reflects that fact that nobody walks anywhere. But lots of people walk here. The problem is that they’re poor. The middle and upper classes drive cars, and city government doesn’t care about poor pedestrians. I suppose that Niemeyer thought everyone would drive in the future, and that’s why he designed such a sprawled city that can really only be traversed by car. But the result is a betrayal of his egalitarian principles (not to mention an environmental catastrophe).

Nonetheless I was determined to walk. Google Maps’ walking directions pointed me to... the mall. Yes Brasilia lacks sidewalks but you can take malls to get from points A to B. (Once again I got lost in the mall, so it took about 15 minutes to find B.) On the opposite side of the mall from my hotel sits a small plaza (hilariously named Praca dos Pedestres or “Pedestrian Plaza”) with a view overlooking the Eixo. It’s similar to The Mall in Washington, D.C., but it is not inspiring. You can see some of the stranger Niemeyer buildings along the axis and the Congresso Nacional at the end, but it’s mostly a large empty patch of grass that seems unfinished. My first stop was the Teatro Nacional, a sort of pyramid without a top that would make an awesome waterslide. Then I visited the Biblioteca Nacional, a fairly new (and incomplete?) building. It kind of resembles a hi-fi stereo from the 70s and looks great from afar. But up close it’s a terribly wasted opportunity. The ground floor of the building is encased in opaque glass windows so that it’s impossible to see inside-- or even get inside. I walked around the entire building before I found the drab entrance. Of all types of buildings, libraries should be accessible, open and functional, but it seems Niemeyer preferred grandiosity for one of his final designs.

I continued on to the Museu Nacional and the Catedral Metropolitana, two of the city’s strangest, most recognizable buildings. They are both quite compelling in person, tho not well kept up and smaller than I imagined (or perhaps they’re dwarfed by all the empty space around them). The museum is a white dome with a Saturn-like ring around it and a large ramp leading to the entrance. It hosts rotating exhibits, but I was mostly interested in the building. The cathedral resembles a wheat bushel with leaning columns coming together in a peak at the top, separated by giant stained glass windows. The effect on the interior is unique and breathtaking.

I then walked to the “Banking Sector” which has more to offer than you might expect. Brazil’s banks-- and especially the central bank-- often offer cultural centers and exhibitions centers, which at the very least can provide a good opportunity to glimpse inside some beautiful buildings. Case in point, the Caixa Cultural, a large bank whose lobby is filled with stunning stained glass windows, one for each of Brazil’s states. Across the street is the headquarters of the Banco Central do Brasil, a deceptively light looking skyscraper, that is home to a “money museum” featuring currency from around the world (unfortunately I could not go in without my passport).

Cursing the traffic and city planners, I continued my walk, now scrambling south from the axis. My destination was Santuario Dom Bosco, a beautiful modernist church famous for its chandelier and illuminated Murano glass meant to resemble a starry night sky. It was also a nice place to sit for a minute and let my frustrations with the city subside. But that didn’t last long. I ventured back out and over to TV Tower, a broadcast tower that is one of the country’s tallest structures and offers sweeping city views. Supposedly. After a hot, lengthy walk dodging cars I arrived only to discover it was closed for construction. At this point I decided to treat myself to an Uber to get home, tho not before one last stop at... the mall. And yet again I got lost, this time in search of a grocery store which it turns out the mall doesn’t have-- apparently I should have gone to the grocery store sector. That evening I decided not to venture far from my hotel, which fortunately sits on a small plaza with a pizzeria, beer bar and convenience store.

On Wednesday I set out (in an Uber this time) to finish my tour of the Eixo. I headed to Praca dos Tres Podres, the hub of the federal government. Sites include the Supremo Tribunal Federal (relatively dowdy); Palacio do Planalto (the Executive building which looks similar but its elevation on stilts makes it much more remarkable); Panteao da Patria e da Liberdade (a collection of striking geometric forms, including small dove-shaped performance space with a beautiful stain-glassed window, a stairway to an eternal flame and Brazil’s largest national flag); Espaco Cultural Lucio Costa (an underground lair honoring the city’s main urban planner which includes a giant scale model of the city); Museu Historico de Brasilia (a small, elevated marble block whose interior walls are engraved with the story of the city and several inspiring quotes about it, and whose exterior features a massive statute of Kubitschek’s head); and several art pieces. Up the hill are two beautiful buildings that house the Foreign and Justice ministries: Palacio do Itamaraty and Palacio da Justica. The former appears to sit in a lake that reflects the buildings columns and arches, while the latter’s exterior contains several cascading water falls. (Side question: if Brazil has not had a monarch since 1888 and Brasilia was built in the 1950s by a leftist government, why are all the buildings called palaces?)

The centerpiece of all this is the Congresso Nacional, an eye-catching masterpiece rich in symbolism. Two tall, narrow towers intersect a low flat building with two roof adornments, a dome and a bowl. The dome (symbolizing inclusivity) tops the House chamber while the bowl tops the Senate. These are lined up neatly with the towers so that they balance each other out, tall and short, wide and narrow, heavy and light, square and circle. It’s really a perfect structure that I could not take my eyes off of as I walked around it.

Once I had soaked in as much as I could, I took a car down to the “Sporting Clubs Sector” to the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil, another bank-run exhibition space. This one is dedicated to contemporary art, and the current exhibition was on photorealism and hyper-realism, where artists use photographs to create amazingly realistic paintings that are able to convey qualities that the photography does not, such as depth, light, texture and social themes. The technical mastery behind these works was mind-blowing, and it yielded interesting insights into how different media and technology help each other to progress.

I then headed further south to Pontao do Lago Sul, a waterfront area with restaurants, performance space and meandering paths. It feels very new and contrived (like the whole city I guess) but it’s still a nice place to enjoy the light of the sunset. On my way home I stopped back at Praca dos Tres Podres to see it lit up at night, and I’m very glad I did.

There was not much left to see on my last day so I spent most of the time relaxing and catching up on this blog. I stepped out for a moment to see JK Memorial, Kubitschek’s museum and mausoleum (in the cockpit). It’s a modest, tasteful building full of the president’s belongings (documents, medals, clothes, pens, 1974 Ford Galaxie, etc.). The displays were in English which is always nice, but I do not have a strong interest in Kubitschek so I breezed through quickly. I did enjoy the recreation of his library (with 3,000 books) and the many historical photographs, particularly those showing the building of Brasilia. I noted how much empty space lay between buildings during the construction. This is to be expected but one would also expect that space to be filled in over the next sixty years....

Brasilia is a city most people don’t want to spend much time in or think much about it. But it’s actually a fascinating place that made me consider the value of architecture and urban design. I loved the notable buildings here much more than I expected to. Concrete Modernism does not sound aesthetically pleasing, and I thought the city would look more kitschy, like Epcot Center. But these thoughtfully rendered buildings really opened my eyes to how beautiful modernism can be and how well it can age. Just as important, the city founders (especially Niemeyer) did not try to emulate existing world capitals like London or Rome. They created entirely new buildings that were-- and still are-- distinctively Brazilian. If a country’s capital should showcase its own aesthetic, Brasilia has succeeded.

And yet in almost every other way it is a failure because of-- not despite-- its (over) design. Contrast it with Sao Paulo, a city that has grown up entirely organically. Yes it’s a mess but it’s a much more exciting, livable, human city. Brazil’s cities have incredible street life but that’s pre-empted in Brasilia. This city offers a lesson that cities grow from the bottom up and cannot be handed down from above. Clearly the designers had an idea about how a city should work, but they completely ignored how they actually work. Good urban planners will take note of existing human behavior and patterns and accommodate them (for example, building parking lots) while encouraging better civic mindedness (like building bike lanes). It’s also foolish to design a city around a technology that’s only 50 years old (driving) while ignoring what humans have been doing for tens of thousands of years (walking). Like so much of Robert Moses’ concurrent work in New York City, this urban design sacrificed the city’s residents to the greater concept of the city.

It’s probably too late to fix Brasilia and all its wasted space (and there does not seem to be much will to), but some elements could be corrected, starting with the city’s ambivalence-- even hostility-- toward tourism. Despite its short history, Brasilia is a unique, important city with many attractions in relatively close proximity. It would appeal to a lot of people, especially architecture enthusiasts and Brazilians interested in their own government. And the people are much friendlier than in Rio (perhaps because in Brasilia people are grateful to have visitors whereas in Rio they are taken for granted). But the city does nothing to encourage tourism. There are no good options for getting around, and all of the government buildings are either closed to the public (a terrible look for a democracy) or are only open in small windows or under specific conditions. From an outsider’s perspective it seems they don’t actually want tourists here. Everyone I met first asked me if I was here for work, then if I lived here. They were all surprised to learn I was just on holiday.

I think it would be fairly easy and inexpensive to turn the Eixo into a proper tourist destination. Put in sidewalks, crosswalks and stop lights. Fill in the empty spaces with trees, fountains, playgrounds, pathways, reflecting pools, etc. Over time add more buildings like museums, hotels (outside of the hotel sectors!?) and restaurants (currently there are zero). It’s practically a blank slate surrounded by some incredible buildings housing the seat of the federal government of one of the world’s biggest countries. Visiting Brasilia could be a treat, not the chore most treat it as. I wonder if there is resistance to changing the city so as not to dishonor the original vision (Niemeyer was still called upon to build the major new buildings up until his death in 2012). If the city wants to fulfill its ambition to be a city of the future, it needs to adapt and modernize. If it does not, its problems will only multiply, and it will stagnate and decay and will remain a city stuck in the past. I think a photo from my hotel roof taken on my last night illustrates Brasilia’s potential and its (so far) disappointing failure to live up to it....

It ended on a good note tho. Taking off from the airport I was just able to make out the airplane shape from my window seat, and that made it feel like my trip was complete.

[fanwright]

Sokkla Transporter AU

Neon filtered through theblinds in his window and the heavy, rhythmic beat of the nearby night clubpulsed through the walls and resonated through his body, chasing away thesilence of his room. Party-goers cheered over the beat, celebrating the comingof night, freed from the day’s grind.

To Sokka, it was justanother night for him. Work didn’t end with the setting sun and his clientsalways preferred the safety of the dark to conduct their business.

His phone vibrated on thenearby nightstand. He smirked in the mirror as he straightened his black tieand matted out the creases in his blue dress shirt. 

First job of the night.Not a moment too soon. 

Satisfied with his tie, hemade his way over the the nightstand. Picking up the phone he checked thecaller identification on the small, glowing screen. Anonymous, as always. Theonly kind of calls he ever received.

Swiping the lock on thescreen with the flick of his thumb, Sokka pressed down on the green button andheld the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“I need a driver.”

The voice. Cool,confident, feminine, all business, and all too familiar. His smirkedwidened. It was her again.

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

Her tone commanded acompliance. She had certain knack for doing this kind of thing, cutting tobusiness, never one for chit chat. Then again he took a measure of pride intaking on these spontaneous jobs from her. Not like he had anything lined up atthe moment.

Sokka slowly strolledpassed his bed, eyeing the neatly pressed black coat laying on the comforter.His pistol lay in its holster next to it, cleaned and loaded.

“Give me the detailsthen.”

“Only what you need toknow.”

He rolled his eyes,keeping his voice cordial, “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

There was a short pause onthe other end and sigh filtered through the speaker. Sokka rested his hand onhis hip, gently tapping his finger.

“A simple job. Quicktransport to a location on the other side of the city.”

Sokka nodded his head,“What, or who, am I transporting?”

“I want you to get me frompoint A to B and back. Once we arrive at the location, you are to wait until Ireturn.”

“Pick up point anddestination?”

“North eighty-eight andIdlewild, south sixty-third and Kent, respectively.”

His gaze slowly trailed upto the worn ceiling, planning out the route, anticipating the stops and turns.

He nodded his head,“Payment?”

“Your usual rate. In cash,half when you get me to the location, half after you get me out.” 

He grinned. A fairlysimple job. One place to another and back. Knowing her a call like this usuallymeant she was employed and on the move, though he could only guess at whorequired her services.

Made no difference to him.Her business was her own. All she needed was a getaway driver.

Her voice filtered throughthe speaker, “Do you accept the job?”

Sokka lightlychuckled, “You got yourself a driver.”

Orange streetlights passedin the front window, illuminating a path along an empty road lined by decrepitapartments and dark windows. The lights were green at most intersections and hemade turns when they were red, following the route he had made.

A low heat filteredthrough the interior fans and a hard beat played through the speakers, bassthumping in his ears and through the car. Briefly taking his hand away from thegear stick, Sokka reached for a glowing blue dial and turned the music up. Hishead rocked to the rhythm.

He glanced quickly at hispassenger, anticipating a harsh remark. All he noticed was a gloved leatherfinger tapping to the rhythm. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, eyesclosed and head bowed, as if deep in meditation.

“Do you want me to turn itdown?” he asked her.

“No. Leave it.”

Sokka shrugged, turninghis head to the road, dim streetlights and flashing neon signs glaring in hiseyes.

A thought occurred to him,“Heat all right?”

“Yes. Its fine.”

Gently putting his foot tothe brake, the car slowed as it came to an intersection, a stale red lighthanging over the road. Sokka turned the wheel, slow and smooth, making a rightturn down an unlit street. The headlights burned a path on the uneven pavement, dashboard and radio glowing in the darkness. He put his foot to the gaspetal and the car accelerated passed empty tenements and dark, grass infestedlots.

There was a light patteragainst the windshield as droplets of water hit the glass. 

“Hm. Looks like its gonnarain,” he said, flipping down the switch to activate the  wipers.

She calmly breathedthrough her nose, “So it will.”

“Might get soaked. Theysaid there might be a storm. Umbrella could come in handy,” he said, a lighttouch of sarcasm with his words.

She raised her head andopened her eyes, staring up at the orange lights catching in the little drops ofwater pattering against the windows.

Shrugging, she lowered herhead and closed her eyes, “So what? It doesn’t matter to me.”

Sokka nodded his headknowingly, “Mm-hm. I suppose you’re right.”

She sniffed theair, “Hmph. You always talk too much.”

“Its what I do, Red.”

The rain came down hardagainst the windshield, the road coated in a tar-like sheen, buildings alongthe cracked sidewalks shrouded in a heavy, watery mist. A homeless man under astreet light ambled to his makeshift shelter as Sokka passed by. He saw himshake a fist at the sky, cursing the storm.

Another red light, anothersmooth turn, and another dark street along his route, going deeper into thecity. Sokka casually glanced to the watch peeking out from under his jacketsleeve. He smirked. Still on time.

“I don’t think you’ll belate at this rate,” he said.

“This is assuming I mustbe on time for something,” she said, her tone flat.

He shrugged his shoulderscasually, “I guess you could say that. If I needed to get somewhereimportant I wouldn’t want some scrub driving me around and making wrong turns.”

“In-directly pattingyourself on the back. Careful, Driver, keep that up and your arm mightbreak.”

He mimicked an offendedlook as he kept his eyes on the road, “Ouch. That burned.”

“Can’t stand theheat? Pull over and cool the wound off in the rain.”

He chuckled, “Lovely asalways, Red.”

“Thanks.”  

Shabby apartments withbroken windows gave way to old factories and trash strewn lots hemmed in bychain linked fences. The roads were thin and rough and Sokka had to drive overthe occasional deep puddle as the car lurched. Rusted metal walls and blacksmoke stacks climbed into the cloudy night, the rain pattering hard over thecorrugated metal roofs.

Slowing his speedconsiderably, Sokka reached for the radio dial and turned down the music volume.Through the rain he spied an old warehouse, its massive doors left opened, itsinterior big enough to lay low in. Bounding over the cracks and holes in theroad he slowly drove inside, pulling up beside a wall with enough shadow to keephim concealed.

When he cut the headlightsout he immediately killed the engine. Everything went dark and his eyes took awhile to adjust. He left the key in the ignition.

“We’re here.”

Raising her head, sheopened her eyes. Unfolding her arms she reached into her jacket, unclasped astrap, and unholstered her pistol. From the other side, hanging on a small concealed bandoleer, she took hold of a matte-black silencer. Clasping it tothe end of the barrel and tightened it. 

“’Red’” she said, gettingSokka’s attention, “Why to do call me that?”

He didn’t answer herimmediately, too pre-occupied as he unbuttoned his jacket and unholstered hisown pistol.

Scanning the darknessaround him, Sokka laid the pistol on his lap, gripping it firmly, finger offthe trigger.

“Your sweater. The one youalways like to wear under your jacket. You stopped wearing dress shirts whenyou got blood on them. Red’s a good color on you.”

With one last turn thesilencer was secured to her pistol.

She fixed him with aglare, “You should learn to keep your eyes on the road more.”

“Heh. Fair enough Iguess.”

She unbuttoned a coveredpocket on her jacket. Reaching in, she then held out a sizable stack of crispbills.

“For the ride. Stay hereuntil I return. You’ll get the rest once we’re out of here safely.”

Sokka took the stack fromher hand and tucked them away into a pocket in his jacket.

“Safely huh? Expectingtrouble?”

“Always.” 

He nodded his head,looking out through the rain covered window, “You seem pretty calm for someonewho might walk into a bloodbath.”

She chuckled lightly,“When you are resolved from the beginning, then you will not be perplexed. Youknow what to expect and so there is no use in worrying about the inevitable.”

Sokka blinked, his eyeswidening, “Tsunetomo, right?”

She turned to him, aperplexed expression twisting her features, before nodding herhead, “That’s right.”

“Huh. Go figure.”

She said nothing, staringat him with a blank, unreadable expression. Without anything else to say sheturned her head away, opening the door beside her and silently walking out intothe cold night. 

Her footsteps faded awayas Sokka looked out into the dark, her silhouette merging with the rough-hewnshadows of the gutted warehouse.

All that was left for himto do was play the waiting game. 

At first, it was just himand the rain, the minutes passing and giving way to hours. As the storm passed,there was only silence, broken by the occasional groan of rusted supportbeams and squeaking leather as Sokka shifted uncomfortably in the driver’sseat. 

And then, like distantflashes of lightning out of the corner of his eye, came the gunfire. 

Yellow sparks at theopposite end of the empty warehouse drew his eye, the patter of bullets ringingagainst the metal walls.

Through the brief flasheshe saw a lone, shadowy figure rush across the puddle strewn floor toward his car.He could hear her panting as she threw open the passenger door,the dull thud of an empty clip echoing through the warehouse as it hit thefloor. The engine growled to life before she even shut the door and Sokka wasalready shifting gears before she loaded a fresh clip into her pistol.

“Go!”

Foot to the petal, engineroaring, the car sped forward as Sokka made a sharp turn through the warehouseopening, racing down the road. Gunfire lit up his rear view mirror, bulletsscreaming passed him over the drone of the engine. He flinched as a bullet hithis rear windshield, the impact creating a small web of broken glass.

“Shit! The fuck did youdo?!”

“Just shut up and drive!”

He pressed down on the gas petal hard, shifting gears again as the car bounded over the uneven road. Herocked forward and backward over every bump as she looked over her shoulderthrough the rear windshield, pistol at the ready.

The gunfire faded as thecar sped passed rows of old warehouses and factories, the road getting smaller,the turns tighter.

As he rounded anotherdifficult corner, gritting his teeth as he pressed down hard on the brakes justto make the turn, he quickly shifted his gaze to all his rear view mirrors.

A pair of yellow lightstrailed behind him, gaining speed.

“We’ve got a tail,” shesaid, rolling down the right hand window.

“I see ‘em, Isee ‘em,” he muttered, gripping the wheel as he struggled to switch to theproper gear.

“Then loose them!”

Sokka gunned the enginehard as he pressed down on the petal, speed dial spiking, RPM rising. 

He could feel the grip on the tiresslip against rain-slick surface of the road, every little correction to keep his car steady throwing him off, zigzagging and turning asempty lots gave way to apartments. Streetlights and telephone poles rushed by as he sped through empty intersections and over bumps, the bottom ofthe car grinding against the cement, the cold air blowing through the openedwindow.

Their tail stubbornly keptpace, getting closer.

“Its a fucking van, youcan’t outrun it!?” she yelled, looking back through the opened window as shereached out and attempted to aim her gun.

“Just watch me,” heretorted, gripping the wheel as he sped passed another intersection, a stale redlight passing over him.

“Then do it quick! They’re bring out the heavy gun!”

“Wait, what!?”

Before Sokka knew it, his rear view mirrors lit up, white hot tracers racing passed his view as bullets tore up the road. Sparks, mud, and water scattered into the cold air. A terrible crack, like the high pitched drone of a buzz-saw, deafened his ears and he pressed his foot down on the petal, trying to out pace the bullets.

“They have a fucking machine gun!?” he yelled, barely catching a hint of the long barrel jutting out of the van’s sliding door in his left rear view mirror.

Gun shots rang out in Sokka’s ears to his right, flash flames glinting off the glass. Another thunderous volley from the machine gun in the van behind them ripped through the air as a succession of metallic pangs rocked the car.

“German MG-3,” spat his passenger, emptying her pistol as she reached into her jacket and loaded another clip, “It’ll tear us to pieces if you don’t shake them off!”

“What do think I’m trying to do!?”

Another blinding flash from the side of the van, bullets finding their mark as his left rear view mirror shattered to pieces, chunks of the rear windshield chipping away under the intense fire.

“Trying to get us killed apparently!” she yelled back, turning back to shoot through the massive hole in the window behind them. 

Flashes blinded Sokka and spent casings nicked his suit and skin. He blinked, gritting his teeth as he tried to swerve out of the gun’s line of sight, keeping the van directly behind him. 

The arrow on the speedometer climbed and he could feel the massive strain of the engine through the frame of his car as it hummed through the steering wheel to his palms. If this went on…

At the end of the road he spied an intersection through the dark, yellow flashing to red. he quickly glanced in his rear view mirror, the van hot on his tail as sparks licked off the bumper, bullets careening off the metal.

The intersection drew closer. His sweaty fingers drummed against the gear stick, hand twitching on the steering wheel as his eyes darted from the rapidly closing intersection to the van.

“Reloading!” she yelled over the wind blowing through the car, ducking forward in her seat as she reached for another clip.

Sokka’s nostrils flared, heart thumping in his ears, “Hang on tight!”

Her eyes shot open as he hastily switched gears. She barely had time to take hold of the passenger handle hanging above her head when in a sudden, violent move Sokka brought the car into a sharp left turn. Rubber drifted across the slick pavement, a deafening screech tearing into their ears, the car lurching at a dangerous angle as the world blurred into a black and orange haze.

Shifting gears once more, Sokka stepped on the gas petal, the engine revving to life as the tail of the car skidded back into place. The RPM meter and speedometer spiked and Sokka raced down the darkened road, a wet and rubbery scent heavy on the cold breeze.

Through his rear view mirror he could see the van. It toppled over its side, wheels lifted into the air as the gunner in the opened door was flung across the slick road like a rag doll. Screeching metal slid against the pavement and the van finally came to a violent stop, its hood crushed against a wooden telephone pole.

His eyes widened, chapped lips twisting into a wicked grin, “Yeah, did you see that!? Fucking perfect! That’s what they get for fucking up my car!”

“For Christ-sake, just shut up and drive! We need to get out of here!” she yelled,  sitting up in her seat as she looked back over her shoulder toward the receding van.

“Oh were gone, Red, we’re gone!”

As he sped down the empty street, all lights green, Sokka could feel the cool air whip at his heated skin, the rush still humming through this bones, as if he had crossed a finish line.

He never felt more alive than after moments like those.

It wasn’t what he was expecting as far as a place to lay low. Then again she specifically asked to be brought here as part of the contract. He couldn’t really complain. She even allowed him stay for a bit to rest up.

All things considered, it was a very good decision.

“Here y’go!”

Sokka never thought that the scent a hot, steaming bowl of ramen could be so enticing. When the shapely waitress with the big, lively gray eyes finally laid the tray in front of him he practically salivated. Tenderly cooked sliced pork, thick golden wheat noodles, dried seaweed, two boiled eggs, and chopped green onions. A meal fit for anyone.

Delicately, he took the spoon laying beside the bowl on the tray and dipped it onto the soup. Steam rose up into his nostrils and a warm, salty scent put the inescapable feeling of divine comfort into his very soul. He took a long sip, savoring the flavor of the meat broth mixed with soy sauce as it left a long warm trail down to his stomach.

He sighed, “Perfection.”

Giggling, the young waitress smiled at him, “Thanks! Y’know it means a lot you saying that. My wife’s been working hard to get just the right amount of soy sauce.”

Sokka smiled back, lifting his thumb up while holding the spoon to his mouth, “She’s great cook then. Give her a kiss for a job well done.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that! She gets lots of kisses!”

Opposite of him, leaning back against the seat in the tiny dining booth, Sokka’s long time client rolled her eyes, “That will be all Ty Lee, thank you.”

The waitress’s smile faded a bit, masking something Sokka could only interpret as contempt.

“Sure thing, Azula,” she said, trying to regain the sincerity in her voice, “I’ll be out with your soup in a minute. Jin should be finishing up with it.”

“Fine. Go then.”

Ty Lee lingered for a moment. Narrowing her eyes, she walked away toward the front counter. 

Sokka eyes followed her as she made her way into the kitchen before turning back to his soup. Taking a mouthful of noodles, he swallowed hard and wiped his lips with a napkin.

“Azula huh?” he said, staring at her, “So, that’s your name.”

She sighed, “Yes. What of it?”

“Nothing. Just observing the fact I know your name.”

Azula folded her arms in front her chest, leaning back in her seat as she fixed him with a steely glare, “My friend has a big mouth. You do well not to say that name outside this place.”

Sokka chuckled, “Relax, will ya? Not like I have anything to gain from telling anyone. Breaks my confidentiality clause, y’know? I don’t ask for names, clients don’t give them, and what I know I keep to myself.”

“Good. I would be well within my right to kill you if you did tell anyone. Breaks my reputation for discretion and secrecy.”

“Oh, I’m shaking. My fucking sphincter just tightened.”

“Ugh. Just eat your damn noodles. I shouldn’t have let you stay.”

“Sucks to be you. And I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, this ramen is phenomenal.”

“There is a reason why this place gets few customers you know. The cook is horrible.”

Sokka smirked, “You’ve obviously never tasted this ramen then. I’m sensing a bit of jealously here too. So, what, you got a thing for the waitress or something? Mad she moved on?”

Azula’s eyes narrowed, lips twisted into a grimace, “I don’t swing that way, you little shit. If I did, then I wouldn’t fuck former whores like her.”

There was something in the tone of her voice that compelled Sokka to take her seriously.

His eyes widened, “Jesus. Way to bring down the fucking hammer, Azula. What do you have against people making a new life for themselves, huh?”

“Do you ever stop asking so many stupid fucking questions?”

He rolled his eyes, “Ugh, fine. Too tired anyway. Plus, I’d rather enjoy this soup in peace-”

“That makes two of us.”

Sokka grimaced, pursing his lips, “… anyway, to make things even, how about you ask me question? I answer, I shut up after that. I swear it.”

She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, clouded by fatigue. The night had taken its toll on her just much as it did him.

She smirked, “Make things even, huh? Fine. What’s your name?”

He blinked, unexpectedly surprised, “Uh. It’s Sokka.”

She sniffed the air derisively, “Huh. Sokka. That name sounds stupid enough not to be a fake one.”

“… Its Aboriginal Canadian. Inuit.”

“Well, no wonder.”

“Oh, you fucking bi-”

“Ah! What did we agree on?” she stated, a smug smile twisting her lips.

Sokka growled under his breath. Narrowing his eyes at her he then turned his attention to the steaming bowl of ramen in front of him. Using the chop sticks he inhaled a mouthful of noodles, eating in relative silence.

They never said anything else for the rest of their meal, Azula getting her bowl shortly after him, failing to even thank the waitress. Before they left, she slid the last of his payment across the table and he accepted it without a word.

When they were done they parted ways, Sokka walking toward his car and Azula walking the opposite direction.

He heard her voice call out to him in the dark.

“Thanks.”

Pausing, Sokka turned on his heels and waved her goodbye. She turned away, walking under the flickering streetlights until she faded into the night.

Sokka knew he’d see her again. She was tough. She had to be in her line of work. 

As for him - he’d be around. Everyone needed a driver to get them out of a tight spot and he was just crazy enough for the job.

[ramialkarmi]

GM just gave the first public ride in its self-driving cars — a herky-jerky trip, but a 'big moment' for the company (GM, GOOGL)

General Motors and its Cruise subsidiary on Tuesday gave their first public demonstrations of the self-driving car they're developing, which is based on the Chevy Bolt.

The car successfully navigated a drive through a San Francisco neighborhood without incident, but the ride wasn't smooth.

Cruise and GM are focusing on safety right now, rather than the rider experience, but officials expect to start mass producing the cars "in a matter of quarters."

SAN FRANCISCO — In the race to build autonomous vehicles, General Motors is determined not to be left behind.

Last year, it bought Cruise Automation, a startup based here, to jumpstart its self-driving car efforts. On Tuesday, GM demonstrated what it and Cruise have been working on, giving a select group of reporters a test drive in one of their autonomous vehicles.

"This is a big moment for me, personally, and for General Motors and for Cruise," Kyle Vogt, Cruise's CEO, said.

GM plans to mass produce its self-driving cars in a matter of "quarters, not years," company president Dan Ammann said. He declined to specify when, exactly, the company plans to start selling them.

"Stay tuned," he said.

In the meantime, Ammann, Vogt, and their colleagues were eager to show off their self-driving cars. Although GM and Cruise have been internally testing prototype vehicles for more than a year, this was the first time the companies had given members of the media or the general public a ride in them.

GM's self-driving vehicles are basically modified versions of its Bolt electric vehicles. GM has added some 40 sensors to the vehicles, include an assortment of radar and lidar devices, as well as hundreds of pounds and several miles worth of cables.

The automotive giant has designed the vehicles to be mass produced in its Orion, Michigan, factory. It's already built 180 test vehicles.

GM and Cruise rolled out their first generation test vehicles only in May 2016. The version of the car GM and Cruise demonstrated on Tuesday is their second-generation test vehicle, which debuted this past June and includes a complete collection of sensors. They already have a third generation prototype in production; that vehicle, unlike its predecessor, includes redundant systems.

GM's autonomous car offered a safe — but not smooth — ride

My ride got off to an inauspicious start. For the event, Cruise handed out iPhones that media members could use to summon one of their cars using the company's app. That app, which works similarly to Uber or Lyft's ride-haling apps, is actually the same one Cruise employees use to catch a ride with one of its cars. Only in our case, Cruise allowed us to choose from one of several pre-set destinations, rather than setting one on our own.

It took several minutes for my car to arrive in front of the Dogpatch Studio here, where GM was holding the event. But instead of stopping for me, the car drove right on by and returned back to the place it had been parked at before.

So, my Cruise helper summoned another car. That car too passed us by. But after traveling around several blocks, it came back to pick me up.

The car then proceeded to take us on a drive via city streets through the Portrero Hill neighborhood in the eastern part of this city. For about 20 minutes, we went up and down the area's steep hills before returning to the studio.

Riding in the Cruise vehicle was a little more unnerving than my recent ride in one of Waymo's latest self-driving cars. Waymo's demonstration was held at its testing facility in Central California, and even though its car had no driver and had to contend with people driving, walking, and biking, the ride felt staged and artificial.

In this demonstration, a Cruise employee sat behind the steering wheel, ready to take over if anything happened and another sat in the front passenger seat calling out potential obstacles and alerting the driver to the car's upcoming path. Even so, this was a real-world test and felt like felt like it.

San Francisco is a notoriously difficult city to drive in, thanks to its steep, narrow streets, frequently heavy traffic, and often brazenly incautious bicyclists and pedestrians. Cruise's car had to navigate around multiple double-parked trucks while contending with oncoming traffic, avoid pedestrians randomly crossing the street, be on the lookout for cars and bicycles as it crested hills, and negotiate four-way intersections where it sometimes encountered cars with impatient drivers.

The car made it through the course without incident — we never came close to an accident, and the Cruise employee behind the wheel never had to take manual control of the car. And that was impressive, far more so than Waymo's car navigating through a staged course.

But Cruise clearly has some things to work on. The ride, while safe, was anything but smooth.  In fact, it often felt herky-jerky. We would accelerate as we turned a corner, slow down abruptly right after that, speed up soon after until we came close to the next intersection, then brake fairly suddenly at a stop sign.

The car sometimes seemed hesitant

And the car seemed overly cautious, even hesitant at times. In navigating around one double-parked truck, it slowly nudged out to peer around it, then slowly pulled around it in the oncoming lane. In the same situation, a human driver likely would have gone much more quickly in order to avoid any potential oncoming traffic.

Early on in my ride, the vehicle had to negotiate a particularly challenging stretch. In front of us was a double-parked truck. Just beyond that, on the other side of the street was another double-parked truck. In between and among the trucks were construction workers. And there were cars both behind us waiting for us to go and in front of us, heading the opposite direction.

The Cruise vehicle moved slowly and prudently into the oncoming lane. It nudged out just a bit to better see the traffic heading toward us. When things were clear, it pulled out. But then, while pointed in the wrong direction in the opposite lane, it just stopped. After waiting for two cars to go around the truck on their side and pass us going the other way, it finally went around the truck on our side and proceeded on.

Of course, a human driver might also have struggled with that scenario. But a human driver, even a cautious one, would likely have navigated around the obstacles more smoothly.

Right now, Cruise is far more focused on making its cars safe than worrying about how smoothly they drive, Cruise's Vogt said. Not only is safety crucial for autonomous vehicles, but it's a far harder problem to solve, he said.

Vogt expects Cruise to spend more time improving smoothness and polishing other aspects of the rider experience next year as the company nails down the safe driving aspect of the cars.

Making the cars drive more smoothly "Is the easiest part of the process," he said.

I could see more than the car's screen showed

Like Waymo's autonomous cars, Cruise vehicles have screens on the backs of the driver and passenger seats that show in graphical form what the car "sees" around it. Other cars on the road show up as grayish blue boxes, people as blue cylinders.

Generally, whenever cars or people were close by, they showed up on the screen. You could see rows of boxes representing parked cars and cylinders crossing the street in tandem with the people they represented.

But sometimes the screen didn't seem to register objects immediately. When we came to an intersection at the top of one hill, it took a while for the screen to show a car parked on the opposite corner, long after I saw it out the window.

More disconcertingly, sometimes the screen didn't display some objects at all. As we approached one intersection, the screen registered the car coming up the street on our left. But it never showed the car coming up to the intersection from our left. Similarly, the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk that we passed never showed up on the screen, even though they were walking only a few feet away from the parked cars that were displayed.

Cruise's cars can actually see a lot more than what they show on their screens, Vogt said. The company decided to limit what they display, because it found that when it showed more objects, riders found all the information "overwhelming," he said.

GM is focusing first on the ride-hailing market

GM sees ride-hailing services as the initial market for these vehicles, Ammann said. The automotive giant is still working out the details of how it will approach that market. GM has invested some $500 million in Lyft, but Ammann said it wouldn't necessarily partner with that company in all cases to offer ride-hailing services.

In some cases, GM might offer automous ride-hailing services through partnerships; in others, it may offer them by itself, he said. Either way, GM plans to maintain control of the fleet of cars it deploys, he said.

The company's focus on the ride-hailing market has played into the testing of its autonomous vehicles, Ammann said. It and Cruise are focusing on testing their cars in dense, busy cities in part because those are the biggest markets for ride-hailing services. The companies have already been testing their cars in San Francisco and plan to begin testing them in Manhattan in the first quarter.

GM is one of several major companies developing autonomous vehicles. Among the others are Uber and Google spinoff Waymo. Like GM, those companies see the ride-hailing industry as among the most promising early markets for such cars.

Cruise and GM are concentrating on cities

However, Cruise's Vogt took pains to differentiate his company's development effort from that of Waymo. Waymo has undertaken a years-long effort to create autonomous cars and has done much of its real-world testing either in suburban environments such as Mountain View, California, and Chandler, Arizona, or at its testing facility at a decommissioned Air Force base in California's Central Valley. Collectively, its cars have driven some 4 million miles autonomously, the company announced on Monday.

By contrast, Cruise has gotten to the point it's at in just 18 months, Vogt noted. And while it also tests its cars in suburban Phoenix, much of its real-world testing is being done in urban environments.

Vogt and other GM officials declined to say how many miles its cars have driven, but they argued that the city miles they've driven count for much more than the miles its competitors have logged in the suburbs. That's because incidents such as having to make a left-hand turn or having to pull into the oncoming lane of traffic to route around a blocked lane occur much more frequently in cities than in the suburbs. In some cases such incidents occur more than 40 times more often in cities than in suburban areas, he said.

That difference "really puts into perspective … the value and challenge in operating in these urban environments," Vogt said.

SEE ALSO: Waymo's CEO says self-driving cars are 'really close' to being ready for the road — but plenty of challenges remain

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GM just gave the first public ride in its self-driving cars — a herky-jerky trip, but a 'big moment' for the company (GM, GOOGL)

General Motors and its Cruise subsidiary on Tuesday gave their first public demonstrations of the self-driving car they're developing, which is based on the Chevy Bolt.

The car successfully navigated a drive through a San Francisco neighborhood without incident, but the ride wasn't smooth.

Cruise and GM are focusing on safety right now, rather than the rider experience, but officials expect to start mass producing the cars "in a matter of quarters."

SAN FRANCISCO — In the race to build autonomous vehicles, General Motors is determined not to be left behind.

Last year, it bought Cruise Automation, a startup based here, to jumpstart its self-driving car efforts. On Tuesday, GM demonstrated what it and Cruise have been working on, giving a select group of reporters a test drive in one of their autonomous vehicles.

"This is a big moment for me, personally, and for General Motors and for Cruise," Kyle Vogt, Cruise's CEO, said.

GM plans to mass produce its self-driving cars in a matter of "quarters, not years," company president Dan Ammann said. He declined to specify when, exactly, the company plans to start selling them.

"Stay tuned," he said.

In the meantime, Ammann, Vogt, and their colleagues were eager to show off their self-driving cars. Although GM and Cruise have been internally testing prototype vehicles for more than a year, this was the first time the companies had given members of the media or the general public a ride in them.

Troy WolvertonGM's self-driving vehicles are basically modified versions of its Bolt electric vehicles. GM has added some 40 sensors to the vehicles, include an assortment of radar and lidar devices, as well as hundreds of pounds and several miles worth of cables.

The automotive giant has designed the vehicles to be mass produced in its Orion, Michigan, factory. It's already built 180 test vehicles.

GM and Cruise rolled out their first generation test vehicles only in May 2016. The version of the car GM and Cruise demonstrated on Tuesday is their second-generation test vehicle, which debuted this past June and includes a complete collection of sensors. They already have a third generation prototype in production; that vehicle, unlike its predecessor, includes redundant systems.

GM's autonomous car offered a safe — but not smooth — ride

My ride got off to an inauspicious start. For the event, Cruise handed out iPhones that media members could use to summon one of their cars using the company's app. That app, which works similarly to Uber or Lyft's ride-haling apps, is actually the same one Cruise employees use to catch a ride with one of its cars. Only in our case, Cruise allowed us to choose from one of several pre-set destinations, rather than setting one on our own.

General Motors/CruiseIt took several minutes for my car to arrive in front of the Dogpatch Studio here, where GM was holding the event. But instead of stopping for me, the car drove right on by and returned back to the place it had been parked at before.

So, my Cruise helper summoned another car. That car too passed us by. But after traveling around several blocks, it came back to pick me up.

The car then proceeded to take us on a drive via city streets through the Portrero Hill neighborhood in the eastern part of this city. For about 20 minutes, we went up and down the area's steep hills before returning to the studio.

Riding in the Cruise vehicle was a little more unnerving than my recent ride in one of Waymo's latest self-driving cars. Waymo's demonstration was held at its testing facility in Central California, and even though its car had no driver and had to contend with people driving, walking, and biking, the ride felt staged and artificial.

In this demonstration, a Cruise employee sat behind the steering wheel, ready to take over if anything happened and another sat in the front passenger seat calling out potential obstacles and alerting the driver to the car's upcoming path. Even so, this was a real-world test and felt like felt like it.

San Francisco is a notoriously difficult city to drive in, thanks to its steep, narrow streets, frequently heavy traffic, and often brazenly incautious bicyclists and pedestrians. Cruise's car had to navigate around multiple double-parked trucks while contending with oncoming traffic, avoid pedestrians randomly crossing the street, be on the lookout for cars and bicycles as it crested hills, and negotiate four-way intersections where it sometimes encountered cars with impatient drivers.

The car made it through the course without incident — we never came close to an accident, and the Cruise employee behind the wheel never had to take manual control of the car. And that was impressive, far more so than Waymo's car navigating through a staged course.

But Cruise clearly has some things to work on. The ride, while safe, was anything but smooth.  In fact, it often felt herky-jerky. We would accelerate as we turned a corner, slow down abruptly right after that, speed up soon after until we came close to the next intersection, then brake fairly suddenly at a stop sign.

The car sometimes seemed hesitant

And the car seemed overly cautious, even hesitant at times. In navigating around one double-parked truck, it slowly nudged out to peer around it, then slowly pulled around it in the oncoming lane. In the same situation, a human driver likely would have gone much more quickly in order to avoid any potential oncoming traffic.

Troy WolvertonEarly on in my ride, the vehicle had to negotiate a particularly challenging stretch. In front of us was a double-parked truck. Just beyond that, on the other side of the street was another double-parked truck. In between and among the trucks were construction workers. And there were cars both behind us waiting for us to go and in front of us, heading the opposite direction.

The Cruise vehicle moved slowly and prudently into the oncoming lane. It nudged out just a bit to better see the traffic heading toward us. When things were clear, it pulled out. But then, while pointed in the wrong direction in the opposite lane, it just stopped. After waiting for two cars to go around the truck on their side and pass us going the other way, it finally went around the truck on our side and proceeded on.

Of course, a human driver might also have struggled with that scenario. But a human driver, even a cautious one, would likely have navigated around the obstacles more smoothly.

Right now, Cruise is far more focused on making its cars safe than worrying about how smoothly they drive, Cruise's Vogt said. Not only is safety crucial for autonomous vehicles, but it's a far harder problem to solve, he said.

Vogt expects Cruise to spend more time improving smoothness and polishing other aspects of the rider experience next year as the company nails down the safe driving aspect of the cars.

Making the cars drive more smoothly "Is the easiest part of the process," he said.

I could see more than the car's screen showed

Like Waymo's autonomous cars, Cruise vehicles have screens on the backs of the driver and passenger seats that show in graphical form what the car "sees" around it. Other cars on the road show up as grayish blue boxes, people as blue cylinders.

General Motors/CruiseGenerally, whenever cars or people were close by, they showed up on the screen. You could see rows of boxes representing parked cars and cylinders crossing the street in tandem with the people they represented.

But sometimes the screen didn't seem to register objects immediately. When we came to an intersection at the top of one hill, it took a while for the screen to show a car parked on the opposite corner, long after I saw it out the window.

More disconcertingly, sometimes the screen didn't display some objects at all. As we approached one intersection, the screen registered the car coming up the street on our left. But it never showed the car coming up to the intersection from our left. Similarly, the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk that we passed never showed up on the screen, even though they were walking only a few feet away from the parked cars that were displayed.

Cruise's cars can actually see a lot more than what they show on their screens, Vogt said. The company decided to limit what they display, because it found that when it showed more objects, riders found all the information "overwhelming," he said.

GM is focusing first on the ride-hailing market

GM sees ride-hailing services as the initial market for these vehicles, Ammann said. The automotive giant is still working out the details of how it will approach that market. GM has invested some $500 million in Lyft, but Ammann said it wouldn't necessarily partner with that company in all cases to offer ride-hailing services.

Troy Wolverton

In some cases, GM might offer automous ride-hailing services through partnerships; in others, it may offer them by itself, he said. Either way, GM plans to maintain control of the fleet of cars it deploys, he said.

The company's focus on the ride-hailing market has played into the testing of its autonomous vehicles, Ammann said. It and Cruise are focusing on testing their cars in dense, busy cities in part because those are the biggest markets for ride-hailing services. The companies have already been testing their cars in San Francisco and plan to begin testing them in Manhattan in the first quarter.

GM is one of several major companies developing autonomous vehicles. Among the others are Uber and Google spinoff Waymo. Like GM, those companies see the ride-hailing industry as among the most promising early markets for such cars.

Cruise and GM are concentrating on cities

Troy WolvertonHowever, Cruise's Vogt took pains to differentiate his company's development effort from that of Waymo. Waymo has undertaken a years-long effort to create autonomous cars and has done much of its real-world testing either in suburban environments such as Mountain View, California, and Chandler, Arizona, or at its testing facility at a decommissioned Air Force base in California's Central Valley. Collectively, its cars have driven some 4 million miles autonomously, the company announced on Monday.

By contrast, Cruise has gotten to the point it's at in just 18 months, Vogt noted. And while it also tests its cars in suburban Phoenix, much of its real-world testing is being done in urban environments.

Vogt and other GM officials declined to say how many miles its cars have driven, but they argued that the city miles they've driven count for much more than the miles its competitors have logged in the suburbs. That's because incidents such as having to make a left-hand turn or having to pull into the oncoming lane of traffic to route around a blocked lane occur much more frequently in cities than in the suburbs. In some cases such incidents occur more than 40 times more often in cities than in suburban areas, he said.

That difference "really puts into perspective … the value and challenge in operating in these urban environments," Vogt said.

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[vernicle]

We didn't always turn left the way we do now. What changed?

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Unless of course you happen to be a baby, New York City resident, or UPS driver, odds are you've got produced a still left transform in your automobile at least as soon as this 7 days.

Prospects are, you didn't think as well substantially about how you did it or why you did it that way.

You just clicked on your transform signal...

...and turned still left.

GIF from United States Vehicle Club.

The New York Condition Division of Motor Motor vehicles instructs drivers to "try to use the still left aspect of the intersection to support make certain that you do not interfere with targeted traffic headed toward you that wants to transform still left," as depicted in this thrilling formal point out govt animation:

GIF from New York Division of Motor Motor vehicles.

Slick, sleek, and — in theory — as safe and sound as can be.

Your Drivers Ed trainer would give you whole marks for that fantastically executed maneuver.

GIF from "Baywatch"/NBC.

Your terrific-grandfather, on the other hand, would be horrified.

GIF from "Are You Scared of the Dark"/Nickelodeon.

Just before 1930, if you preferred to hang a still left in a medium-to-big American city, you most probably did it like so:

Photograph via Preventing Targeted visitors/Facebook.

As an alternative of proceeding in an arc across the intersection, drivers diligently proceeded straight out across the center line of the street they ended up turning on and turned at a in close proximity to-90-degree angle.

Often, there was a giant cast-iron pole — named a "silent policeman" — in the center of the street to make certain drivers didn't cheat.

Some ended up fairly major. Photograph by Topical Push Agency/Getty Pictures.

These previous-timey driving rules remodeled fast paced intersections into informal roundabouts, forcing cars to gradual down so that they didn't hit pedestrians from behind.

GIF from "Time Immediately after Time"/Warner Bros.

Or so that, if they did, it was not as well painful.

"There was a actual wrestle initial of all by the urban vast majority towards cars taking in excess of the road, and then a form of counter-wrestle by the individuals who preferred to market cars," explains Peter Norton, affiliate professor of historical past at the College of Virginia and writer of "Preventing Targeted visitors: The Dawn of the Motor Age in the American City."

Norton posted the classic still left-transform tutorial graphic, originally posted in a 1919 St. Louis drivers' guide — to Facebook on July 9. Though regulations ended up laxer in suburban and rural spots, he explains, the sharp ideal-angle transform was standard in just about every single major American city through the late '20s.

“That still left transform rule was a actual nuisance if you ended up a driver, but it was a actual blessing if you ended up a walker," he suggests.

Early targeted traffic legal guidelines concentrated largely on protecting pedestrians from cars, which ended up considered a public menace.

Pedestrians on the Bowery in New York City, 1900. Photograph by Hulton Archive/Getty Pictures.

For a couple blissful a long time just after the automobile was invented, the issue of how to stop drivers from mowing down all of midtown every single working day was front-of-brain for lots of urban policymakers.

Pedestrians, Norton explains, accounted for a whopping seventy five% of street deaths again then. City-dwellers who, unlike their nation counterparts, frequently walked on streets ended up, predictably, fairly pissed about that.

In 1903, New York City applied one particular of the initial targeted traffic ordinances in the nation, which codified the ideal-angle still left. At first, no one particular knew or cared, so the pursuing yr, the city trapped a bunch of major steel posts in the center of the intersections, which fairly well spelled matters out.

A Silent Policeman retains look at at the intersection of 42nd Avenue and fifth Avenue in New York City in 1925. Photograph by Topical Push Agency/Getty Pictures.

Drivers lastly got the concept, and quickly, the ideal-angle still left transform spread to almost every single city in The us.

Matters ended up fairly excellent for pedestrians — for a whilst.

In the 1920s, that altered when automobile groups banded alongside one another to impose a shiny new still left transform on America's drivers.

According to Norton, a sales slump in 1922-1923 convinced lots of automakers that they'd maxed out their market place prospective in major towns. Several individuals, it appeared, preferred to generate in urban The us. Parking areas ended up nonexistent, targeted traffic was gradual-relocating, and turning still left was a time-consuming trouble. Most importantly, there ended up as well lots of individuals in the street.

In buy to entice extra consumers, they essential to make towns extra hospitable to cars.

As a result began an effort to shift the presumed operator of the street, "from the pedestrian to the driver."

FDR Drive off-ramps in 1955. Photograph by Three Lions/Getty Pictures.

"It was a multi-front campaign," Norton suggests.

The lobbying started with local groups — taxi taxi businesses, truck fleet operators, automobile sellers associations — and finally grew to involve groups like the National Automobile Chamber of Commerce, which represented most major U.S. automakers.

Car or truck advocates to begin with worked to get handle of the targeted traffic engineering occupation. The initial national firm, the Albert Erskine Bureau for Avenue Targeted visitors Research, was started in 1925 at Harvard College, with cash from Studebaker to make tips to towns on how to structure streets.

Driving rapid, they argued, was not inherently risky, but anything that could be safe and sound with right street structure.

Drivers were not liable for street collisions. Pedestrians ended up.

Thus, impeding targeted traffic stream to give walkers an advantage at the expenditure of motor motor vehicle operators, they argued, is wasteful, inconvenient, and inefficient.

Out went the ideal-angle still left transform.

Marketplace-led automotive fascination groups began producing off-the-shelf targeted traffic ordinances modeled on Los Angeles' driver-helpful 1925 targeted traffic code, which include our modern day-working day still left transform, which was adopted by municipalities across the nation.

The towering silent policemen ended up replaced by dome-formed bumps named "targeted traffic mushrooms," which could be pushed in excess of.

A modern day "targeted traffic mushroom" in Forbes, New South Wales. Photograph by Mattinbgn/Wikimedia Commons.

Inevitably the bumps ended up eliminated entirely. Obstacles and double yellow lines that ended at the beginning of an intersection inspired drivers to begin their still left turns straight away.

The previous way of hanging a still left was largely extinct by 1930 as the new, automobile-helpful ordinances proved sturdy.

So ... is the new still left transform greater?

Certainly. Also, no.

It is challenging.

The shift to a "automobile-dominant position quo," Norton explains, was not fully made — nor completely destructive.

An L.A. motorway in 1953. Photograph by L.J. Willinger/Getty Pictures.

As extra Us citizens acquired cars, public feeling of who should really operate the street seriously did alter. The present still left transform product is greater and extra economical for drivers — who have to cross much less lanes of targeted traffic — and streets are a lot less chaotic than they ended up in the early portion of the twentieth century.

Meanwhile, pedestrian deaths have declined markedly in excess of the many years. Though walkers produced up seventy five% of all targeted traffic fatalities in the 1920s in some towns, by 2015, just in excess of five,000 pedestrians ended up killed by cars on the road, about fifteen% of all motor vehicle-linked deaths.

There is certainly a catch, of class.

Though no one particular component totally accounts for the lower in pedestrian deaths, Norton thinks the industry's good results in earning roadways fully inhospitable to walkers will help clarify the craze.

Just place, much less individuals are hit due to the fact much less individuals are crossing the road (or walking at all). The explosion of automobile-helpful city ordinances — which, between other matters, allowed drivers to make more rapidly, extra intense still left turns — pushed individuals off the sidewalks and into their personal motor vehicles.

When that took place, the mother nature of targeted traffic incidents altered.

A person fixes a bent fender, 1953. Photograph by Sherman/Three Lions/Getty Pictures.

"Pretty frequently, a person killed in a automobile in 1960 would have been a pedestrian a few of a long time previously," Norton suggests.

We continue to stay with that automobile-dominant product and the problems that occur from it. Urban structure that prioritizes drivers in excess of walkers contributes to sprawl and, in the end, to carbon emissions. A system engineered to facilitate automobile motion also allows motor motor vehicle operators to keep away from duty for sharing the road in refined methods. The Centers for Disorder Control and Prevention lists three recommendations to stop accidents and deaths from automobile-human collisions — all for pedestrians, which include "carrying a flashlight when walking," and "carrying retro-reflective outfits."

A Minneapolis Star-Tribune evaluation discovered that, of in excess of 3,000 complete collisions with pedestrians (which include ninety five fatalities) in the Twin Towns region among 2010 and 2014, only 28 drivers ended up charged and convicted a crime — largely misdemeanors.

Norton suggests he is inspired, on the other hand, by new attempts to reclaim city streets and make them safe and sound for walkers.

Pedestrians wander through New York's Periods Square, 2015. Photograph by Spencer Platt/Getty Pictures.

That consists of a drive by groups like Transportation Choices to install pedestrian plazas and bike lanes and to endorse bus speedy transit. It also consists of Eyesight Zero, a basic safety initiative in towns across The us, which aims to finish targeted traffic fatalities by upgrading street signage, lowering pace boundaries, and installing extra targeted traffic circles, between other matters.

As a historian, Norton hopes Us citizens occur to realize that the way we behave on the street is not static or, necessarily, what we the natural way choose. Often, he explains, it success from hundreds of acutely aware selections produced in excess of a long time.

"We're surrounded by assumptions that are influencing our selections, and we don’t know wherever people assumptions occur from due to the fact we don’t know our personal historical past," he suggests.

Even anything as mindless as hanging a still left.

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