Happy City

Happy City Plot Summary

Introduction

The first time I walked through Copenhagen's Strøget, a winding pedestrian street in the heart of the city, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years of living in car-dependent suburbs: a sense of belonging. Children played freely while their parents chatted on benches nearby. Elderly couples strolled hand in hand, pausing to watch street performers. The air smelled of fresh bread and coffee rather than exhaust. I realized I was experiencing a city designed for human connection rather than merely for efficient movement. This feeling—this sense of joy in urban spaces—is not accidental. It's the result of deliberate choices about how we design the places where most of us now live. For decades, cities worldwide have prioritized cars over people, efficiency over experience, and growth over wellbeing. But a revolution is underway. From Bogotá to Vancouver, urban visionaries are demonstrating that when we design cities around human needs—for connection, nature, movement, and dignity—we create places where people truly thrive. Their work reveals that the shape of our cities doesn't just determine how we move or where we live; it fundamentally influences our happiness, health, and relationships with one another.

Chapter 1: The Mayor of Happy: Bogotá's Urban Revolution

I chased the politician through the bowels of a dull cement office block on the edge of a twelve-lane freeway. Everything about him suggested urgency. He hollered with the hurried fervor of a preacher. He wore the kind of close-trimmed beard favored by men who don't like to waste time shaving. He jogged through the building's basement parking deck in a long-legged canter, like a center forward charging for a long pass. Two bodyguards trotted behind him, their pistols jostling in holsters. There was nothing remarkable about that, given his profession—and his locale. Enrique Peñalosa was a perennial politician on yet another campaign, and this was Bogotá, a city with a spectacular reputation for kidnappings and assassination. What was unusual was this: Peñalosa didn't climb into the armored SUV typical of most public figures in Colombia. Instead, he hopped on a knobby-tired mountain bike and quickly cranked his way up a ramp into the searing Andean sunlight. "We're living an experiment," he finally yelled back at me as he pocketed his cell phone. "We might not be able to fix the economy. We might not be able to make everyone as rich as Americans. But we can design the city to give people dignity, to make them feel rich. The city can make them happier." When Peñalosa ran for mayor of Bogotá in 1997, he refused to make the promises doled out by so many politicians. He was not going to make everyone richer. His promise was simple: he was going to make Bogotans happier. "And what are our needs for happiness?" he asked. "We need to walk, just as birds need to fly. We need to be around other people. We need beauty. We need contact with nature. And most of all, we need not to be excluded." Peñalosa's first and most defining act as mayor was to declare war: not on crime or drugs or poverty, but on private cars. "A city can be friendly to people or it can be friendly to cars, but it can't be both," he announced. He threw out the city's ambitious highway expansion plan and instead poured his budget into hundreds of miles of bike paths; a vast new chain of parks and pedestrian plazas; and a network of new libraries, schools, and day-care centers. He built the city's first rapid transit system, using buses instead of trains. He hiked gas taxes and banned drivers from commuting by car more than three times a week. The results were remarkable. Within three years, traffic accidents dropped by nearly half, and so did the murder rate. The city experienced a massive spike in optimism. People believed life was good and getting better, a feeling they hadn't shared in decades. Peñalosa's urban revolution has since inspired cities around the world, demonstrating that urban design isn't just about buildings and roads—it's about human dignity and happiness. When we spend resources designing cities in ways that value everyone's experience, life gets easier and more pleasant for all.

Chapter 2: Disconnected Lives: How Sprawl Undermines Community

Randy Strausser seemed to have won the foreclosure sweepstakes. He and his wife Julie bought a California-style ranch house in Mountain House, a partially finished exurban development south of Stockton, in 2007, when the market was tanking. They paid half of what some of their neighbors had paid for their places. The house seemed perfect: high-end fixtures, high-efficiency heating and air-conditioning, and a private fenced garden overlooking a green belt with a creek. But Randy was not happy, and his unhappiness speaks to the dispersed city's power to fundamentally reorder social and family life. Like a quarter of the people in San Joaquin County, he worked over the hills in San Jose. At dawn on any given weekday, Randy; his septuagenarian mother, Nancy; and his daughter, Kim, would all be out on the highway, driving alone from their respective homes, crossing two mountain ranges and speeding past half a dozen municipalities to their jobs in the Bay Area, each racking up more than 120 miles round-trip. Randy's typical day: Smack the alarm off at 4:15 a.m. Shower. No breakfast. Hit the highway at five to beat the traffic. Arrive by 6:15 a.m. Eat at work. Try to be back on I-680 by 5:30 p.m. It was harder to beat the rush in the afternoons. He was lucky to get to his front door by 7:30. On bad traffic days, when Randy got home, he would grab a hose and water the garden until he calmed down. Then he'd hop onto the elliptical trainer to straighten out his aching back. Randy disliked his neighborhood intensely. He couldn't wait to get out of Mountain House. The problem had nothing to do with the aesthetics of the place. It was the people who bothered him. He did not know, like, or particularly trust his neighbors. I asked him economist John Helliwell's trust question: What were the chances that he'd get his wallet back if he happened to drop it on his street? "I'd never see it again!" he said with a laugh. Randy complained that his neighbors didn't keep an eye on one another's homes. They didn't chat on the sidewalks. They didn't get to know one another. But how would they? The urban system gave them few opportunities. There were some five thousand people living in partially finished Mountain House, but there were virtually no jobs and no services beyond a little library, a couple of schools, and a small convenience store. Most of the adults drove out before dawn and returned after dark. This social deficit is not unique to Mountain House. Surveys show that people's social networks have been shrinking for decades. In 1985 the typical American reported having three people they could confide in about important matters. By 2004 their network had shrunk to two. Almost half the population say they have no one, or just one person, in whom they can confide. The consequences are profound. Connected people sleep better at night. They are more able to tackle adversity. They live longer. They consistently report being happier. As much as we complain about other people, there is nothing worse for mental health than a social desert.

Chapter 3: The Science of Urban Well-being: What Makes Us Thrive

John Helliwell, an economist at the University of British Columbia, was puzzled by a curious finding in his research on happiness. When he analyzed survey data from communities across Canada, he discovered that people in small towns consistently reported higher levels of life satisfaction than those in big cities—despite having lower incomes and fewer amenities. What could explain this happiness gap? The answer, Helliwell found, lay in something seemingly simple: trust. In small towns, people were far more likely to believe that a lost wallet would be returned if found by a neighbor, a police officer, or even a stranger. This trust wasn't just a feeling—it was a powerful predictor of well-being. Helliwell calculated that the sense of trust in one's neighbors was worth the equivalent of a 50% increase in income in terms of life satisfaction. This finding has been reinforced by neuroscience. Paul Zak, a neuroeconomist, discovered that when we experience trust, our brains release oxytocin—the same hormone that bonds mothers to babies and lovers to each other. This "moral molecule" makes us more generous and cooperative. In one experiment, Zak found that even a simple handshake could trigger oxytocin release, making people more willing to share resources in economic games. The implications for urban design are profound. Cities that facilitate trust and social connection make us not just happier but healthier. Researchers have found that seniors who live in walkable neighborhoods with active street life have stronger social networks and better physical health than those in car-dependent suburbs. Children who can walk to school develop greater independence and stronger community ties than those who must be driven everywhere. Environmental psychologists Frances Ming Kuo and William Sullivan discovered even more profound effects in Chicago's Ida B. Wells housing project. Residents with views of trees and grass experienced about half the violent crime level of buildings that looked out on barren courtyards. People who lived next to green spaces knew more of their neighbors, reported them as more supportive and friendly, and had stronger feelings of belonging. Nature was not merely good for them. It brought out the good in them. The science of urban happiness reveals that what we truly crave isn't isolation or unlimited space, but meaningful connection with others and with our environment. We need both the stimulation of social contact and the ability to retreat into private spaces. The most successful urban environments give us control over our social interactions, allowing us to engage with others when we choose and withdraw when we need solitude. This balance between connection and privacy, between nature and community, forms the foundation of truly thriving cities.

Chapter 4: Mobility Freedom: Transportation Choices and Quality of Life

Robert Judge, a forty-eight-year-old husband and father from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, wrote to a Canadian radio program explaining how much he enjoyed going grocery shopping on his bicycle. This confession would have been unremarkable if he didn't live in a city where the average January temperature hovers around 1 degree Fahrenheit, with snow and ice covering the ground nearly half the year. Judge had decided to go car-free with his wife, bolting a utility tub to a bike trailer to haul up to a hundred pounds of groceries. He bought studded tires and expedition ski clothes with an arctic collar to protect his lips and windpipe from the chill. "Biking in winter is kind of like walking on hot coals: people say you can't do it. They say it's impossible! But then you just go and do it," he told me. "First you feel the cold in your mouth and nose. It's twenty-five below and the wind is blowing. Your eyes fill up with tears for the first few blocks, but then they clear up, and you just keep going." Judge described picking up his three-year-old son from daycare and putting him on the backseat of his tandem bike for their ride home along the South Saskatchewan River. The snow would muffle the noise of the city. Dusk would paint the sky in exquisite colors. The snow would reflect those hues, glowing like the sky, and Judge would breathe in the cold air and hear his son breathing behind him, feeling as though together they had become part of winter itself. Judge's pleasure in an experience that seems slower, more difficult, and considerably more uncomfortable than driving might seem bizarre, but it reflects a deeper truth about urban mobility. Our journeys can meet psychological needs beyond mere transportation. Patricia Mokhtarian, a transportation engineer, discovered after surveying hundreds of commuters that the average person actually prefers to be forced to travel for part of every day. "We hear many people say, 'Darn, my commute is not long enough!'" The ideal commute time most people wish for is about sixteen minutes one way—not too long, but long enough to serve as a ritual transition between home and work. This insight helps explain why self-propelled commuters—those who walk, run, or cycle—consistently report enjoying their journeys more than people who drive or use public transit, despite the obvious effort involved. We were born to move, not merely to be transported. Our genetic forebears have been walking for four million years. When we exercise, we get smarter and happier. The psychologist Robert Thayer fitted students with pedometers and found that those who walked more tended to feel more energetic and upbeat, with higher self-esteem and greater happiness. "Walking works like a drug, and it starts working even after a few steps," he concluded. Lisa was stuck in traffic on her daily commute in Atlanta when she noticed something strange. A man on a bicycle was passing her—again. She had been seeing the same cyclist repeatedly over the past twenty minutes while her car inched forward. The realization hit her: despite her car's theoretical speed advantage, she was actually moving slower than someone on a simple bicycle. This scenario plays out daily in cities worldwide, revealing a paradox of modern mobility. We've designed our cities around cars with the promise of speed and freedom, yet the average American now spends over 100 hours per year stuck in traffic. The most transformative mobility innovations focus not on speed but on predictability and control. Cities that design for mobility freedom—giving people safe, pleasant options to move under their own power—are creating the conditions for both physical health and psychological well-being. True freedom isn't about maximum speed or unlimited choice—it's about reliable, low-stress options that connect us to our communities while respecting our physical and emotional needs.

Chapter 5: Green Cities: Nature, Health, and Urban Design

In 2011, I was invited by the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum to join a team examining comfort in New York City. The museum had commissioned a temporary shelter in an empty lot in the East Village, and I planned to collect data on how city spaces affected people's emotions and behavior. Colin Ellard, a psychologist from the University of Waterloo, equipped volunteers with devices to measure their emotional state as they moved through the neighborhood. Some wore wrist cuffs that recorded the relative electrical conductance of their skin, providing an objective measure of emotional arousal. As we guided groups through the neighborhood, we found that people's emotions varied dramatically with the urban terrain. Participants reported the biggest spike in happiness, and an easing of arousal, just moments after entering the M'Finda Kalunga seniors' garden in Sara Roosevelt Park. This wasn't surprising. The garden was almost junglelike in its variety of leafy plants, shrubs, and mature trees. Decades of research have shown that simply being in, touching, or viewing nature makes people feel good. Hospital patients with views of nature need less pain medication and get better faster than those with views of brick walls. Even simulated views of nature can help. Heart surgery patients exposed to pictures of trees, water, and forests report less anxiety and pain than those gazing at abstract art. The effect of nature on urban dwellers goes beyond individual well-being. Environmental psychologists Frances Ming Kuo and William Sullivan studied Chicago's Ida B. Wells public housing project and found that residents living near green courtyards had stronger social ties than those living near barren concrete spaces. Buildings that looked out on trees and grass experienced about half the violent crime rate of buildings that looked out on barren courtyards. Nature didn't merely make people feel better—it changed how they behaved toward one another. In laboratory studies, people exposed to nature scenes valued deep relationships more and were more generous than those shown urban skylines. This research suggests that nature in cities shouldn't be considered an optional luxury but a crucial part of a healthy human habitat. Daily exposure is essential. If you don't see or touch it, nature can't do you much good. Cities need green space at all scales—from large destination parks to medium-sized community gardens to pocket parks, green strips, potted plants, and living walls. Some cities have begun bold experiments in urban greening, like Seoul's restoration of the Cheonggyecheon River, which had been buried beneath a downtown freeway. After demolishing the highway, the ancient waterway now flows through a thousand-acre ribbon of meadows and marshes, drawing millions of visitors and reducing summer temperatures by 6.5 degrees Fahrenheit compared to surrounding neighborhoods. Most people prefer savanna-like views with scattered trees and open vistas—landscapes that nurtured our hunter-gatherer ancestors. This preference has shaped suburban development, with its broad front lawns and token shade trees. Yet research suggests that sterile lawns might be hollow calories for the nature-craving brain. The "messier" and more diverse the landscape, the better it is for our wellbeing. The evidence is clear: biological density must be the prerequisite for architectural density if we want to create truly happy cities.

Chapter 6: Convivial Spaces: Building for Human Connection

The architect Jan Gehl and his wife Ingrid, an environmental psychologist, spent six months studying the medieval towns of Italy in the 1960s. They were drawn in by the human activity they saw between buildings in cities that had not yet been reorganized by rational planners or invaded by cars. In Siena's Piazza del Campo, they observed how the plaza's amphitheater-like shape, café-lined edges, and loiter-friendly bollards perfectly configured it to attract and hold people. When they returned to Copenhagen, they found the city embarking on a radical experiment. In 1962, the City Council banned cars from the spine of the downtown, a string of market streets collectively known as the Strøget. Newspapers predicted disaster. Business owners were terrified. But Copenhagen did change, utterly. People poured into the space that had been vacated by cars. They came in the summer, but they also came in the darkest days of winter. Businesses thrived. Gehl spent a year on the Strøget, documenting every movement. He discovered that what attracted people most was other people. "What is most attractive, what attracts people to stop and linger and look, will invariably be other people. Activity in human life is the greatest attraction in cities." Over the years, Gehl and his colleague Lars Gemzøe documented how Copenhagen's transformation spread through the city. Between 1968 and 1995, the number of people found just hanging out on the streets more than tripled. This hunger for time among strangers seems to contradict the urge to retreat that helped create the dispersed city. Yet modern cities and affluent economies have created a particular kind of social deficit. We can meet almost all our needs without gathering in public. Technology and prosperity have largely privatized the realms of exchange in malls, living rooms, backyards, and on screens. As more of us live alone, these conveniences have helped produce a historically unique way of living, in which home is not so much a gathering place as a vortex of isolation. The spaces we occupy can not only determine how we feel, but can change the way we regard other people and how we treat one another. Neuroscientists have found that environmental cues trigger immediate responses in the human brain even before we are aware of them. Places that seem too sterile or too confusing can trigger the release of stress hormones. Places that seem familiar, navigable, and that trigger good memories are more likely to activate feel-good serotonin and oxytocin, the hormone that promotes feelings of interpersonal trust. By understanding these dynamics, cities around the world are transforming their public spaces to encourage social connection. William H. Whyte's studies of behavior on sidewalks and plazas in New York showed that people almost always chose to sit near one another, even when they had the option of being alone. They even tended to stop and gather where pedestrian traffic was thickest. We like to look at each other. We enjoy hovering in the zone somewhere between strangers and intimates. When we design public spaces that honor this fundamental human desire for connection, we create cities where people can truly thrive together.

Chapter 7: Citizen Power: Transforming Cities from the Ground Up

When twelve-year-old Adam Kaddo Marino told his mother he wanted to bike to school on National Bike to Work Day in 2009, he couldn't have anticipated the battle that would follow. After riding through a beautiful forest trail to Maple Avenue Middle School in Saratoga Springs, New York, Adam was shocked when the principal confiscated his bicycle. School officials explained that biking to school had been banned since 1994, deemed too dangerous for children. For Adam, who was born with a vision disorder that might prevent him from ever getting a driver's license, this policy threatened his future independence. "I'm a safe rider. I wear a helmet. I use hand signals when I am turning," Adam explained. "Why would they have a rule saying I can't bike or walk to school? It just didn't make sense to me." Adam and his mother, Janette, refused to back down. They continued riding to school despite warnings, police involvement, and community controversy. Their persistence eventually forced the school district to reverse its policy. Now there's a bike rack at the school, and Adam often rides with a group of friends. Their campaign expanded to advocate for sidewalks and safer routes throughout Saratoga Springs, challenging the car-centric design that had made walking and cycling seem dangerous in the first place. Similar citizen-led transformations are happening in cities worldwide. In Portland, Oregon, Mark Lakeman returned from travels in Mexico with a realization: his neighborhood lacked the gathering places that make communities thrive. Inspired by the circular meeting spaces he had seen in indigenous villages, Lakeman and his neighbors transformed an ordinary intersection into "Share-It Square," painting the asphalt with colorful designs and adding community amenities. When city officials threatened to remove the unauthorized installation, neighbors organized and eventually convinced the city to create a permit process for "intersection repairs." The movement, now known as City Repair, has transformed dozens of Portland intersections into vibrant community spaces. Epidemiologist Jan Semenza measured the results and found remarkable improvements: after the interventions, fewer people reported experiencing depression. They slept better. They found their neighbors friendlier. They rated their own health as improved. Crime rates dropped within a one-block radius. In Vancouver, Canada, residents of a neighborhood called Mount Pleasant were frustrated by the lack of public space in their rapidly densifying community. Rather than waiting for the city to act, they formed a group called "Livable Laneways" and began transforming the alleys behind their homes into vibrant public spaces. They painted murals, installed benches and planters, and organized community events. What began as a guerrilla intervention eventually gained official support, with the city adopting policies to encourage more laneway activations throughout Vancouver. These stories reveal a powerful truth: we don't need to wait for planners or politicians to improve our cities. As the philosopher Henri Lefebvre argued, the right to shape the city belongs to those who inhabit it. When ordinary people claim this right—whether by demanding safe routes to school, reclaiming streets from cars, or creating new public spaces—they don't just change the physical environment; they transform themselves and their relationships with neighbors. They discover capacities for creativity, cooperation, and leadership they might never have known they possessed.

Summary

The cities we build shape who we become. From Bogotá's revolutionary bus system to Portland's citizen-painted intersections, the evidence is clear: urban design profoundly affects our happiness, health, and social connections. When we prioritize human experience over traffic flow, public space over parking lots, and community over isolation, we create places where people flourish. The happy city isn't a luxury—it's a practical necessity for facing our most pressing challenges, from climate change to social isolation. The path forward requires both systemic change and personal action. We need new codes that allow walkable neighborhoods, transportation systems that respect human dignity, and public spaces that welcome everyone. But we don't need to wait for top-down transformation. As Adam Marino, Mark Lakeman, and countless others have demonstrated, ordinary citizens can reclaim their right to shape the places they inhabit. Whether by fighting for safe routes to school, advocating for better transit, or simply getting to know our neighbors, each of us can contribute to creating more humane, joyful communities. The happy city isn't just a destination—it's a collective project that begins with recognizing our power to change not just where we live, but how we live together.

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Charles Montgomery

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