David Sim, Creative Director at Gehl

Around the world, despite the challenges of the pandemic, we are seeing the benefits of living in cities – when they are “softer” cities.

In urbanism, “soft” is about all the small-scale, low-tech, low cost, human-centred solutions which make everyday urban life easier, more attractive and more comfortable.

The following observations are examples of how, what I call “soft” urban phenomena, can make a big difference to the functioning and the quality of life in locked-down cities, and at the same time offer clues to how we might make better cities in the future.

In these last weeks, amongst so much tragedy, some of the most optimistic images have come from one of the worst-affected areas in the world. Few could have missed the charming balcony scenes from Italy. These were moments of hope, with smiling, singing Italians serenading each other from their balconies, reminding us of the romance of city life. Not the Romeo and Juliet kind of romance, but romantic in its truer sense, like the French roman - telling us a story of the city, a story of life.

The balcony is something so simple, and really rather cheap; just a few square metres of concrete or wood. And yet, these structures last for hundreds of years, physically connecting people every day to fresh air, sunshine and the outside world. Compare this with the high cost, and comparatively short life, of a motor car.

Alongside balconies, there are the other soft edge zones: porches, verandas, vestibules, bay windows, front steps and stoops. All of these act as useful buffers between inside and outside, bridging between public and private, often providing those vital two metres required for physical distancing. But importantly these architectural buffers work two ways, not only physically distancing, but enabling proximity, sociability and even intimacy. These spaces have practical uses, such as leaving a parcel on the porch, or dropping the groceries on the front steps. But they also offer opportunities for delight - a place to sit out, enjoy the weather and feel connected to the rest of humanity, while still staying safely at home.

In a similar fashion to the simplicity of the balcony, the common staircase of a traditional walk-up apartment building creates a resilient micro-community, self-policing and self-nursing. The daily staircase encounters offer continuous orientation and knowledge of the lives of some 8, 10 or 12 households, making for trust and common understanding. We can keep an eye on a neighbour who is less mobile, we know who to ask to borrow a bottle of milk (or wine), and children feel there are other adults they can get help from if their parents are absent.

In terms of polite physical distancing, the common staircase is intuitively negotiable. You can open your apartment door and you can listen to find out if anyone is there or anyone is coming: you can simply hear if the coast is clear. In the same way, once you are moving through the staircase, you can hear doors opening, behind you or in front of you, and you can slow down or speed up accordingly. The shared acoustic space allows for greetings, polite enquiries and small exchanges of useful information.

In comparison to the stairs, taking the lift is like Russian Roulette. Cramped and confined, the lift itself is an insanitary box of bacteria with its infectious buttons and surfaces. Here there is no natural ventilation or sterilising sunlight to kill off the virus. In the lift, it is impossible to physically distance, there is no room for the polite, small manoeuvres and side steps which are possible on the stairs.

Of course, you might try to travel alone in the lift, but this creates an inherent confrontation with the inevitable distrust of other lift users. The doors open, you see there is someone there. Your potential lift-mate is a potential disease carrier – not the most convivial way to meet your neighbour. And even if the lift is empty when you get in, you have no guarantee it will stay that way on the journey down. In comparison to the lift, the traditional staircase is both safer and more convivial.

At a time when our economies demand that we get our societies and economies working again, some basic facts have forced major cities to reconsider the priority and distribution of space for mobility. Public transport is not safe when filled to capacity. Probably one third full is more realistic for safe travel, meaning thousands of commuters are displaced. If all these people took private cars to work there would be total gridlock in our cities. And of course, more cars would mean more pollution, which is unacceptable in a respiratory disease pandemic.

Walking and cycling are the cheapest, cleanest and most space-efficient means of moving people while maintaining physical distancing. Importantly they require the cheapest and most rapidly deliverable infrastructure.

Walking makes physical distancing easy. Pedestrians intuitively self-regulate. The individual has total control to negotiate with other people as they make their way through the city. And at the same time, walking allows the individual to choose their own pace, their own route, and when to stop, look and linger. In this way, walking empowers the individual.

A Japanese friend told me about her newfound independence, when she abandoned the risky, crowded carriages of the Tokyo metro, and for the first time, walked to work instead. It was the smartest option, and she found out that a 30- to 40-minute walk is totally do-able for her. This was a discovery in itself. And if the walk to work is do-able, suddenly a whole range of other urban destinations with similar distances become reachable, and the city becomes negotiable in a whole new way, totally independent of a timetable, completely free of charge and totally virus-safe. And on the way, apart from some much-needed exercise for free, there is a whole city of sensory experiences and useful services to be discovered; cherry blossom and sunshine, shopping, and coffee. And every day the route and the pace of the journey can change. Rather than arriving sweaty and stressed, my friend now arrives at work refreshed and inspired.

Walking must take up the least amount of space of any form of transport. Even when more space is needed to enable and ensure physical distancing, the total area required is still relatively small compared with that used by motor vehicles. With cycling, there is the same instinctive physical distancing as with walking, but you get further and move faster.

Around the world, mayors and public authorities are commissioning the radical redesign of their streets to increase capacity for walking and cycling. From Auckland to Athens, from central Paris to suburban Portland, streets and public spaces are being softened, redesigned and redistributed to cater for non-motorized transport. It’s easy, cheap and quick to widen pavements across road space, or to turn a car lane into a bike lane. And one lane of road carriageway makes a very generous footpath or a high-capacity bike lane.

It is important to understand that pavements and bike lanes are just part of the whole ecosystem of mobility. Creating more capacity for walking and cycling frees up vital space on buses and trains for those who have to travel longer distances.

Simpler, softer solutions

What strikes me is that so many of the urban phenomena which give us better-connected lives in these hard times (as well as in the good) are not necessarily expensive, complicated or energy greedy. Balconies and back gardens, staircases and street trees, pavement extensions and cycle lanes are simple, low-cost and low-tech solutions to the complex challenges of urban life.

As Jan Gehl frequently says, ‘It’s cheap to be nice to people’.

This opinion paper is part of the City of the Future event 1, exploring focus area 3: Urban Land Use & Transport

Problem statement: How might we support changing urban land use, infrastructure and space needs?