A couple of years ago, I took part in some Northumbria University research about the underpasses in Newcastle… by which I mean I filled in a survey.

It made me reflect on a few things, not least the fact that I use several underpasses daily, and rarely did so before I moved to Newcastle. It also made me realise that underpasses where the exit isn’t visible from the entrance seem inherently less pleasant.

It turns out from one of the resultant papers that some of this research was about ‘sensory criminology,’ a concept that was entirely new to me but really quite fascinating. Jordan Reeve, who often posts videos about the urban landscape of Newcastle, has made a video exploring the findings with Ian Cook, one of the authors:

This long piece by James Bennet was published in 1843 last December. Despite seemingly causing a bit of a stir at the time, it passed me by until now.

The writer was the editor of the New York Times Opinion section in June 2020. In the aftermath of protests following the murder of George Floyd, Bennet published an opinion piece by Republican Senator Tom Cotton arguing that the military ought to be deployed to quell the riots. Much unhappiness followed, leading to Bennet’s resignation.

In 18,000 words, Bennett sets out his side of the argument, eloquently and with some flair. It is, perhaps ironically, one of those articles which is worth reading whether you agree with everything he says or not.

The picture at the top is by Jason Kuffer, and used under licence.

Until about a week ago, I’d never heard of Berlin’s ultra exclusive nightclub Berghain, and I couldn’t have told you much about techno music either. But the two-part episode of Search Engine in which PJ Vogt investigates why his friends weren’t allowed in to the club is brilliant.

It’s a great example of that podcast-y thing of tugging on a thread and seeing where it leads, exploring everything from the reunification of Germany to the economic downturn in Detroit along the way.

I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Recent posts may have given you the impression that Stockholm is a beautiful city—that was certainly the impression left by my visit. Yet, I’m afraid, a monstrous carbuncle looms over the city: Kaknästornet.

Built in 1957, it is a broadcast tower with radio, television and satellite masts. Until 2018, it was open to the public, and had a notoriously poor restaurant looking out over the city—but these days, the security risks are considered too high for such frivolity.

I know I bang on about it more than I should, but—for a city dweller—I am so lucky to have such a bucolic walk to and from work.

The first posts on this blog were written when I was 18 years old. When Françoise Sagan was 18, her novel was published. It is impossible to imagine what it must be like to have Sagan’s wisdom and insight at such a young age: the proof that I had none of it is abundant on this very website.

Bonjour Tristesse, which I read in Heather Lloyd’s translation, opens with a seventeen-year-old girl, Cécile, living with her widowed father, Raymond. They live a carefree, perhaps mildly hedonistic life together in the French Riviera. Raymond is a bit of a playboy, and Cécile enjoys the freewheeling nature of their existence.

This is challenged when one of Raymond’s former lovers, Anne, turns up. As Raymond and strait-laced Anne become closer, Cécile fears that a degree of predictable rigidity is entering their lives. She seeks to fight against it by engineering the end of Raymond and Anne’s relationship.

Cécile’s meddling has consequences foreseen and unforeseen, which she is then forced to come to terms with—and that jolting realisation catapults her into adulthood.

This was published and set in 1954, but certainly stands the test of time. It’s an entertaining read with real depth below the surface, and no shortage of humour. It may only be a short book—perhaps more a novella than a novel—but there is a lot packed into it. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Here are some passages I highlighted:

‘You don’t realize how pleased with herself she is,’ I cried. ‘She congratulates herself on the life she has had because she feels she has done her duty and …’

‘But it’s true,’ said Anne. ‘She has fulfilled her duties as a wife and mother, as the saying goes …’

‘And what about her duty as a whore?’ I said.

‘I dislike coarseness,’ said Anne, ‘even when it’s meant to be clever.’

‘But it’s not meant to be clever. She got married just as everyone gets married, either because they want to or because it’s the done thing. She had a child. Do you know how children come about?’

‘I’m probably less well informed than you,’ said Anne sarcastically, ‘but I do have some idea.’

‘So she brought the child up. She probably spared herself the anguish and upheaval of committing adultery. She has led the life of thousands of other women and she thinks that’s something to be proud of, you understand. She found herself in the position of being a young middle-class wife and mother and she did nothing to get out of that situation. She pats herself on the back for not having done this or that, rather than for actually having accomplished something.’

‘I detest that kind of remark,’ said Anne. ‘At your age it’s worse than stupid, it’s tiresome.’

I normally avoided university students, whom I considered to be coarse and preoccupied with themselves and, above all, preoccupied with their own youth: to them just being young was a drama in itself, or an excuse for being bored.

I was greatly attracted to the concept of love affairs that were rapidly embarked upon, intensely experienced and quickly over. At the age I was, fidelity held no attraction. I knew little of love, apart from its trysts, its kisses and its lethargies.

I did not want to marry him. I liked him but I did not want to marry him. I did not want to marry anyone. I was tired.

We met Charles Webb and his wife at the Bar du Soleil. He specialized in theatre advertising and his wife specialized in spending the money he made, which she did at an incredible rate by lavishing it on young men.

How difficult she made life for us, with her sense of dignity and her self-esteem!

The association between Los Angeles, cars and traffic is well documented—not least in decades of Hollywood movies. Christopher Grimes had a pessimistic, or perhaps realistic, article in the Financial Times last week about the latest efforts to convince Angelenos to try public transport.

But here’s the thing: my mental conception of the city is completely different.

Wendy and I have visited Los Angeles exactly once, six years ago. This Amtrak train delivered us there.

We explored the city on foot and by Metro. Perhaps as a consequence, when I think of Los Angeles, my memories are inextricably caught up with public transport. I think of the grand architecture of Union Station and the whimsical decoration of some of the Metro stops, like these film reels at Hollywood/Vine:

Oh, and I remember my efforts to forget about work being undermined by these public health messages, which seemed to be everywhere:

But what I absolutely don’t think of is cars, freeways and traffic—despite them being so clearly a major part of life for those who live in the city.

It’s a tidy reminder of how experiences of a city can vary, and how a brief visit can leave one with completely the wrong impression of what a place is really like to live in.

We’ve done windmills recently, but here’s another one that Wendy and I visited recently: the ruined Calhau windmill in the Monsanto Forest Park in Lisbon. It dates back to the 18th century when Lisbon was full of windmills. It is, erm, no longer operational.