Many modern yurts miss the point

The first time I saw a yurt, I didn't get it. It was a modern, permanent yurt. It was circular, but it was too big. I didn't understand the significance or purpose of a 30' wide, 12' tall structure. The 2x4 rafters were menacing as they hung over me with their sharp metal attachments. I felt vulnerable. And I felt hot. It was a roasting 100 degree day in Northern California. I looked around and realized the walls were enveloped with vinyl, a material I cringe at the sight and smell of. No one was hanging out in the yurt.

As a student of architecture I was confused. The structure didn't make sense to me. It seemed a lot more work to assemble than a quick temporary tent, and yet it was not a permanent structure that was functional. It created space, but not a space I wanted to stay in. The temperature was uncomfortable and the plastic odor in the air choked me. The materials were rough and lacked any human touch. It just seemed like it came right off an assembly line made by robots. Many modern yurts have lost the original essence of these portable, nomadic structures. A yurt that cannot be easily disassembled and moved misses the entire point.

So I left California not knowing what a yurt was.