We Built This City on… Grids and Highways
Last week, our family vehicle broke down. Right in the middle of winter break, because of course—great timing. The kids were already bouncing off the walls after days cooped up in our 900-square-foot house, hyped up on holiday candy and overwhelmed by an excess of Christmas gifts. With bad weather keeping us indoors, the house was chaos, the kids were on edge, and us parents? Teetering on the brink. Something had to give. We had to get out.
So we made a plan: take the city bus to the arcade at the mall. It felt like a good mix of novelty and practicality—an adventure for the kids and a way to break the cabin fever. But, as we quickly learned, planning to take the bus isn’t quite the same as piling into the car whenever you’re ready to go.
Timing the bus schedule meant no room for our typical last-minute delays. Rain gear had to be sorted out: convincing my five-year-old that his new slippers weren’t waterproof was a battle I wasn’t prepared for, and the question of whether three umbrellas were worth the hassle was hotly debated. Finally, with everyone sufficiently layered up and resigned to the weather, we hit the sidewalk to the bus stop. It wasn’t far, and even with the rain, the fresh air felt surprisingly invigorating.
Boise isn’t exactly celebrated for its public transit system. When we boarded the bus, it was clear that most passengers weren’t using it by choice. It felt humbling—a bit like stepping out of our bubble. The kids treated the ride as part amusement park, part field trip, chatting loudly and peering out windows. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, acutely aware of how much we take for granted in our day-to-day convenience.
The arcade visit was a hit, as expected, but the return trip stood out even more. The bus stop was farther from our house on the way back, requiring a longer walk in the rain, but the distance gave me more time to reflect. There was something grounding about the whole process. Planning ahead to catch the bus slowed us down in the best way. Walking together gave us a shared experience, and the kids got a hands-on lesson in adaptability—how to make things work when plans change. Notably, walking with the bus stop as a destination (and not just as a leisure activity or need for exercise) felt healthy.
I got to think about how poorly our city is designed for those who don’t rely on personal vehicles. As active bike commuters, we already knew how unwelcoming many of Boise’s streets are for anyone outside a vehicle. My husband regularly points out the challenges of biking in areas like Overland and Orchard, where the grid feels aggressively car-centric (and I’m not lost on the fact that some cities are even worse, having lived in LA for some time).
I often think about the subdivisions that have sprung up by East Warm Springs–packed with houses, but no thought to prioritize a grocery store or other essential services within walking or biking distance. Every errand requires a car. It’s a missed opportunity to design neighborhoods that encourage healthier, more sustainable lifestyles. I foresee similar expansions queued for development in the foothills off Hill Road.
Centralized urban planning, once hailed as a modern solution, isn’t aging well. While it was designed for efficiency, it limits a community’s adaptability and resilience. Centralized urban planning emerged during periods of rapid growth, fueled by industrialization and urban migration.
Zoning laws, which began with New York’s ordinance in 1916, were intended to separate residential, commercial, and industrial spaces for the sake of public health, safety, and order—and to an extent, that makes sense. These laws were meant to prevent industrial areas from encroaching on residential neighborhoods, but they also unintentionally encouraged the creation of isolated neighborhoods disconnected from essential services. After World War II, suburban development accelerated, fueled by the rise of the automobile and the interstate highway system. Suburban neighborhoods spread outward from city centers, often planned with limited access to commercial or civic spaces, making them increasingly car-dependent.
In times of economic downturn or environmental distress, these systems can exacerbate vulnerabilities. Their rigid layout can isolate neighborhoods, restrict access to essential services, and hinder the kind of rapid adaptation needed in a crisis. These plans lack the variety of spaces necessary to support community resilience.
In contrast, urban designs that embrace organic, decentralized layouts tend to be more adaptable to changing circumstances—green areas for stormwater management or community gardens, mixed-use zones that can quickly pivot to meet shifting needs, or infrastructure that can evolve as populations grow or shrink. These designs reduce reliance on cars and strengthen community bonds, making them more resilient in the face of economic shifts and environmental challenges. Neighborhood-centric urban development isn’t a new concept either. City planning models from ancient civilizations and the Renaissance emphasized mixed-use neighborhoods where residential, commercial, and civic spaces were closely integrated.
Mayor McLean’s vision to ensure every home in Boise is within walking distance of a public park (which she's nearly made due on) is a commendable step toward creating a more connected, healthier community. These initiatives prove that change is possible—if we prioritize it. Often, that requires a shift in both individual mindsets and the way we approach urban planning on a broader scale.
As Boise and surrounding areas continue to grow, we have a unique opportunity to rethink how we build communities. Imagine walkable or bikable access to essential amenities like grocery stores, healthcare facilities, community gardens, childcare centers, and other daily necessities. Neighborhoods designed with these priorities in mind wouldn’t just be convenient—they’d promote healthier lifestyles and foster resilient communities by keeping resources closer to home. Then, we’d really be the most livable city!
That said, I’ll be honest—I’m not a huge fan of urban density, often a counterpoint to this style of development. There’s something timeless about the American dream of a house with a yard, a vision that still resonates deeply with many people, myself included. But with thoughtful planning and design, we can strike a balance: creating communities that feel spacious and livable while keeping daily essentials within reach. Of course, that balance hinges on ensuring outside developers don’t get greedy—we will need regulations that prioritize people over profits to make sure these communities remain functional and accessible.
Anywho, a lot of reflection came from what seemed like a simple bus ride. Regardless—public transit, walking, biking: these aren’t just backup options for when the car breaks down or something reserved for those without a choice. They’re opportunities to slow down, connect, and rethink what’s possible in a community. It’s a bummer we needed a broken vehicle to recognize it more deeply. Next time, we’ll take the bus just because—and we hope to see you riding along too!
