We stayed at Courtyard in Medienhafen. It was cheap, perhaps because it is a business hotel and it was Easter. They gave us a chocolate bunny which we ate on a walk around the other side of the dock. This was the side that our hotel room overlooked, not the architecture of Gehry, Alsop and Chipperfield but the view of cement silos and woods, family boats moored in a scruffy dock. Beyond, in our ninth floor picture window, modern barges slid into frame, travelling the Rhine. Below, a half empty car-park and, nose pressed against glass, the dark glamour of the Hyatt Regency, frequent destination of taxis, occasional limos and rolling matching luggage. Flood plain fields stretched towards the art nouveau villas in Oberkassel our furthest point, walking in the rain. We returned along Hamburger Strasse, straight, long and functional, a contrast to the bourgeois curves of Oberkassel. It was a long stretch passing by a giant skeletal building, broken glass, guttering and boarding, but groups of people still gathered at the station opposite to take the tram. There were working factories nearby and cafés supplying Würste and Brötchen and Coca-Cola. Fresh red graffiti on a new manufacturing unit read USE YOUR BRAIN.
Around the margins and in the gaps left by design-led redevelopment lie areas which indicate where the finance failed. Marked by mounds of moved earth, roads to nowhere and encroaching scrub these terrains create unplanned plazas throwing light up to illuminate contemporary architectural facades, their millennial colours and CAD aesthetics. These are unmapped places where communicating lines of old roads are cut through, severing the novel from the old and habitual. Industrial processing with its dust, hum and growl is over there now; cities have been drawn and quartered. The makeshift soon moves in to the transitional space between two times, extemporising, ready to squat but able to scarper one way or the other. The emerging ad-hoc is, in contrast to the architecture, unspectacular. This is a place made up of things cached or simply hiding beneath notice, a place which provides a chair, violets or a shelter smelling damply of vegetation and old newspapers. It is a geographical location where you can sit by a circle of burnt ash and contemplate what Sudjek might call capitalism’s last architectural hooray. This is where the boom ends – not with a turn of fortune but among trickling piles of sand.