SROs, flophouses, microapartments: Smart cities are finally allowing the right kind of housing for the poor, young, and single.

Flophouses, Rooming Houses, and Microapartments Were Wiped Out by Dumb Urban Policies. But They’re Finally Making a Comeback in…

Flophouses, Rooming Houses, and Microapartments Were Wiped Out by Dumb Urban Policies. But They’re Finally Making a Comeback in…

Commentary about business and finance.
July 17 2013 1:27 PM

Bring Back Flophouses, Rooming Houses, and Microapartments

Dumb urban policies wiped out the best kinds of housing for the poor, young, and single. But they’re finally making a comeback in smart cities.

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In the 1960s, “urban renewal” became the watchword of North American policy on cities. On the ground, it commonly meant leveling residential hotels and the mixed districts that surrounded them, then constructing single-use neighborhoods of one- and two-bedroom apartments. It was housing, but it was too big and expensive for members of the class that had made rooming houses their homes. In the years since, most cities have gradually closed many of their remaining SROs.

The number of cheap rooms for rent is a fraction of what it once was in American cities. In downtown Portland, Ore., for example, the number of units available to rent for the amount that a minimum-wage worker can afford ($458 per month in 2012) fell from 4,500 in 1994 to 3,200 in 2012, according to the Northwest Pilot Project, a housing provider for seniors. These quarters are almost all subsidized and often have long waiting lists.

Publicly supported low-income housing has emerged but nowhere in the quantities needed to fill the gap. The private housing market could do much more to provide living spaces affordably if we discarded those requirements that merely protect others’ property values by outlawing rooming houses and other simple housing options.

Historically, the bottom of the scale for inexpensive housing was not the rooming house but the flophouse—essentially a hall of bunks or sleeping slabs. Aside from homeless shelters, North America no longer has flophouses. A century of regulation shut them down. But in Japan, they live on in modern form in “capsule hotels,” which rent enclosed sleeping spaces by the hour or the night. In one $30-a-night Tokyo hotel, the sleeping capsules are stacked in pairs and are just big enough for a single mattress. Yet they each offer air conditioning, a radio and mini TV, a reading light, and a privacy screen. Guests share bathrooms, showers, a lounge, restaurant, and bar.

In most American cities, such 21st-century flophouses would be illegal on any number of grounds. The “rooms” are much too small: Habitable rooms may not be smaller than 7 feet by 7 feet in Seattle, for example; sleeping rooms must be bigger still. The hotels do not provide off-street parking for each room, and some do not have enough bathrooms to satisfy codes, which typically require one bathroom per eight units. The “rooms” themselves—the capsules—are code enforcers’ nightmares: Among other things, they lack the windows, fire-safe doors, smoke detectors, and closets required of each legal bedroom. If regulated as dormitories (bunkhouses) rather than as separate bedrooms, meanwhile, they would violate other rules: They lack the requisite unencumbered floor space, for example.


Yet Japan has many such hotels, and its fire-safety record is better than that of the United States. Throngs of travelers and city workers stay in the capsule hotels, appreciating the low prices and clean, safe, convenient accommodations. They are cheap, too, at least by Japan’s stratospheric real-estate standards. Even in the Northwest, a bed for $30 a night would be cheaper than a taxi home for some Saturday night pub crawlers. And capsule hotels operate at a profit, without public subsidy, filling one of many niches in Japan’s housing market.

Imagine a continuum of such choices, extending downward from today’s studio apartments. Along this continuum, we’d have complete studios smaller than those currently permitted, followed by tiny units with private baths but without full kitchens, then updated rooming houses with shared baths and kitchens, then capsule hotels. A few brave developers have been trying to reverse a century of policies on a small scale by building neo-SROs and microapartments in cities. They’re responding to the strong demand, especially among millennials, for small, inexpensive units in popular, pedestrian-oriented neighborhoods such as Seattle’s Capitol Hill and Portland’s Pearl District.

One example is the aPodment, a product of Calhoun Properties of Seattle. These buildings are updated rooming houses. Each unit is lightly furnished and has a microwave and a minifridge plus a petite bathroom, compactly arranged in 150 to 200 square feet. Off-street parking is minimal and is rented separately, but the buildings have shared kitchens and laundry facilities. In early 2013, rents commonly began around $550 per month, including Internet and all utilities. At about $18 per night, aPodments rent for roughly double what San Francisco rooming houses cost a century ago, adjusted for inflation. Unlike their historic antecedents, aPodments have private baths and kitchenettes.

In five years, Calhoun and its partners have built more than 400 units at 12 sites on Seattle’s Capitol Hill and in the University District. Occupancy is reportedly near 100 percent, because the price is far below that of studio apartments nearby. For many of these projects, Calhoun has avoided design review and other regulations on congregate housing by keeping the developments small and, legally speaking, townhouses rather than rooming houses. In these projects, each townhouse has eight or fewer bedrooms to fit inside Seattle’s eight-person-per-dwelling-unit occupancy limit. And Seattle’s parking requirement for a single townhouse is one off-street slot, so the parking burden is light.

Calhoun isn’t the only developer shrinking its ambitions to the dimensions of what the English call “bedsits.” In the six years before 2013, the city of Seattle permitted 48 microhousing buildings, with some 2,100 diminutive apartments between them. That’s a bigger number than at any time in decades, but it’s still a small share of residential development.

Many neighbors are supportive; many are not. Supporters speak for more housing choice for entry-level workers and call opponents elitists or NIMBYs. Opponents fear that “sketchy people” will live in such small units. They also complain about the extra cars they believe will compete for curb parking. In Vancouver, British Columbia, a microloft project has renovated an old SRO into 30 carefully designed studios averaging 250 square feet each and renting for about Canadian $850 (U.S $816) a month, including utilities. In Portland, one new building offers 150 units of about 300 square feet each in the trendy and spendy Pearl District at around $850 a month. Demand for very small units has been strong in Portland, pushing up rents for studio apartments by about 30 percent over the past two years. New York is considering reducing its minimum-square-footage rules to allow microstudios. Similarly, San Francisco recently authorized a trial run of up to 375 new apartments as small as 220 square feet.

In part, developers’ interest in small units is a response to the demographics of renters, many of whom are millennials, a generation with modest incomes and decidedly urban tastes. More than previous generations, they are delaying marriage and childbearing and prefer compact, walkable, culturally interesting places with European-style “café cultures.” That’s the analysis of Seattle urbanist Mark Hinshaw and his co-author, Brianna Holan. In the American Planning Association’s journal, they argue that small, centrally located apartments priced under $850 a month are exactly what many millennials want.

Will new ministudios at $850 per month help people who can afford only half that amount? Actually, they may. In the short run, new units free up older units, which helps to free up still older units, and so on down the economic ladder in a process that housing economists call “filtering.” In the long run, new housing turns into used housing. Just as people with less money drive older cars, they also live in older buildings. So new units occupied by baristas and graduate students today may become old units occupied by immigrant dishwashers in a couple of decades. Old-school rooming houses served both upwardly mobile young people and middle-aged working-class singles. The new generation of this housing can, too.