I’m one of those people who just hates working at home.
Oh, it seemed incredibly cool when it was the forbidden fruit. Back when I had to make a bleary-eyed, tedious commute to some cube at 9 AM and put cover sheets on TPS reports or listen to coworkers’ incessant sports talk, working from home was a rare and coveted treat, the stuff of dreams. Imagine, saving the world in my bathrobe, all the fine things in life at my fingertips: refrigerator, snacks, couch, coffee table, a breather on the balcony!
However, after I went out into the reputedly exciting world of self-employment around this time eight years ago, the novelty wore off after a week or two and the bleak reality set in. I’m an extrovert and I don’t handle extended loneliness well. Not leaving the house was depressing and unhealthy. It was not conducive to a routine; I quickly developed a chronically dispirited mood, exquisitely strange and shifty sleep rhythms (even by my nocturnal standards), and eating habits worthy of a bulletin from the Surgeon General.
Oddly enough, this was unrelated to whether I lived alone, with a long-term romantic partner, or family and friends. Certainly, I can’t work at home these days in a small apartment with three young kids, but for most of the eight-year history of this business, I lived alone or with an adult partner no less busy than I. Also, I spent a few years living overseas. In all cases, I was dysfunctional working at home–or whatever place served the role of home–and I hated it. To stay sane and produce consistently, I need some kind of routine, a commute, movement and walking, coworkers, water-cooler talk, lunch meetings, and the overall psychological compartmentalisation that comes with a distinctive work-space. If I don’t have that, things go downhill fast.
I had to go somewhere to work routinely, even if it was just a coffee shop. And so began a long journey through half a dozen or so workspaces, whose evolution somewhat tracked the growth and increasing sophistication of my company. I’m going to talk about a few of them here before I get to Industrious, my happy home for as long as they’re willing to have me.
Coffee shops and open-area coworking spaces
I’m pretty sure coffee shops are part of the workspace lifecycle of just about every freelancer. Freelancer suitably describes the state of my consulting business in the first two years (2008-2009), and I spent untold hours at Starbucks or its local-colour alternatives in Atlanta and Athens, GA.
For putting up with my tiresome hunched-over-laptop presence over the years, big thanks go out to:
- Jittery Joe’s (Athens, GA)
- Two Story Coffee (Athens, GA)
- Aurora Coffee (Atlanta, GA – Little 5 Points and former Virginia-Highland location)
- Cafe CK (Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin, Germany)
- Sankt Oberholz (Mitte, Berlin, Germany)
- Segafredo (Yerevan, Armenia – the Tumanyan St. and Abovyan St. locations)
- The Green Bean (Yerevan, Armenia – the Amiryan St. and Cascade locations)
I can only hope that all the money I spent made up for the annoyance of me bumming around endlessly.
The basic problems of working out of coffee shops are fairly well known. They’re noisy, so phone calls are tough to impossible. Seating is not guaranteed, and is far from always comfortable or ergonomic. There’s always the awkward economic aspect of earning your keep; even if you’re not frugal (I’m not), there’s only so much stuff you can buy while sitting somewhere for the better part of a day, and depending on how much foot traffic the coffee shop has, the owners may or may not love you as a semi-permanent fixture. Even if they love you, it gets socially weird showing up at the same retail food service outlet every day as if you live there. It’s a coffee shop, not an office.
But the real problem for me was that I needed an office, not a table. Much has been written about the importance for developer productivity of having a room with a door that closes, and I won’t belabour it here. More critically, I’m not one of those people that can live out of his laptop. If nothing else, my poor eyes and limbs can’t take it. I need peripherals, a real display (or several), a quality desk phone, and a place to store files, documents and gadgets. In other words, I need an actual workplace, not an ephemeral seat at a table.
My first move up the chain from retail coffee shops was to classical coffee shop/open area-style coworking spaces, then a relatively new idea. In late 2009, I tried the new and experimental (and since defunct) Ignition Alley collective near City Hall East here in Atlanta. It was a good concept and I admire Tim Dorr and Mike Schinkel for trying it, but it was just not viable from a physical perspective. It was one of numerous hipster-type urban renewal projects, a valiant effort to rehabilitate a dilapidated, grungy industrial building. There wasn’t enough money behind it to actually do that. It was a cold, damp, and clammy winter. Like many projects of its kind, IA wasn’t a place I would have brought a customer or a colleague to.
The fundamental deficiency in this type of coworking space, rather popular now globally, is that it’s not much of an improvement over a coffee shop. You’re still expected to come in and find a seat with your laptop–there’s no persistence. They’re better than a coffee shop because they’re quieter, understood to be for working, and you can stay there all day without feeling guilty or awkward, but in the best case it ends up being something like a library study room.
Some coworking spaces offer rentable dedicated desks to address this, as Ignition Alley did. I also spent a few months in spring 2013 renting a desk-spot (with no entitlement to any particular desk) at the quirky Sankt Oberholz in Berlin, which has both a coworking-oriented downstairs coffee shop and a dedicated members-only coworking space upstairs. It’s all situated in a fascinating 19th century building off the Rosenthaler Platz U-Bahn station in East Berlin. I also spent a month or so at Roam Atlanta in Dunwoody in late 2014, having just returned to the US and not yet found my new working home. They have created a nice members-only coffee shop with lots of nooks and crannies, but it’s still just a coffee shop.
I was content with these compromises while travelling abroad, but I can’t run a serious company–one-man or otherwise–out of a coffee shop. It clearly works for a large category of freelancers and so-called “digital nomads”, but not for me. I needed to step up to something real.
Regus and other offices
Commercial office space is expensive, and, as anyone looking for a small amount of real estate will quickly discover, generally rents in large increments (suites or entire floors) over multi-year leases.
One option is to sublet an office from someone with extra rooms. A colleague and I did this for a while in 2008-09, renting an office attached to a telecom company and data centre in Atlanta’s west side (near the Georgia Tech area). It was nothing special, but comfortable, access-controlled, and compatible with techie sensibilities.
We went the barter route on this instead of paying cash, since we could offer consulting that was notionally of value to our landlord. I advise strongly against bartering tech services, because this will lead to one of two outcomes:
- The landlord exploiting you mercilessly, given their relatively high leverage;
- You feeling guilty and/or landlord feeling screwed because you’re not really providing them much value.
In my case, it was the second scenario. The landlord was a very kind person who was much too honourable to meddle, impose or demand, and so the guilt that I wasn’t doing enough to earn the barter equivalent of market cash rent gnawed at me. However, I’ve known plenty of techies who fell for the first scam, and ended up doing thousands of dollars of free work per month to pay maybe a few hundred dollars’ rent.
Another option is to find a small, privately owned office building where space can be had in smaller increments. They do exist. I was in a four-room suite rented in a two-storey building owned by a nice middle-aged couple in downtown Decatur for a while, and the rent was quite reasonable for the square footage. However, four rooms was about the smallest they could offer, so if you’re like me, just looking for a room and not a whole suite, you’re going to have to band together with some others to get space in buildings like this. Moreover, as a general rule, I would say that such buildings are not fancy; this is Class B real estate territory, the reality of which can vary from merely somewhat drab all the way to bombed-out urban warehouse conversion.
Small sidenote: if you find yourself living in the “developing world” for a while, you may be tempted to think, as I was, that you can get a decent office cheaply. While “cheap” is a relative notion, my experience suggests that you’ll get exactly what you paid for. I rented an office in a Soviet-era building in Yerevan, Armenia for about a year at about ~$200/mo (allegedly expensive, if you listen to the locals),
and I can say that as a spoiled IT brat, I would have been better off paying closer to mainstream First World prices at fancy new business parks. I had to fight for air conditioning in 40C summers, never got particularly viable Internet access, and found the place uninhabitable in freezing winter temperatures unless I were willing to daisy-chain a bunch of space heaters like the other occupants. In talking with other people who have rented space in notionally “cheap” countries, I get the impression this is not an unusual experience. Unless you come from an expensive place like NYC, London, SF, Tokyo, etc., you should expect that comparable levels of creature comforts will cost more or less… well, comparably… anywhere. Have you noticed that Starbucks-style lattes cost no less than a few dollars everywhere, in poor and rich countries alike, even if the specific amount of dollars varies? Think of good offices the same way.
(Disclaimer: Opinions mine, based solely on my subjective impressions at the time of service, and not in any way fact-checked with the rigour of the scientific method or the fastidiousness of investigative journalism.)
Back to matters stateside, though. Now we come to Regus, a UK-based company that provides, along with several smaller competitors (including HQ, which Regus acquired), the canonical answer to the small businessperson’s demand for individual office space. Regus and its ilk are specifically designed to meet this need, occupying entire floors of “Class A” office space in skyscrapers and premium office towers and parceling them out by the room. Regus has a seemingly unparalleled global network of these facilities; if you live in something like a city, you’ve probably got at least one “Regus centre”, if not a dozen or more.
I’ve been in three different Regus facilities in Atlanta — two in high-rise Midtown and Downtown office towers (2010, 2011), and one in the Perimeter area (2014-15). The first two were split with a colleague, and the third I rented on my own. I’ve probably spent more time with Regus than I have anywhere else.
The good thing about Regus is that the space is truly “Class A” and the service offering is complete. All centres are in premium office parks or downtown skyscrapers and high-rises. If appearances are important to you in your business because you meet customers in your office, e.g. you’re an attorney or an accountant, this is your cultural home. If you want to be in the same kind of upmarket, well-appointed office building as a large ex-employer, Regus will get you in there. Needless to say, it’s not cheap; don’t bother with dollars-per-square-foot arithmetic, it’ll make you cry.
For most young tech companies, the value proposition in “Class A” office space is probably quite poor. Most of my customers, for product and consulting alike, are not local to Atlanta, and I hardly see them face-to-face. I could work in a single-wide trailer in rural Alabama and they’d be none the wiser. I also found that the aesthetic of “Class A” interiors becomes quite bland after a moment–depressingly cookie-cutter and unimaginative, if undeniably clean and comfortable.
The bad side of Regus is virtually everything else. Candidly, they’re probably one of my least favourite companies.
The first thing you’ll notice about Regus is that it’s an entirely sales-driven organisation. It’s almost like it’s really a sales company with the actual provision of office space as an afterthought. The managers of the facilities had titles like “Area Sales Manager”, and this really reflects the Glengarry Glen Ross character of the place. Those guys are always closing. The entire experience is numbers-driven, and you’ll feel very nickel-and-dimed for a la carte items that you probably figured were just included in the rent — the $100/mo Internet access (any alternatives require paying far more to bypass Regus), the $40/mo “kitchen fee” (so you can drink their Keurig-type coffee), etc. Faxes and copies are $X/page. There’s a lot of tax, title and tag beyond your base rent. They’ll try to upsell you on phone service and answering service, sell you on marked-up office supplies — always be closing. Nothing’s free or included. The conference rooms are scrupulously monetised. Remember Dwight Schrute as Dunder-Mifflin’s new landlord? Think intensely capitalistic thoughts.
Then there’s the nature of the rent itself. One-year lease agreements are mandatory and there is no early termination option, which is anathema to the realities of a young company, whether struggling or growing. Regus lease agreements emphasise that you do not receive a tenancy interest in any particular office, just that you are entitled to an office of a certain area. It’s more like a hotel, as they’re fond of saying. Although it’s not too common, they can and will move you to a different office if it suits a commercial objective of the moment. This is probably fine for people that need little more than a desk and a laptop, but not so good for those of us who nest with equipment, files or books in our workspaces, and more generally, build nontrivial attachments to the aesthetics of particular rooms. On one occasion, we were bumped (well, strictly speaking, priced) out of our then-current Regus centre altogether to make room for a client who wanted lots of short-term offices clustered together and was waving a lot of money around. You’re just a number.
Speaking of numbers, prices seem to be continually adjusted to reflect “market conditions” (i.e. a salesperson’s sense of how much you’re willing to pay) and proposed annual rent increases can be jaw-dropping. It’s a lot like sitting on a plane, knowing that every single passenger paid a different price for their ticket, a price that should be (in the view of the airline’s revenue management department) specially calibrated for every individual’s unique needs, so to speak. Traditional corporate landlords will wheel-deal and negotiate within a certain band that tracks average rental trends in a given market, but Regus have the flexibility to negotiate at the individual office level, so all bets are off.
Despite the high quality of the office space and the professionalism with which it is managed, all this makes for a rather user-hostile experience. If you don’t like the slimy feeling of constantly being sold to, you won’t like Regus. On the other hand, if money is not a key object and you like let’s-make-a-deal, you can find a nice office in the best buildings damn near anywhere in the world. If that’s important to you, might be worth a look.
One more thing: most traditional office space of any kind isn’t going to solve the solipsism of the solopreneur. I’ve never met anybody in Regus or other conventional spaces. Everybody scurries to and from their opaque offices and doesn’t socialise much. I imagine many folks like it that way.
The first time I saw Industrious’ promos, I knew I wanted to be there. Finally, there’s an office company that really gets it! I’m obviously not the only person to have come to that conclusion, as their occupancy in Atlanta is high and they’re expanding aggressively nationwide.
Since September 2015, the Atlanta Midtown location is Evariste’s new home, and we’re not going anywhere. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever said that with certainty and conviction about any office space.
The Industrious model combines all the social virtues of coworking with the critical realisation that private offices with closing doors are critical for serious companies. It’s real office space, but it’s also Gemeinschaft. When you want to hang out, you can come to the common areas, and when you want to hide in your office, you can do that. When you want to be a freelance hipster, you can do that, and when you need your business to grow up and be taken seriously, it lends itself to that as well.
Open-area coworking spaces don’t necessarily provide socialisation or collaboration opportunities consonant with the sales pitch. In places like that, people are trying to carve out their cocoon of concentration, siloed off into earphone-wearing atoms. At Industrious, there’s a real feeling of collective, which I think is an underappreciated key to the psychological health of the solipsistic entrepreneur or isolated small team.
All the coworking spaces push this angle strongly, but it’s only at Industrious that I’ve really seen it work. Some of that is just blind luck, I imagine; I was fortunate not to end up in another sea of SEO Creative Catalysts and Twitter emoticon visionaries with whom I had zero professional overlap. But some of that is because at Industrious there’s real balance, just like in a residential community; sometimes you want to go to the festival, but other times you just want to have a quiet evening at home. Industrious lets you do both.
I never made any friends at the open-area coworking spaces I’ve been in, but here, I’ve already done business with one neighbour and am getting ready to enter into a long-term contract with another! No collective setting can guarantee that one will make friends or strike up fruitful professional connections, but I think that Industrious’ claim is more substantive. They’ve got the facilities to situate non-trivial companies and groups of people engaged in higher-order business, not just individual professionals, so I think there’s a better chance of finding someone you’ll want to talk to.
The physicality is unique, original and well thought-out: all-glass office walls and front windows, a well-lit fishbowl in keeping with the latest architectural fashions in startup land. It’s very pleasing on all levels, and the ability to see into everyone’s office lends a surprising additional visual diversity to the interior, as the decorations, creature comforts, and the occupants themselves become part of a living, breathing décor. The glassy, transparent style of the place is oddly addictive. It makes me feel like I really want to be there. The transparency probably takes away privacy in the eyes of some, but it seems to me that the upsides greatly outweigh that. Overall, they’ve done a good job of skimping on things that the incorrigibly entrepreneurial don’t really care about; there’s exposed HVAC pipework, lots of concrete and a slightly industrial feel. However, they’ve been scrupulously attentive to design concepts for things that do matter, and I really like the values and priorities expressed in those choices. Having been through my share of projects with an “urban renewal” take on this, I know that’s hard to find.
The transparent, glassy anatomy is also an ingenious way to increase the ever-troubled value of interior (no window) offices, since daylight still finds its way into them, and one can see other people. Interior offices at Industrious are not depressing, isolated dungeons.
The common area is a pleasant place to relax, and there are frequent low-key social events. That appears to be consistent across all the locations.
Did I mention that you can draw on the glass?
Industrious provide a variety of room sizes, too, ranging from a small single-person office to rooms that can support five or even ten people. You can grow a team quite a lot before you outgrow Industrious. Upsizing or downsizing is trivial, subject to availability.
I wouldn’t say it’s cheap per se, and pricing does vary by market and facility. The larger rooms can stretch into the thousands of dollars monthly. However, all rent is strictly month-to-month; there are no leases. When you consider that none of their rental revenue is under contract, you can’t expect it to be cheap. There’s no slimy, high-pressure sales atmosphere; Internet access is included, as are snacks and coffee. There are no games. You can print things without anxiety.
I think the concept is a clear winner. This is unquestionably the right way to do a la carte office space for freelancers, startups and small companies. I think they’ve succeeded in redefining the category and anchoring a trend.
(No mention of my positive experience with Industrious at Atlanta-Midtown can be complete without a shout-out to Mary Catherine Hardage, the location manager. Aside from being a genial personality and pleasant to work with, she’s highly organised, diligent, and scrupulously attentive to detail. She takes excellent care of the place and is a huge asset to the company. Say I’m being gushy and saccharine, fine, but in bottom-line terms, I can’t tell you how much this stuff matters when you need something.)
It’s wonderful to be back amidst the beautiful Alpine scenery of Innsbruck, and I’m overwhelmed by nostalgia. I was last here almost exactly twelve years ago, in 2003, when I was 17, for about two months during the summer before my senior year of high school.
This was before the era of smartphones and ubiquitous WiFi, and we had no Internet access in our rented apartment. I still had to use a real map, and had maybe an hour of Internet access a day. For the first time in many years, I learned to happily do without, and to go outside and enjoy life without anxiety about the torrent of news, information and opinion to which I was not privy.
My father got a rare and coveted opportunity to teach on a summer abroad programme for American students. Practically, classes would let out around noon on Thursday, and the weekend was ours for travelling; this way, I got to see Vienna, Rome, Florence, Berlin and Paris, generally connecting by train through München. The München-Innsbruck EC train got to feel something like a commute home by the end of it all.
But it was in Innsbruck itself that I got my first exposure to Western European life, and it did a lot to mellow me out of my teenage angst, in those times expressed through we might call “niche” intellectual and ideological fixations. In everyday life in Austria, waking up after dawn to behold this ring of spectacular mountains above and piles of unlocked bicycles below, I found my idea of “capitalism with a human face”. Its attachment to reality is a complex topic, but irrelevant; my teenage mind had learned to stop worrying and love the small things, love the petite bourgeoisie. Apart from a brief exposure to the Rockies, I had never been in mountainous settings. I had only known the stifling humidity and mugginess of the Eastern half of the US and never crisp, cool air. Last time I had seen vestiges of daylight at 10 PM was in the “white nights” of Riga when I was four–a last-hurrah holiday in 1990 preceding the secession of the Baltic Republics.
In many ways, my quotidian walks up and down Maria-Theresien-Straße, ventures west on Anichstraße to the Universität Innsbruck cafeteria for our included lunch of schnitzel, and my hikes to Hungerburg (868 m) did more for my spiritual health than the whirlwind of train travel.
I returned to America in August calmer, thinner, fitter and happier, with very concrete–for once, not theoretical–expansion of horizons. I had forgotten a lot of Spanish grammar just in time for the AP course, but had a bit of German up my sleeve.
My literature teacher from the previous semester asked, dejectedly, “Where is the angry communist Balashov?” I had no answer for him; I was in good spirits, and it was a great time to be alive.