Explosion Green: One Man's Journey To Green The World's Largest Industry
306
Explosion Green: One Man's Journey To Green The World's Largest Industry
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781630470227 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Morgan James Publishing |
| Publication date: | 06/02/2014 |
| Pages: | 306 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
David Gottfried is known as the father of the global green building movement, founding both the World Green Building Council and the U.S. Green Building Council, which has done more for carbon mitigation than any other organization. He has two annual awards in his name, has published two memoirs, Greed to Green (2004), and Greening My Life (2010), and has appeared on KQED/NPR with Michael Krasny, NPR Radio, Discover Channel’s Renovation Nation, ABC News, Metropolitan Home, in the Jerusalem Post, Australia’s Financial Times, and dozens of other publications.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
CHINA GREEN
My alarm jolted me awake out of my jet-lag coma. I'd been dreaming of being lost at sea in a life raft, searching for land. The raft spun round and round. I was making a fishing line from the unraveling canvas and a bucket to capture rainwater. The clock was flashing 7:00, which looked more like 17:00 in my Benadryl fog. I think I'd finally fallen asleep at 3 a.m. — at least in Beijing, but more like 4 p.m. my time, the previous day in Berkeley.
I hurried to dress. The mirror shot back an image that seemed to have more gray hair, further receding of the hairline, and bags under my glassy eyes. Shenzhen was my third stop on the two-week China trip. I'd already hit Hong Kong and Beijing with Sara and then Shanghai and now Shenzhen with Nellie. Sara and I had been married ten years, and she was now a New York Times best-selling author of The Hormone Cure, with two more books on the way. Our two young kids were at our Berkeley Hills home with Sara's folks.
I grabbed my RegenChina company brochures and my business cards and stuffed them into my briefcase in the elevator. I glanced at a card, which said my name in English and Chinese and listed me as CEO and Transformation Catalyst of Regenerative Ventures. On the back it said founder: US and World Green Building Councils.
Nellie was in the dining room, wearing her "China" white pantsuit with a white silk button-down top. Her hair was wet, likely from her morning swim. She smiled, looked at her watch and said, "You ready to go?"
After I'd bolted a bowl of cereal, some watermelon, and a strong coffee with cream, we went out and hailed a cab. The start-and-stop movement and quick merging in and out of adjacent lanes all had a flow to it, even though at every moment it seemed as if we would crash into any number of other cars — all driving similarly. I shook my head, vowing never to get behind the wheel in China. What seemed like a lifetime later, we drove into a curving driveway and stopped in front of a meandering new headquarters office building. It was only a few stories high, but its mostly clean glass flowing structure of modern design reminded me of Washington Dulles International Airport's 1958 design by Eero Saarinen. It looked to be about a million square feet, circulating around a central pond and water feature.
The flowing granite steps directed us to the security desk. Both front metal doors opened and there was Alex, an energetic young Chinese architect who shook my hand so enthusiastically that his glasses almost fell off his face. He had bright sparkling eyes above a large smile. "It's an honor to meet you," he said. "My name is Alex. Welcome to our LEED Platinum building. We scored the highest points in all of China." He handed me his business card and a brochure on the building written in Chinese. The card said his title was Chief Architect. I looked quickly at the brochure's foreign text and photos, feeling a chill go through my body when I saw our USGBC logo and read the designation of "Platinum."
Nellie and I were meeting with Yu Liang, the president of China Vanke, the largest real estate enterprise in China and the largest residential real estate developer in the world. When Yu Liang entered the luxuriously appointed conference room overlooking a large fountain of gray water, he athletically extended his hand, saying "good to meet you," in almost perfect English. He was dressed casually, saying that he was leaving on holiday, but had apparently come into the office to meet me. I took a quick look over and decided he ran marathons, or was a triathlete.
I handed Yu a copy of my RegenChina brochure, presenting seven funding opportunities. I was representing some of my Regenerative Network members in their exploration to set up shop in China, beginning with a good joint venture partner. My formula for a partner included a mix of real estate and venture capital operations, as well as a great connection to the government. I learned that Yu had an economics and finance background, receiving his masters at Peking University, one of the best in China.
Vanke's founder and chairman, Wang Shi, was legendary in China and was now expanding his reach all over the world. I later learned he was one of China's foremost mountaineers and had also attended Harvard. It was clear that the firm had learned our green principles well. The building we sat in was powered by solar energy and heated and cooled by radiant energy systems, with extensive daylight penetration throughout the work spaces, uber-efficient LED lights, and even a gray-water capture and reuse system. The building also was rated Three Stars, the highest level of the China Green Building Council's rating system (inspired by LEED, BREEAM, and Green Star rating systems). I smiled when Alex informed me of this additional honor. Looking out the window at the building's fountain, spraying captured sink water into the low-water xeriscaping plants, I chuckled to myself at the memory of the years it took for me, Rick Fedrizzi, and my client, John Mandyck (with United Technologies Corporation), to plant the seed and nurture the China GBC with our good friend Qiu Baoxing, the Executive Vice Minister of the government's Ministry of Housing and Urban-Rural Development. I think it was more than a decade now since we'd all first met in Hartford, Connecticut, where he toured UTC's Research Center. It had been eight years since we autographed our books for each other in his Beijing office that was jammed tight with research papers and book stacks reaching to the ceiling at crazy angles.
"Green materials are very important," he'd said to me during that first meeting in his office, "but they must be made in China. We can use our own waste as feedstock and fuel the manufacturing with wind and solar power." After a dozen meetings with him since that first UTC visit, I'd come to think of Qiu Baoxing as the sustainability Gandhi of China and maybe even the world. Given that half of the world's building construction is in China, I believe that Minister Qiu is better placed to direct our future ecological footprint than perhaps any other person on the Earth. I hope that he has not only read, but also absorbed the trillion written words in the towering piles of knowledge in his Beijing office. Our future may depend on it.
CHAPTER 2MAKEOVER
I was twenty-two years old and fresh out of Stanford when my cousin Diane invited me to work for her and offered to teach me the real estate development business and take me under their wings. I said yes instantly. She and her husband, Jim, were powerful figures in the real estate world, and their business was booming. I arrived in Washington, D.C., in September of 1982.
Jim and Diane shared a vast office suite at 18th and L Streets downtown, with corner offices on opposite ends. Jim's office had a luxuriously thick tan carpet and a huge mahogany desk that made him look powerful. Diane's had bleached white oak floors, lots of light, and pleasant touches such as an antique copper umbrella stand and a glass vase with tiger lilies that matched the hues of the Borofsky portrait hanging above them.
After my first few weeks in Washington, Diane called me into her office. "Gottfried, we have to do something about your wardrobe. It's a little, uh, Reaganite."
I looked down at my clothes, an off-the-rack navy blue suit, starched white shirt, and red tie. What was wrong with my wardrobe? "It's what everyone in D.C. is wearing," the salesman at May Company in Los Angeles had assured me. But looking at Diane, dressed in a chic designer black pantsuit, framed by her Italian glass desk and a backdrop of modern office buildings across the street, I had to admit it did feel a little stiff and cheap. Three days later, we were off to New York to go shopping.
At LaGuardia as we waited for our ride, the autumn air was crisp, hinting at winter. I pulled my worn red Stanford sweatshirt from my daypack and put it on.
Diane looked slim and elegant in a dark tailored wool skirt, an intricately woven gray sweater, and a silk scarf. The Bottega Veneta purse was new, purchased in Paris on her fortieth birthday. She glanced at her gold Cartier watch and then reapplied her lipstick, though her lips looked fine to me. Jim looked dapper: black cashmere sweater, gray slacks, and tasseled burgundy shoes. A white handkerchief peeked from the pocket of his blue blazer. His black metal-framed glasses were by Emanuel Ungaro.
Taxis honked, and you could see the drivers' faces through the windows — one hand on the wheel. Through this messy shuffle of yellows and blacks, Diane and Jim's ivory limo slid smoothly to the curb.
"Good morning, Mr. Katz. The Carlyle?" I had brought a sport coat specifically for The Carlyle, since Jim had told me they wouldn't serve you breakfast without one.
"Take us to Barneys first, George," Jim told the driver.
I'd heard of Barneys. Expensive. I had no savings, and my $2,500 paycheck was gone by the end of the month. How could I afford to shop at Barneys?
My worries ballooned when the driver pulled up in front of the impressive seven-story building. Everything about the store seemed designed to intimidate me: its hulking size, the window displays of leather purses for men slung over the shoulders of haughty-looking mannequins. Even the thin-faced door attendant, who stood staring blankly over our heads, made me feel inadequate. On the way in, I caught sight of the price tag on a black silk bathrobe: $1,550.
Once we'd entered, as I stood staring about me, a salesman appeared. He was groomed to the point of grotesqueness, his head and face shaved to the bone, save for an arrow-shaped patch below his bottom lip; he wore a black suit, black shirt, and a knife blade of a tie. Is that what he would make me look like?
"Your job is to deliver this California boy into vogue," Diane told him. "Let's start with suits." We went upstairs, with me trailing behind. I felt overwhelmed. The men's clothing, arrayed in Italian designer galleries, featured styles for all occasions. I imagined I'd need an Italian-English dictionary just to read the fabric care tags.
"How about Armani, or Hugo Boss?" the salesman asked. He seemed to be affecting an Italian accent, which, mixed with what sounded like Midwestern inflection, sounded strange, like the speech of an actor who couldn't quite get the accent down.
"No, that's not the right look for him," Diane said. The salesman shut his mouth, cowed, no doubt, by her Chanel outfit and Bulgari gold necklace. She was so different from my mom, who still shopped at Loehmann's and sometimes wore Israeli beaded necklaces bought at the Temple's gift show. Yet they were first cousins, ten years apart in age, with the same roots in a small town in eastern Poland. "I used to change her diapers," my mother liked to say.
"What do you think about Versace," the salesman asked. Diane nodded affirmatively. Nobody asked me anything. I stood by a cascade of purple- hued shirts, feeling forgotten. The last time I'd felt like this was on a shopping expedition with my mother — buying my Bar Mitzvah suit at Rudnick's in Beverly Hills.
The suits at the next boutique were strangely angular and V-shaped, with stiff shoulder pads. "Don't you think the shoulders are kinda puffy?" I asked, crushing the wedge of fabric between my fingers. Falsies for men? Football pads?
"You'll get used to them," Diane said. Jim was thumbing through stacks of shirts. As they flipped through assorted international silks in somber hues of black and gray, I retreated toward a rack of pants. Could I get out of this? No. I couldn't disappoint them. I wanted what they had.
"How about this?" Diane held up a dark blue- and gray patterned suit.
"That's gorgeous," the salesman said as he helped me try on the jacket. "It complements his dark coloring."
"That looks great. Try on the pants." Jim slapped me on the shoulder.
"Here, try this one, too." Diane lifted a medium-gray double-breasted suit with a thin, blue pinstripe off the rack. It only had one button. At least I wouldn't have to remember which one to button.
I went to the dressing room and put the blue suit on. The smooth, lightweight wool felt very expensive. I looked at myself in the mirror. Black curly hair covered my ears above an open baby face. I stood straight, feeling taller than my height. I caught my own eyes as you might a stranger's, and admired myself. The college kid had vanished. I imagined myself shouting orders to my own limo driver: "Take me to the Ritz."
"Gottfried, I can't believe it's you," Jim cried when I emerged from the dressing room. "You look like a different man." He punched me in the chest.
"We'll take it," Diane said. "Jim, where should we have lunch? Do you think Turveau can take us to The Plaza?"
I'd turned the coat inside out looking for a price tag, with no luck. I knew it wasn't proper to ask, but I worried it might cost as much as the used yellow VW Rabbit I'd just bought on credit, my first loan.
"We'll take both suits," Diane said. The salesman put the suits on the counter and piled shirts and ties on them — two for each new suit, Hugo Boss, Zegna, Missoni. I had never seen patterns and colors like these on clothing, so modern and bold, like Jim and Diane's painting collection.
"Now, let's get rid of those Republican shoes," Diane said. I stared at my Florsheims, wanting to hide my feet somehow.
We trooped to the shoe department. "Try this." Diane handed me a beautifully sculpted but flimsy black slip-on. It was a Ferragamo. "These are beautiful," the salesman said as he brought me a size twelve. I slipped them on with ease. They were so light and soft — more like gloves than shoes. Though they were hard to walk in, I managed a slow shuffle and looked up at Diane for a reprieve. "They look great," Diane said. I doubted they'd give any support on a construction job site, or that I'd be able to walk a mile.
A wave of heat spread across my face as I watched the total bill rise, item by item, at the cash register. The tally finished at $3,275. With each increase, it felt as if someone was incrementally shutting down my oxygen supply. I felt dizzy.
Jim glanced at my face. "Gottfried, don't worry, we're paying for the suits. You can buy the other things." He presented his Platinum card to the salesman. I took a deep breath. I couldn't afford even the extras. I paused as if I'd forgotten my wallet. But then I glanced at their faces, and suddenly I didn't care. I handed over my credit card. It would take me months to pay off, but I was financing a new life.
CHAPTER 3LEARNING THE GAME
I'd scored my own office just across the hall from Diane. "What title should we give you?" she had asked me my first day as we sat at the dark polished round wood table in our small conference room.
"One that gives me some authority," I answered, leaning back in my chair, hands interlaced behind my neck. Three months before, I'd been playing Ultimate Frisbee at Stanford, and now here I was in a tailored suit with my own office, choosing a title. I was twenty-two and full of beans.
"How about Assistant to the President?" Diane said.
"Great!" The title linked me to Diane, who had become a mover and shaker in D.C.
That day on my lunch hour, I went out and bought a leather briefcase. It was from Britches, a Georgetown men's clothier. The leather wasn't as fancy as Diane's jet-black eel-skin, but it was on sale, and I could always replace it in a few months' time.
Life in D.C. was starting out just as my upbringing had led me to expect it would. My father was a successful businessman, and I grew up accustomed to the associated privileges: tennis lessons and golf at Brentwood Country Club, a private plane flown by my dad, four years at Stanford, the freedom to choose what I wanted to do with my life. This background provided me with a pedigree, an intimate knowledge of the pastimes and perks of the successful. The circles my father moved in were a web of money, connections, and knowledge I could rely on when the time came. His accomplishments groomed me for my own.
After I'd been with working for Diane for a year, I became a project manager. We began to buy buildings and land that we could improve through renovation and development. Mostly we focused on urban infill: commercial office projects and rental apartments. Our real estate projects were well located, designed to meet market needs with an architectural statement, and financially well structured. However, Diane and Jim's real talent lay in cultivating relationships within the power circles of Washington and New York. Through various connections, they'd get invited to high society parties and benefits where they met the wealthiest and most important members of the establishment. Soon enough they'd be striking deals, some worth millions, well before the properties hit the market. "It's all about contacts," my father had said when I was interviewing for Stanford. "Your grades and extracurriculars are good, but it's well-placed letters of reference that'll get you in."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Explosion Green"
by .
Copyright © 2014 David Gottfried.
Excerpted by permission of Morgan James Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
FOREWORD: BLESSED UNRESTINTRODUCTION
PART ONE: BEGINNINGS
1 China Green
2 Makeover
3 Learning the Game
4 First Sighting of Green Building
5 Green Doesn’t Pay the Bills
PART TWO: GREEN BUILDING
6. Jobless in San Francisco
7 Cold Calling
8 The Start of a Movement
9 Building the USGBC
10 What Now?
11 USGBC CPR
12 LEED Rolls Out
13 Growing Up
14 Pushing Limits
15 GBC Goes Global
16 The First Greenbuild
17 The Greenest Little Home in America
18 Regenerative Ventures
19 Shades of Green
PART THREE: REFLECTIONS
20 The GBC Movement at Twenty
21 What’s Next?
EPILOGUE
AFTERWORD: THE ART OF BEING A SERIAL FOUNDER
THE EARTH COMMANDMENTS
BOOK SPONSORS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR