This episode explores the architectural DNA of Israel, tracing how European Modernism and Brutalism were imported wholesale after 1948 to solve a massive housing crisis. Between 1948 and 1953, the population more than doubled, and the government turned to prefabricated concrete panels inspired by Le Corbusier and the British New Towns movement. The result was the Shikunim—standardized concrete housing estates that look brutalist but are actually just cheap. Unlike true Brutalism (like Le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation in Marseille), these Israeli versions stripped out the amenities, spatial generosity, and social infrastructure that made the model work. They copied the container but forgot the contents. The core tension is climatic: these buildings were designed for a European temperate climate, not the Mediterranean sun. Thin concrete walls turn apartments into ovens, flat roofs leak, and wide streets create wind tunnels. The episode contrasts this with traditional Middle Eastern architecture—the courtyard house (hosh) with thick stone walls, shaded alleyways, and passive cooling—which achieved high densities without a single air conditioner. The discussion also touches on the "European gaze" that shaped Israeli architecture, from the Technion's German polytechnic model to the UNESCO-listed White City of Tel Aviv. Ultimately, the built environment reveals a deeper cultural tension: a nation building with borrowed blueprints, struggling to find an authentic architectural language for its place.
#3191: Why Israeli Housing Feels Like an Oven
European concrete ideals meet Middle Eastern sun, creating a housing crisis baked into the walls.
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New to the show? Start here#3191: Why Israeli Housing Feels Like an Oven
The most controversial building in Tel Aviv isn't a luxury tower. It's a concrete housing block from 1963 that half the city wants to tear down and the other half calls home. Right now, Tel Aviv is rezoning several brutalist housing estates for mixed-use redevelopment, and the national debate has gotten loud. Daniel sent us a prompt that basically asks: what shaped Israeli architecture after 1948, why does so much of it feel like an eyesore, and has the instinct to compare ourselves to Europe distorted the whole thing?
This is a fantastic question because it's really two stories in one. First, the global arc of architectural movements — Beaux-Arts to Modernism to Brutalism to Postmodernism to whatever we're in now. Then, Israel as this pressure cooker where those movements collided with nation-building, mass migration, and a landscape none of them were designed for. The core tension is simple: Israeli architects in the fifties, sixties, and seventies were trained in European schools — Bauhaus, Le Corbusier's CIAM, German polytechnics — but they were building in a climate and a cultural context those schools never accounted for.
This isn't really about concrete. It's about what happens when architectural ideology meets national identity, and whether the resulting built environment can ever feel like it belongs.
And the term "architectural ideology" is going to do a lot of work in this episode, because it's not just about aesthetics. Every building is a cultural statement, whether the architect intended it or not. Think about it this way: when you walk into a Gothic cathedral, the pointed arches and the verticality are telling you something about transcendence and hierarchy. When you walk into a glass-box corporate headquarters, the transparency and the grid are telling you something about efficiency and accountability. The question is what they're saying, and whether anyone asked the people who have to live with them.
Let's start with the big movements. Give me the sweep, Herman. Beaux-Arts to now, but keep it moving.
Beaux-Arts is the late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Think ornament, hierarchy, axial planning, grand civic buildings. The Paris Opera House, Grand Central Terminal. Architecture was about expressing power and permanence through decoration. Every surface had a job — to tell you that the institution inside was important, stable, worth your deference. Then Modernism comes along and says: ornament is crime. Adolf Loos literally wrote an essay called "Ornament and Crime" in 1910. His argument was that decorating a building was a waste of labor, a primitive impulse that civilized societies should have outgrown. Form follows function. Le Corbusier declares the house is a "machine for living." Clean lines, flat roofs, ribbon windows, no decoration. The Bauhaus school in Germany codifies this into a teaching method — unify art, craft, and technology. The idea was that good design should be available to everyone, not just the wealthy. Mass production, standardization, the elimination of anything unnecessary.
Brutalism emerges from that?
Brutalism is Modernism's rougher, more honest child. The term comes from "béton brut" — raw concrete. After World War Two, Europe needed massive amounts of housing, fast, and cheap. Whole cities had been bombed flat. Brutalism said: don't hide the structure, don't polish the surface, let the concrete be concrete. There was an idealism to it — the belief that architecture could engineer social progress. Alison and Peter Smithson in Britain, Paul Rudolph in the US, Le Corbusier's Unité d'Habitation in Marseille. These were meant to be vertical villages, with integrated shops, schools, rooftop gardens. The concrete wasn't just a material choice — it was a moral statement about honesty. No cladding, no veneer, no pretending to be something you're not.
Then Postmodernism shows up and says "less is a bore.
Robert Venturi, 1966. Postmodernism brought back historical reference, irony, color, decoration. Michael Graves, Philip Johnson's AT&T building with the Chippendale top — that broken pediment at the crown that looks like a giant piece of furniture. It was a reaction to what people perceived as the coldness and sterility of Modernism. The argument was that buildings should communicate with the public in a language they actually understand, not some abstract geometric code. And from there we get to contemporary architecture — parametricism, the blobs and curves of Zaha Hadid, sustainability as a design driver, and a renewed interest in contextualism, which is building that responds to its specific place, its climate, its culture, its materials.
Each movement is a reaction to the perceived failure of the one before it.
That's the mechanism. Modernism reacted against Beaux-Arts excess. Brutalism reacted against Modernism's polish. Postmodernism reacted against Brutalism's severity. And now we're reacting against Postmodernism's irony with a search for authenticity. And here's where Israel comes in. In 1948, the new state faces a housing crisis that's almost impossible to overstate. Between 1948 and 1953, Israel built roughly a hundred thousand housing units. The population more than doubled in three years — Holocaust survivors, refugees from Arab countries, immigrants from everywhere. We're talking about people arriving with literally nothing, sleeping in tents, in transit camps called ma'abarot that were supposed to be temporary and ended up lasting years. The government turned to the most efficient method available: prefabricated concrete panels, inspired by Le Corbusier's ideas and the British New Towns movement.
This is where we get the Shikunim.
The Shikunim — the housing estates. Neighborhoods like Kiryat HaYovel in Jerusalem, Shikun Dan in Tel Aviv, the developments in Kiryat Gat, Ashdod, Be'er Sheva. Built using standardized concrete slabs. Often no insulation, no shading, flat roofs that leaked in the winter rains. And here's the key misconception: people call these brutalist, but they're mostly not. True brutalism, like Paul Rudolph's Yale Art and Architecture Building, has sculptural ambition. The concrete is shaped, textured, deliberate — it's trying to be beautiful on its own terms. Most Israeli Shikunim are brutalist-adjacent at best. They're cheap, fast, unadorned concrete boxes. The aesthetic was a byproduct of economics, not ideology. Nobody was making a statement about the honesty of materials. They were just trying to get a roof over people's heads before winter.
They look brutalist because they're brutal, not because anyone was making a statement.
And the difference matters. Le Corbusier's Unité d'Habitation in Marseille, completed in 1952, has 337 apartments across eighteen stories. It has double-height living rooms, internal shopping streets, a hotel, a rooftop theater and garden. It's a complete urban fragment — everything you need for daily life inside one building. The Israeli versions stripped all of that out. Same béton brut, same basic form, but none of the amenities, none of the spatial generosity, none of the social infrastructure that was supposed to make the model work. They copied the container but forgot the contents.
You get the concrete without the community.
Without the climate logic. These buildings were designed for a European ideal — the nuclear family, the temperate climate, the idea that you'd heat your flat in winter and open a window in summer. In the Mediterranean sun, thin concrete walls turn apartments into ovens. I've been in some of these units in August, and you can feel the heat radiating off the walls at nine o'clock at night. In the rainy season, flat roofs pool water and eventually leak, staining ceilings and breeding mold. The wide streets between blocks create wind tunnels that make the outdoor spaces unusable for half the year. There's a reason traditional Middle Eastern architecture didn't look like this.
Let's talk about that. What was here before the concrete boxes arrived?
The traditional architecture of the region is a masterclass in passive design. The courtyard house — the "hosh" in Arabic — is the central typology. Thick stone walls for thermal mass, narrow shaded alleyways, inward-facing layouts with rooms arranged around a central courtyard. The courtyard provides natural ventilation through the stack effect — hot air rises, drawing cooler air through the ground-level rooms. It provides private outdoor space that's protected from the street, from the dust, from the noise. Wind towers, or badgirs, channel breezes down into living spaces. These buildings achieve densities comparable to mid-rise apartment blocks — eighty to a hundred units per hectare — without a single air conditioner. And they do it while giving every family a private outdoor room. The courtyard isn't just a light well — it's the heart of the house. You sleep on the roof in summer. You cook in the courtyard. The building breathes.
The Israeli model imported the exact opposite.
Outward-facing apartment blocks, wide streets for cars, thin concrete walls, no shading, no courtyard, flat roofs. It's a European industrial city dropped into the Levant. And this isn't just about comfort — it's about energy. Israel's per capita electricity consumption for cooling is among the highest in the OECD, and a big chunk of that is because the building stock was designed as if it were in Frankfurt. Every air conditioner running full blast in July is paying off a seventy-year-old architectural debt.
The European gaze isn't just a metaphor. It's literally baked into the walls.
Into the training. Israeli architects in the fifties and sixties were overwhelmingly educated at the Technion, which was modeled on German polytechnics, or abroad — Switzerland, France, the UK. They brought back CIAM principles: functional zoning, separation of uses, the tower-in-the-park model. CIAM, the Congrès Internationaux d'Architecture Moderne, was essentially Le Corbusier's platform. It prescribed dividing cities into zones — living, working, recreation, transportation. This was designed for European industrial cities where you needed to separate housing from factories to keep people out of the coal smoke. Applied to the Middle East, it produced neighborhoods where you need a car to buy milk. The corner store, the mixed-use street, the casual overlap between living and working — all of that was designed out.
This connects to something the prompt touches on — the instinct to compare to Europe. Israelis have always done this, not just in architecture.
It's deep. The comparison to Europe — the UK, France, Germany — runs through Israeli discourse on quality of life, infrastructure, design standards. You see it in the "London-style" loft conversions in Florentin, the "Parisian" boulevard treatment on Rothschild. The White City of Tel Aviv, the four thousand Bauhaus buildings that UNESCO designated a World Heritage Site in 2003, is celebrated as a triumph of modernist heritage. And it is remarkable — the largest collection of Bauhaus buildings anywhere. But those buildings were also a European import. White stucco boxes with ribbon windows, designed for a climate that doesn't have the same humidity or solar intensity as the Levant. They required constant maintenance and were never thermally comfortable. The original architects adapted some features — deeper balconies, smaller windows on the western exposure — but the fundamental typology was unchanged. It was a northern European building with a few Mediterranean tweaks.
The White City is the precursor to the Shikunim in a way — same impulse, different decade.
Same impulse, different economics. The White City was built by private developers for middle-class immigrants in the thirties. The Shikunim were built by the state for masses of refugees in the fifties. Same architectural DNA, stripped of budget. And you can see the lineage. The flat roof, the horizontal emphasis, the rejection of ornament — it's all there, just thinner, cheaper, meaner.
Far this sounds like a story of failure. But there are architects in Israel today who are trying to break the pattern. Let's look at one project that points a different way.
In 2022, the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem completed a student housing project that explicitly revived the courtyard typology. Shared gardens, thick stone walls, rooms arranged around central open spaces. It won the Israeli Architecture Prize. The architects essentially said: we're going to build the way people built here for centuries, but with modern construction methods and modern standards. And it works. It's thermally comfortable, it creates community, it feels like it belongs. Students actually use the courtyards — they study there, they eat there, they hang laundry there. It's become the social heart of the building in exactly the way the traditional hosh functioned.
It hasn't been replicated at scale.
That's the problem. One prize-winning project doesn't shift a national construction industry. The economic pressure to build fast and cheap remains. The building codes are still based on European models — minimum room sizes, fire safety standards, structural requirements that assume a cold climate and don't account for passive cooling or natural ventilation. You end up with buildings that can't legally use the traditional strategies that would make them work. Try to build a courtyard house with narrow shaded streets in a new development, and the fire department is going to ask how the truck gets through. The health department is going to ask about minimum light standards that assume outward-facing windows. Every regulation was written with a different building type in mind.
The regulation itself locks in the European model.
It's a double lock. The codes say you have to build this way, and the developers say you have to build cheap. The result is generic glass-and-steel boxes that could be anywhere. The Sarona neighborhood in Tel Aviv, some of the new developments in Be'er Sheva — they're mid-rise, they're more human-scale than the tower blocks, but they have no regional identity. You could pick them up and drop them in suburban Phoenix and nobody would notice. The "Israeli vernacular" remains elusive.
What about the towers? The prompt asks what has emerged besides high-rise towers, but we should address them.
The tower model is driven by land values. In central Tel Aviv, a square meter of land can cost more than a car, so you build up. The towers of the last two decades — the Yoo Towers, the Meier on Rothschild, the various luxury projects along the coast — are largely glass curtain-wall buildings. They're air-conditioned sealed boxes that could be in Singapore or Miami. They're not responding to place. They're responding to a global market for luxury real estate. The glass curtain wall is the international signifier of "premium," and it's thermally insane in this climate. You're essentially building a greenhouse and then spending a fortune to cool it.
A lot of them sit empty. Investment properties for foreigners.
That's a whole other episode. But it connects to the core problem: the built environment isn't being designed for the people who actually live in it. It's being designed as a financial instrument. The apartment is an asset class, not a home.
Let's go back to the Shikunim and the rebuilding question. The prompt notes it's gradual, and tearing down functional housing isn't trivial. What's actually happening on the ground?
The main mechanism is called Pinui-Binui — Evacuate and Build. The idea is: a developer identifies an aging housing estate, makes a deal with the residents, tears down the old buildings, and replaces them with new, denser construction. The residents get new apartments, the developer makes money on the additional units. It sounds straightforward. It's not.
Because getting eighty percent of residents to agree is nearly impossible.
That's the legal threshold — eighty percent approval per project. And since its launch in 2010, the Pinui-Binui program has redeveloped only twelve percent of the roughly twelve hundred eligible housing estates. Residents resist because they own their apartments and they don't trust the developer to deliver equivalent units. They've seen projects stall for years — there's a building in Givatayim that's been half-demolished since 2017 because the developer ran out of money. They worry about being displaced during construction. Where do you live for the two or three years it takes to rebuild? The developer is supposed to pay for rental accommodation, but the rent they offer often doesn't cover a comparable apartment in the same neighborhood. They worry the new building will have higher maintenance fees — an elevator, a lobby, a parking garage, all of which cost money to run. The process requires a level of social trust that doesn't exist in many of these neighborhoods.
Meanwhile, the buildings are degrading. Sixty-plus years old, energy-inefficient, structurally aging. The Tel Aviv Municipality did a survey in 2023 and found that seventy-eight percent of residents in 1960s concrete blocks wanted to stay — but only if the buildings were retrofitted. They don't want to leave their communities. They just want the buildings to work.
Which suggests the problem isn't the material. It's the lack of maintenance and amenities. The concrete itself isn't the enemy. The neglect is. And that's a much harder problem to solve, because it's not architectural — it's political and economic. You're asking a government that can barely keep the trains running to invest in retrofitting thousands of aging housing blocks. The political will isn't there. There's no ribbon-cutting ceremony for "we fixed the roof and added insulation.
There's a comparison here that I think is worth making. The "tower in the park" idea — Le Corbusier's vision of tall buildings set in open green space. Kiryat HaYovel in Jerusalem is a classic example. Forty percent open space between the concrete blocks. But residents don't use it — it's windswept, unshaded, and feels unsafe at night. You get these vast lawns that look great in planning diagrams and terrible in real life. Nobody sits on them. Nobody plays on them. They're just dead space that has to be maintained.
Compare that to the traditional Arab neighborhood of Silwan, just across the valley. Narrow streets create natural shade and social density. The street itself is a living space. Kids play, neighbors talk, the scale is human. It's not that traditional architecture can't handle density — it handles it differently, and arguably better, for the people who actually live there. The street in Silwan is maybe three meters wide. You can hear your neighbor's radio. You can smell their cooking. That's precisely the kind of proximity that modernist planning was trying to eliminate — but it turns out that proximity is what makes a neighborhood feel alive.
The tower-in-the-park gave us open space nobody uses, while the traditional model gave us dense urban fabric that people actually inhabit.
This gets to something deeper about the Israeli case. The imported model wasn't just aesthetic — it was tied to the ideology of creating a "new Jew" and a "new society." The early Zionist architects weren't just building housing. They were building a national identity. The European model represented modernity, progress, a break from the past. The traditional Middle Eastern architecture represented everything they were trying to leave behind — the shtetl, the ghetto, the old world. The inward-facing courtyard looked too much like the enclosed Jewish quarters of Europe. The outward-facing apartment block, with its balconies open to the street and the sun, was a declaration of freedom.
Rejecting the courtyard house was a political act.
Probably unconscious for most architects, but yes. The flat roof, the exposed concrete, the open plan — these were symbols of a new way of living. The inward-facing courtyard, with its privacy and its separation from the street, looked like the old way. Never mind that the old way was better adapted to the climate. Ideology trumped performance. And you can see this in the writings of the period. Architects talked about "breaking out of the ghetto" and "opening to the light." The house was supposed to transform the person who lived in it. The open plan would create an open mind.
This is where Israel's case diverges from other post-colonial building booms. India's Chandigarh, Brazil's Brasília — both designed by Le Corbusier and Oscar Niemeyer respectively — faced similar tensions between imported modernism and local context. But in those cases, the import was about a universalist aesthetic. In Israel, it was about identity formation.
The "new Jew" needed a "new house." And the new house looked like Europe. That's the ideological layer that makes the Israeli case unique. Chandigarh was Le Corbusier saying "this is what a modern Indian city should look like." The Israeli Shikunim were Israeli architects saying "this is what a modern Israeli should look like." It's a much more intimate and identity-driven project.
Where does this leave us? What's the current generation of architects doing?
There's a real shift happening. Firms like Kimmel Eshkolot and Chyutin Architects are increasingly looking to local precedents — courtyard housing, passive cooling, stone cladding, the use of shade as a design element rather than an afterthought. The Bezalel project is the poster child, but there are smaller examples. Some of the new neighborhoods in the Negev are experimenting with earth construction and natural ventilation. The problem is that these remain boutique projects. The mass market — the big residential towers, the office parks — is still dominated by the international style and its glass-box descendants. If you're a developer building three hundred units in Rishon LeZion, you're going to use the same plans you used last time, the same materials, the same contractors. Innovation costs money and takes time, and the housing market doesn't reward either.
Because the economics haven't changed. Build fast, build cheap, air-condition the problem away.
The building codes haven't changed. If you want to build a courtyard house with thick stone walls and natural ventilation in Tel Aviv, you're going to spend a lot of time arguing with the planning department about fire egress and minimum window sizes and structural calculations that assume reinforced concrete. The system isn't set up for it. It's set up for the building types we already have. Which means every innovative project has to fight a regulatory battle before it can even break ground.
The actionable insight for anyone listening who's involved in urban planning or architecture: challenge the assumption that "international style" is neutral. Every building is a cultural statement. Ask who designed it, for whom, and what climate they had in mind. Those three questions will tell you more about a building than any aesthetic critique.
Here's another. The most successful urban interventions in Israel right now are not the high-rise towers. They're the mid-rise, courtyard-based infill projects that adapt traditional Middle Eastern typologies to modern construction methods. If you're interested in climate-responsive housing for hot, arid regions, study the Hosh model. It achieves modern densities with ancient thermal wisdom. That's not nostalgia — it's engineering. The stack effect that cools a courtyard house works on the same physics as a modern data center's ventilation system. The thermal mass of thick stone walls is the same principle that makes passive solar houses work in cold climates. These aren't quaint traditions — they're sophisticated environmental technologies that we forgot how to use.
The Pinui-Binui lesson is also worth underlining. Twelve percent redevelopment in fifteen years. The lesson for other countries facing aging housing stock is that early investment in maintenance and retrofitting is cheaper and easier than demolition and rebuilding. Once the buildings are up and people own their units, you're locked into a negotiation that can last decades. The window for easy intervention closes fast.
That negotiation is fundamentally about trust. The architecture is almost secondary at that point. It's about whether residents believe the state or the developer will deliver what was promised. In a country where trust in institutions has been declining for years, that's a heavy lift. You're asking people who've been let down repeatedly to bet their homes on a promise. That's not a design problem — that's a social contract problem.
There's a climate angle here that I think is the real urgency. As the Middle East gets hotter — and it will — passive design stops being a nice-to-have. It becomes non-negotiable. You can't air-condition your way out of fifty-degree summers indefinitely. The grid won't handle it, and the carbon cost is catastrophic. We're already seeing rolling blackouts in parts of the region during heat waves. That's only going to get worse.
Israel is a cautionary tale and a laboratory. The cautionary part is: if you import a European building model into a Middle Eastern climate, you'll spend the next seventy years paying the energy bill. The laboratory part is: the architects who are now reviving traditional typologies are generating data that the rest of the hot, arid world desperately needs. What works, what doesn't, how do you adapt courtyard housing for modern fire codes and modern expectations of privacy and modern construction costs. Every Bezalel project is a research project, whether it's framed that way or not.
The next wave of construction in the region will have to reconcile modern density with ancient thermal wisdom. And Israel, for all the mistakes of the past seventy years, is actually well-positioned to lead on that — if the codes and the economics can be shifted.
The knowledge is there. The question is whether the system will let it be used. And that's a question about politics and money more than it is about architecture.
Which brings us back to the open question the prompt leaves us with. Can a country that was founded as a refuge for a diaspora ever develop an architecture that feels indigenous? Or will it always be a palimpsest of imported styles?
I think the honest answer is that it's too early to tell. Seventy-eight years is not a long time in architectural history. The Gothic cathedrals took centuries to evolve. The courtyard house emerged over millennia. Israel's built environment is still in its infancy. The question is whether the next phase will be more responsive to place than the last one was. And there are signs — real signs — that it might be. The Bezalel project, the courtyard infill projects, the growing awareness among young architects that the European model was a mistake. These are seeds. Whether they grow depends on whether the regulatory and economic soil is prepared to receive them.
The palimpsest metaphor works. You can see the layers — Ottoman stone, Bauhaus stucco, Brutalist concrete, glass curtain wall — all piled on top of each other. What's missing is the layer that synthesizes them into something that feels like it belongs.
That synthesis might require something uncomfortable: looking not just to Europe for models, but to the region. To the courtyard houses of the Old City, to the passive cooling strategies of Persian architecture, to the dense, shaded urbanism of the Arab world. That's politically fraught, for all the reasons we've discussed. The whole point of early Zionist architecture was to differentiate from that world. To turn back to it now, even for purely technical reasons, carries symbolic weight. But climate doesn't care about politics. A heat wave doesn't check your passport.
There's a phrase I keep coming back to. "Every building is a cultural statement." The Shikunim said: we are modern, we are European, we are building a new society. The towers say: we are global, we are wealthy, we compete on the world stage. The courtyard revival says: we are of this place, and this place has wisdom we forgot.
The most interesting buildings of the next decade might be the ones that say all three at once. That acknowledge the European lineage, the global context, and the regional wisdom, and try to weave them into something that hasn't existed before. That's the synthesis that's missing. It's a genuinely hard architectural problem — harder than just picking one tradition and running with it. But the best architecture has always come from exactly that kind of synthesis. The Gothic cathedral didn't reject the Romanesque — it absorbed it and transformed it. The next Israeli architecture, if it's going to be great, will have to do the same.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the 1940s, French Guiana hosted a variant of kabaddi called "circle kabaddi," played on a circular pitch thirty-two feet in diameter — roughly the size of a modern shipping container laid flat. Players would hold their breath and chant "kabaddi kabaddi" while trying to tag opponents, just like the standard version, but the circular boundary meant there was no corner to trap anyone in. The game reportedly died out in the 1960s when the local league switched to the rectangular court, but for two decades it was the only circular contact sport played at a competitive level in South America.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the 1940s, French Guiana hosted a variant of kabaddi called "circle kabaddi," played on a circular pitch thirty-two feet in diameter — roughly the size of a modern shipping container laid flat. Players would hold their breath and chant "kabaddi kabaddi" while trying to tag opponents, just like the standard version, but the circular boundary meant there was no corner to trap anyone in. The game reportedly died out in the 1960s when the local league switched to the rectangular court, but for two decades it was the only circular contact sport played at a competitive level in South America.
A shipping container. So the same game, same rules, but the shape of the boundary changed the entire strategy. Which feels almost too on the nose for an episode about imported forms not quite fitting their context.
I was going to say — we just spent an hour talking about what happens when you take a European rectangle and drop it into a Middle Eastern circle. Hilbert, did you plan that?
Hilbert: I neither confirm nor deny thematic alignment in the fun fact selection process.
Hilbert: I neither confirm nor deny thematic alignment in the fun fact selection process.
This has been My Weird Prompts. If you have a weird prompt about architecture, urban planning, or the built environment — or anything else that keeps you up at night — send it to prompts at myweirdprompts dot com. We read every one. Our producer is Hilbert Flumingtop. I'm Corn.
I'm Herman Poppleberry. We'll catch you next time.
This episode was generated with AI assistance. Hosts Herman and Corn are AI personalities.