Location: 3 North Lemuria Road, Tres Piedras, New Mexico

Price: $290,000

Year Built: 1999

Footprint: 1,200 square feet (1 bedroom, 1 bath)

Lot Size: 0.7 Acres

From the Agent: “Here’s a special opportunity to own an architectural wonder in majestic Taos: a sustainable earthship set on just under three-quarters of an acre with some of the best views in northern New Mexico. The structure itself is custom built with several Southwestern touches throughout the split-level structure with an indoor atrium perfect for growing greenery year-round. Brick floors, art nichos, thoughtful cabinetry and shelving, vibrant tile, and bancitos for extra seating and ample storage are a few special features within the home. There’s plenty of room for guests to sleep comfortably, and the drop-down Murphy bed is ideal for providing extra space in an already free-flowing floor plan. The outdoor space at 3 North Lemuria is an absolute gem with plenty of space to garden, with immersive mountain and gorge views in all directions.”

Read more about earthship homes on Dwell.

• State Farm, Farmers, and other top home insurers are being sued for allegedly colluding to cancel policies in high-risk fire zones in California, pushing homeowners onto the state’s costlier, lower-coverage FAIR Plan. Here’s what the lawsuits claim. (Property Casual 360)

• Santa Monica just pulled out of hosting beach volleyball for the 2028 Olympics, citing financial risks, unclear terms, and limited community benefits. The nets are still going up, but it’s not yet clear exactly where. (Santa Monica Daily Press)

• Airbnb will now display taxes and fees up front for rental pricing by default, ending an era of surprise charges at checkout. Here’s what’s behind the change—and how looming federal regulations on junk fees are shaking up the travel industry at large. (Yahoo)

• Trump’s tariffs could hike material costs for U.S. home construction by billions, delaying builds and driving up prices for both new homes and renovations. This is how import duties—and the confusion surrounding them—could make home buying more expensive and worsen the housing crisis. (Dwell)

Top photo courtesy of Thiago Prudencio/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images

Laura Bayne was ready to start a new chapter. After a divorce and the pandemic, which made working from anywhere a real possibility, she decided to make a move from Winchester, Massachusetts, to her favorite place in the country: midcoast Maine. She envisioned a cozy hideaway in a friendly community somewhere near Harpswell or Rockport that valued the arts and the outdoors, and a hub for her two grown children and their families. But there was one major issue with this plan: Laura didn’t like any of the homes she toured in those areas.

“I was driving here frequently to check out listings, and during one of those trips, my son turned up one for land and we stopped by and fell in love instantly,” Laura says of a property they found in St. George, closer to Rockport. “On my second visit, a neighbor walked over to say hello and offered to answer any questions, which helped make my decision easier.”

The land has a gentle slope and is surrounded by trees that change colors in the fall. The calm currents of Cutler Cove, off the St. George River, are visible through the branches. Laura, a chief information officer, imagined kayaking and paddleboarding after work and hosting Thanksgiving dinners against a backdrop of vibrant leaves. But then a second issue came into play. “I was naive in thinking that building would be less expensive than buying a new house, or at least not more expensive,” she says, having seen one estimate. “So I started the process with a different architect and builder, but their estimate was 50 percent higher than the original, so I canceled the project.”

The premise of the critically panned 1996 film Bio-Dome is closer to our reality than I’d like to admit. In it, the planet has become so polluted it’s rapidly becoming unsuitable for human life. (Sound familiar?) With the backing of a powerful investor, a group of environmental scientists seal themselves in an enormous enclosed terrarium for a year as part of a climate experiment. In true ’90s slacker comedy fashion, the two stoner protagonists accidentally get themselves locked inside the Bio-Dome, and, of course, wreak havoc.

Though the film’s plot is fictional, its premise is loosely based on the real-life Biosphere 2, a $150-million hermetically sealed environmental system in Oracle, Arizona, with wilderness biomes including a rainforest, desert, grassy savannah, mangrove wetlands, and a 25-foot-deep ocean with a coral reef, in which eight researchers actually lived between 1991 and 1993. The experiment famously ended in disaster when rising carbon dioxide levels and crop failure threatened the participants’ lives. While geodesic domes with controlled environments designed to replicate Earth’s ecosystems seemed eccentric in the early 1990s, when climate change was just starting to enter the mainstream discourse, in the decades since, multimillion- or billion-dollar developments that bring the natural world—or simulations of it—inside have become increasingly common. In some cases, like with “the world’s largest indoor desert” in Omaha, Nebraska, or Montreal’s Biosphère (housed in the Expo 67 geodesic dome designed by Buckminster Fuller), these attractions are centered around education and research. Then, there’s a slightly different iteration developed purely for recreation. As global temperatures rise and “unprecedented weather events” occur with increasing regularity, there might be a future where more of our outdoor recreation will be relegated to indoor simulations. In some ways, these built environments are case studies for how successfully (or unsuccessfully) natural environments can be replicated to facilitate the human pastimes—like surfing or skiing, even hiking—that rely on them.

Mitsubishi Heavy Industries Group’s Seagaia Ocean Dome was an early example of the over-the-top-faux-natural-environment-as-amusement-park phenomenon. Opened in 1993, the $1.8 billion facility, which was situated less than .2 miles from an actual beach in the coastal city of Miyazaki, Japan, was a Polynesia-themed marvel with a 129,166-square-foot man-made beach with sand from crushed marble and a wave machine capable of 200 surfable variations (in unsalted, chlorinated water). It closed in 2007, faltering under steep ticket prices and operational costs, but that wasn’t the end of the road for artificial beaches. There’s one at the colossal New Century Global Center in Chengdu, China, with space for more than 6,000 beachgoers to lounge under its fake sun. At Berlin’s Tropical Islands, which is housed in a 1938 airfield hangar, a massive screen with a photo of a blue sky hovers above a “sea” made up by three Olympic-size swimming pools. The indoor air temperature is kept in the high seventies.

On the other end of the weather spectrum, there are indoor ski resorts like Ski Dubai, a 242,000-square-foot “snow park” in the Mall of the Emirates, where 30 to 40 tons of new snow are produced nightly to blanket five imitation ski slopes, or Big Snow American Dream, North America’s only indoor ski resort, in New Jersey. Ironically, the environmental impact of many of these climate-controlled facilities is significant; a 2013 report, for example, estimated that Ski Dubai’s annual greenhouse gas emissions equate to 900 annual round-trip flights from Dubai to Munich. Massive developments like Ski Dubai or Paradise Island Water Park that simulate natural environments in contained spaces pump tons of carbon into the atmosphere, only exacerbating the factors that increasingly threaten those places and make their conditions more hostile.

Christiana Moss of Studio Ma, an award-winning architecture and environmental design studio in Phoenix, Arizona, has some ideas about the way we should be approaching buildings that bring the outdoors indoors. As temperatures increase, especially in places like Phoenix, Moss believes more structures need to be suited to not only controlling contrasting indoor climates, but tempering them with the heat outside. “Increasingly, the realm of what you would consider indoors and what we consider outdoors needs to be expanded and blended to temper exterior temperatures,” she says. “It’s about the layers of interior and exterior space…. It’s a huge opportunity for really rethinking and redesigning what we consider to be indoors and outdoors, what we consider to be responsible cities, and how we think about access to shade in daylight.”