cities and landforms
During my recent trip to visit family in Bogotá, I explored the city to its limits, hopping through Chapinero and La Candelaria and hiking up the edges to quebradas and mountain churches. Bogotá was built on a plateau at a 2,625 meter elevation hugged by its surrounding mountains. Its sprawling districts have crept up the sides like the tide of an ocean of cities.
I started thinking — how does the topography of a city affect it? Do lovers love each other more for the hills they’ve crossed to see each other? Do humans wake up to the sight of mountains and realize how small they might be? Or do they see the sky stretching endlessly towards a horizon, and wonder what’s out there to explore?
Hilltop cities — the Acropolis, or Jerusalem — used be beacons of holiness and strategic defense. Since then, hills have lost their religious meaning and unique ability to defend against today’s war methods. What about other landforms? Bodies of water, or deserts, or marshland? It seems from the outside that these have similarly lost their impact. Trade has removed our dependence on our land fertility, and globalization has transferred cultures from city to city, no matter the terrain. Entire countries have blossomed without arable land. However, though landforms seem to have lost their effect on cities on the outside, I’ve noticed the ways they still affect us, and our cities, day to day.
Hills and bridges
During my time in San Fransisco, a “walk” wasn’t just a stroll down the block, it was much more. On a walk with someone, I would suddenly find ourselves at the top of a grassy dome spiraled with sidewalks, compelled to share a moment with each other gazing at the small colored houses and toy cars, a moment that we would have never shared otherwise. We’d settle down at a bench with a good viewpoint, and the conversation would naturally wind towards books that have moved us or life goals that we’re aiming for. Is this maybe one of the reasons that my conversations in SF have been more authentic, compared to the meager small talk squeezed in between the concrete and crowds of New York City?
The ups and downs of SF never seemed too unpleasant to me — I remember my walks being a highlight of the day. San Fransisco has put some extra love into its hilly neighborhoods, whether it’s Russian Hill or Potrero Hill, lining sidewalks with trees and making these areas some of the most walkable in citizens’ eyes. During my time on campus at MIT, I remember how the Charles River, inconveniently placed right in between campus and the fun part of town, was more a blessing than a curse. The Charles River bridge was a beautiful arc with sidewalks and bike lanes on the sides, where I shared late night conversations, a date kiss at sunset, and excited run-ins on the way out to town. The bridge was a spot for us to view all of campus from afar, just like in the pictures, and remember how lucky we were to be there.
I’ve never experienced an intense daily commute up a hill, but I had a upwards commute on my way home while working for a month in São Paolo, and it would add a sense of accomplishment to my day. Even though it had been a long day of work at the office, I’d arrive ready to commence a session of piano practice. In Ikaria, an island in Greece and one of the zones where people have a significantly higher life expectancy and lower rate of chronic disease, citizens like Gregoris Tsahas would climb at least four kilometres a day just to gather at the local cafe. Going up and down the mountain every day might get a bit easier after a while, but it never stops being hard. What I see is a landform that helps humans get used to doing hard things. Forming community, taking risks and building a meaningful life — these things aren’t easy, and I think cities like Ikaria help extend lifespans not only through physical exercise but through a purposeful life.
Waterways and sea
I also experienced the impact of a marshland, growing up in South Florida. Our communities were insular and separated by alligator-infested waterways. The cities and neighborhoods were interlaced with winding canals, and our neighborly interactions consisted of a couple alligator warnings flailed across the water. Exiting the neighborhood took at least 5 minutes in car and never could you think about walking somewhere. My school was a single long sidewalk extended alongside a canal and transited by administrative golf carts and speed-walking students. At lunch, there was no spontaneous mingling — you would mobilize up or down the path and halt at your group’s usual meeting location, and if you were to settle down with a new replacement friend group, everyone would know. I grew up craving unity and integration; I wanted to be near other people, and part of that is what drew me to the island of Manhattan, enclosed instead of cut apart by water forms.
What I do miss about Florida is the proximity to beaches and the content nature of the people. The beach was always the go-to plan with family or friends — we’d lay on the beach the whole day with some waters and sandwiches and nowhere else to be. I grew up happy with what I had and grateful for the people I was with. While I enjoy hiking the mountains of upstate New York, I tend to rush through to the peak, panting, and wonder “what’s next?” There’s something about the beach that even endless Central Park can’t reproduce, that makes you forget to check the time and be okay existing in one spot for a day. Floating up and down the waves, snuggling into the crooks of the sand, and listening to the ocean wave lullaby, a beachgoer will be hypnotized into enjoying life.
Landforms are inextricably linked to a city’s culture, and even the most expensive developments will somehow yield to the will of the land, whether it’s suburbs curved around a waterway or city commercial areas perched on an incline. Despite our increasingly online societies, there’s unique experiences to be gained from moving and existing in our varied outside physical space. In the same way form is linked with function, the shape of land we live on defines our relationships with nature, each other, and ourselves.
