我为什么着迷于上海里弄 Living in a lilong
;l)
[Photo by Urban Language]
2008年，当我决定搬到中国时，第一个面临的问题就是去哪里找个好住所。我从荷兰来，那里大多数人都住在平均三层高的排屋里，而我住在农场里。对于能居住在一个活力大都市的摩天大楼里，我感到非常兴奋。然而当我到达上海后，却发现上海也有很多地方是低层住宅，但居住密度远远高于我住过的地方。
我的第一个公寓住所位于一个毫无特点的郊区高层住宅的第17层。小区内，还有21栋一模一样的高楼。住了一段时间后，我决定搬到有些特点的地方住，比如那些可以让人认识邻里的低层住宅，并成为“城市的一部分”。我在中国的亲戚帮我在一个里弄街区找到一个美观的弄堂房屋。虽然那地方已经变得很陈旧，但仍然保持着有特色的高天花板、木地板、以及有意思的建筑细节，例如错层式的布局。在这里可以看到不错的城市全景，我甚至还有一个5平米的小屋顶花园，可以让我晾晾衣服，或是惬意地喝杯茶。
在没有受过建筑训练的人眼里，上海的高层小区似乎与里弄没什么相同之处。然而，对于我这样的建筑师来说，它们却有一些宽泛的相似处：两种都是大的组合体街区，里面的空间划分地十分理性，都是为了将居民数量最大化。在两种空间里，小区被高墙围住，有限的出入口将区域与外界隔离，促成了一种集体主义和设施共用的感觉。这里的人会说他们住在哪个“小区”，而不会说住在哪个大楼里，这意味着一个人属于某个“社区”。
当然，一个重要的不同点是：里弄里的街坊邻居彼此认识，有种共享空间的感觉。这种邻里感在高层地产中被牺牲掉了。高层楼宇之间隔着很多绿地，步行距离被延伸了，开放性被优先，导致了居民间更少的沟通。此外，高层公寓面积更大，都带有自己的厨房和卫生间，所以并不存在共用的必要性。
根据上海统计年鉴，21世纪的第一个十年中，平均每年有5万个里弄住宅消失，被现代化高层建筑取代。这是一个有点令人唏嘘的数字，而实际的数字可能更高。这些数字也是上海今日城市规划叙述中的一部分，也就是如何保护城市的建筑遗产。
我很快就爱上了我的里弄住所。有趣的是，当我为《上海新城》做采访的时候，很多当地居民说他们一点也不喜欢里弄这样的老街区。相反，他们更喜欢住在现代卫生和便利的高层中。当时我很震惊，但当有了两种房屋的居住经验之后，我明白了为什么。
住在里弄这样的传统低层住宅的主要问题是，里面的居民对他们的房屋没什么责任感。这是由于他们常常是不拥有产权或者无法负担房屋改造的投入。实际的房屋拥有者常常自己搬到高层住宅，虽然是地址的注册人，却已经不住在里弄，对保养房屋这件事模棱两可。于是，一个简单的解决方式就是将房屋租给打工者，他们没有户口，很容易被重新安置或者驱逐。
里弄的真实面貌也是复杂的，总有一天会被拆掉，为另一座购物广场或摩天大楼腾出空间，而拆迁会给房屋所有者带来丰厚的补偿金。因此，很多房东心满意足地等待开发商或当地政府的决定，一旦在他们的旧房产上建造高楼，就能领走丰厚的意外之财。
缺乏维护的后果是整体的杂乱和衰败，视这些街区为暂时住所的租客们更是加剧了里弄的衰败。在小巷中行走会给人一种穿过类似王家卫的《2046》或者雷利·史考特的《银翼杀手》的那种“地下世界”中的感受。在“地下世界”里，穷人在衰败的房子里受折磨，而周围的上层阶级居住在光彩夺目的摩天大楼里。因此，“居住在里弄”在公众心中是一种负面形象。很多跟我对话过的中国人都不理解，为什么我喜欢住在弄堂里，他们常常把里弄描述为 “不够21世纪”甚至“倒退”。
但如果摈弃了里弄，就等同于忽视很多其它传统的都市低层住宅，例如柏林的Hinterhofen、阿姆斯特丹的Hofjes，或是伦敦的Mews。这些历史街区都曾遭到大规模地破坏。然而近年来，保留下的部分却成为了城市里最热门的房产，因为它们承载了一些历史痕迹，一种无形的历史感，还有一种令人向往的亲密感，而这种亲密感是在活力大都市中非常缺乏的。这个趋势不限于欧洲，近来，东京和新加坡的低层住宅也变成了城市最高端的房地产。
在上海，里弄的绅士化正在进行中，但进行地有些不同。前面提到的城市中，虽然换了居住群体，但传统房屋仍然保持着原本的住宅用途，而上海的里弄正越来越多地转变为商业用途。新天地是迄今为止最极端的代表，一片传统房屋的完全复制品却被用作购物和娱乐。其他地区，例如田子坊和永康路酒吧街，也显示出传统生活方式在面对消费主义时的困难。但这些改造后的里弄仍然非常重要，因为它们依然是拥挤的里弄生活方式的记录者，也对这座都市未来的身份认同至关重要。
我期待着上海会出现更好的城市复兴项目，不仅能保持建筑形象，也能兼顾曾经富有生命力的集体主义生活方式。其中，一种想法是将里弄转变为给学生或创业者的房屋。改善一些基本的卫生条件和设施后，养老住宅也是一个很合适的想法。上述这些目标群体通常都不介意住在面积小的地方，特别是那些寻求能与街坊邻居有更多互动的老年人。
When I moved to China in 2008, my first practical concern was finding a good place to live. Coming from the Netherlands, where most people live in small terraced houses — or in my case, on a farm — I was very excited to live in a skyscraper in a dynamic metropolitan environment. Once I arrived, however, I was surprised that large parts of Shanghai were low-rise as well, albeit much more densely packed than I was used to.
My first house was an apartment on the 17th floor of an anonymous suburban high-rise. Within my compound alone, there were 23 other towers exactly like mine. After a while, I came to like the idea of living in a less anonymous neighborhood where I might actually know my neighbors. I decided to move into one of Shanghai’s lane houses to feel more a part of the city. Such lane houses, or lilong, refer to the city's traditional residential communities built around a network of alleys leading off a main street.
My Chinese relatives helped me find a handsome house in a lilong neighborhood. Although the area had seen better days, it still featured high ceilings, wooden floors, a split-level layout, and other architectural details characteristic of the lilong style. I sacrificed panoramic views of the city for a small, five-meter roof terrace on which to hang my laundry or enjoy a cup of tea.
To the untrained eye, it may seem that Shanghai’s high-rise compounds have little in common with a lilong. However, to an architect, there are a few broad similarities. Both constitute mass housing blocks where space is parceled out rationally, so as to maximize the number of residents within it. In both cases, the compound is surrounded by a high wall with a limited number of entrances, isolating the area from the outside world and encouraging people to share facilities, thereby fostering a sense of community.
Of course, one crucial difference is that the feeling of occupying a shared space is omnipresent in a lilong, where people are much more likely to interact with their neighbors. This has been sacrificed in high-rise estates, where large amounts of green space between buildings extend walking distances, privileges openness, and leads to fewer interactions between residents. Additionally, high-rise apartments tend to be much larger and come equipped with their own kitchens and bathrooms, so there is no need to share with others.
According to the Shanghai Statistical Yearbook, during the first decade of the 21st century, on average 50,000 lilong housing units disappeared every year. The majority were replaced by modern high-rises. The figures make for grim reading, especially when we consider that the actual number may be even higher. Lilong play a key part in the narrative of Shanghai’s urban planning today — namely, how to protect the city’s architectural heritage.
I quickly fell in love with my lilong house. Curiously, though, while I was working on my book “Shanghai New Towns,” many local people I interviewed said they preferred living in high-rises with modern sanitation and amenities to living in a lilong and similar old neighborhoods. At the time this shocked me, but now, having experienced both forms of housing, I can understand why.
One main problem is that residents of lilong and other traditional low-rise areas feel less responsible for their homes. This is because they usually neither own the property nor can afford to invest in it. The homeowners — who may be registered to the address without actually living there anymore — have usually moved out to a high-rise themselves, and also feel equivocal about maintaining the property. A simple solution is to rent out their property to migrant workers — who, without local residence permits, can be easily relocated or simply sent away.
The picture is complicated by the ubiquitous threat that the lilong will be destroyed in favor of another mall or skyscraper, both of which carry lucrative compensation fees for homeowners. Thus many landlords are content to wait for the moment that a developer or local government decides to build a shopping mall or skyscraper on top of their old property, and collect the windfall that comes with it.
The result of this lack of maintenance is a general cluttering and decaying of property, exacerbated by the transient lifestyles of people who treat such neighborhoods as merely a temporary residence. Walking through the lanes can give one a feeling of moving through a kind of social underworld akin to Wong Kar-wai’s “2046” or Ridley Scott’s “Blade Runner,” where the poor languish in decaying housing, while all around the upper classes inhabit glittering skyscrapers.
Consequently, the public image of living in a lilong is rather negative. Most Chinese people I speak to often describing it as “backward” and “not 21st-century enough.” Yet turning our collective backs on the lilong would be to ignore many other examples of traditional, urban, low-rise housing, such as Berlin’s Hinterhofe, Amsterdam’s hofjes, or London’s mews. These structures were historically pilloried and have been destroyed on a large scale too.
More recently, however, the remaining ones have become some of the hottest properties in these cities, as they carry a certain patina, an intangible sense of history, a desirable feeling of intimacy despite being located in the midst of dynamic, modern cities. The trend is not limited to Europe; these days, low-rise accommodations in both Tokyo and Singapore are some of these cities’ most upscale properties.
In Shanghai the gentrification of the lilong is also underway, though it is playing out slightly differently. Whereas in the aforementioned cities, such traditional housing has retained its original residential purpose, albeit for a different group of residents, in Shanghai the lilong is increasingly being repurposed as commercial property.
The Xintiandi area stands as the most extreme example of this to date: a full replica of traditional housing devoted to shopping and entertainment. Other areas, such as Tianzifang and the now partly closed Yongkang Road bar street, attest to the difficulty of preserving traditional ways of living in the face of consumerism. But they are also evidence that the way of life in a densely packed lilong is important — even essential — to the future identity of this metropolis.
Local governments could inject new life into urban regeneration projects by combining preservation of the original architecture and lifestyle with innovative, targeted housing solutions. One idea would be to transform lilong into housing for students or first-time buyers. Similarly, housing for the elderly would be a strong alternative if basic sanitation and facilities could be improved. Neither of these groups are too fussy about floor space, and they would likely thrive in the social environment a lilong house can offer.
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Copyright: Urban Language