Why not here?

Morning in a Different County

The sun is rising over Chittenden County, and the streets are beginning to stir. But it doesn't sound the way you remember. The heavy drone of rush hour is gone. In its place, there’s the sticky hush of dozens of bike tires of all shapes and sizes, a chorus of footsteps shuffling across a plaza, the bell of one tram as it slides past another. In the foliage above it all, birdsong.

Navigating these places feels different now. It's not just the cleaner air and the quieter streets, but the presence of something more. Morning commutes are filled with eye contact, human interaction, and an implicit sense of community and belonging. The streets are humming with life, and the transportation systems are built for the incredible diversity of trips we all take. The way we move now meaningfully aligns with our collective values.

As a result, we've created space for new mornings to unfold.

A Passing Thought

Julian leaves his apartment in Essex Junction just before sunrise, headed to his shift at the medical center. The crisp February sky is dim yet pale, the streets just waking up. Yesterday’s storm left a few inches but the cycling path is dry and clear. Its surface is warmed by waste heat piped from nearby buildings, while the worst of the drifts have been kept at bay by a narrow corridor of wind-buffering trees, which also double as shade in warmer months. And of course, just before dawn, a final pass of the trusty plow made sure it was ready for the morning commute.

Julian's ride plays out on autopilot among dozens of other early morning commuters, ingrained into habit. The route follows a protected path that cuts through Winooski and towards downtown Burlington, with bike signals timed just right. Once he gets going, he hits long stretches of green lights and never has to come to a stop. It’s cold, but he’s layered. The ride is steady. Comfortable, even.

He passes a neighbor walking their dog, and nods hello. He glides past a short line of cars waiting at a light that's no longer his concern. Even though he still pedals, the electric assist carries him up the hill on Colchester Avenue without a second thought.

He used to drive this route. Even on quiet mornings, driving asked more of him than he realized. His hands stayed tight on the wheel, eyes scanning for sudden stops or stray movement as he guided a heavy machine through town. He planned his days around the car, always building in extra time, never quite sure what would slow him down. Compared to the easy rhythm of biking, the car made every commute feel a little more complicated and a little less his own. But it wasn't until he gave it up that he noticed any of this.

He was the last of his close friends to finally purchase an e-bike. And while he wasn't usually one to jump into change without good reason, he immediately realized what he'd been missing out on. He started out bike commuting once a week, but within a few months was riding every day. It turned out, he realized, that between fenders and a well-designed poncho, cycling in bad weather had been a solved problem for a long time. As time went on, he found that for almost every destination in his life, he could get there by bike... to say nothing of the transit service.

Eventually, last spring, he sold the car. No more parking bans. No more oil changes. No more insurance bills showing up at the worst time. His second-biggest monthly expense—gone. He hadn’t expected letting go of the car to feel like freedom, but that’s what it was. These days, his total commuting time is almost half what it used to be. Most days he doesn’t even think about it. Today, for a moment, he does.

The Last Day of School

Sam steps out of the café next to the Malletts Bay mobility center, shifting their bag to the other shoulder as they take a sip of their morning coffee. They tried to ignore it on their brief walk from their townhouse to the station, but even at this early hour it was decidedly warm enough to regret the jeans. Looking around at the other commuters gathered at the edge of the plaza, Sam sees a lot of knees. They must have been the only one who didn't check the weather this morning. They won't be outside for very long, though, so they decide not to dwell on it.

Almost as if on cue, their bus rounds the corner and silently pulls into the boarding lane. As their appropriately-dressed compatriots begin to shuffle towards the opening doors, Sam scarfs down the last few bites of the muffin they bought as a celebratory treat—it's their "first last day of school" as a high school history teacher. It's been a long, stressful, rewarding year, and (thankfully) it's already over. They tap their transit pass, step onto the bus, and savor the relief of the cool air.

It’s nearly full, as always, but someone’s already made room. Same as every morning. These morning commuter routes are so consistent that you can know what day of the week it is based on who's on the bus, and where they're sitting. Sam takes their usual Friday window seat. The friend who saved it gives a small nod, earbuds in. The maintenance worker a few rows up is mouthing clues to a crossword on his phone, another key indicator that it's Friday.

Sam settles in and begins reviewing their final notes on summer reading assignments. Outside, the bus picks up speed in its dedicated lane, passing a long row of cars edging toward town. Sam glances at the plates—mostly out-of-state. People still drive into town, sometimes. But locals knew better.

As they near the school, a student spots them through the glass and waves wildly from the sidewalk. Sam grins, waves back, and feels—maybe for the first time all year—completely in the right place.

A Morning of Her Own

In South Burlington, Maya zips her jacket and steps outside. Her art class starts in twenty minutes, and she’s meeting her friend Leo at the tram stop. Leaves crunch underfoot as she passes the bakery where her sister works, cuts across the greenway trail, and heads down a quiet block. It used to be just a stretch of parking lots, but now it's lined with apartments. Above the book store, a plastic ghost twists lazily from a balcony, catching the morning breeze.

Last year, for her tenth birthday, Maya got her own transit pass. She already knew many routes from tagging along with her parents: the bus downtown to her aunt’s apartment, the tram to the grocery store. But having the freedom to travel on her own changed everything for her. She was so excited that she spent most of that birthday afternoon riding the bus—just one stop, back and forth, one parent waiting at either end—until her mom finally reminded her there was still cake waiting for them all at home.

By the end of that first month, Maya had moved on to longer trips. Her parents started letting her run small errands alone. Even though the Champlain Transit Authority's network had never had an incident with kids traveling solo, it took her parents a while to adjust. This kind of freedom just hadn’t existed when they were her age. But between their growing trust and Maya’s obvious joy, new boundaries kept falling away.

This Saturday morning art class in Williston was the latest test of her independence. As she nears the tram stop, she pauses at a raised crossing; a car slows to a stop. She walks across at her own pace, not hurrying. Maya joins a few other kids from her class who are already waiting under the solar roof of the tram shelter, chattering about Halloween costumes. The real-time departure screen lets her know the tram will arrive in two minutes, and it's not long before it glides around the bend into view along the grassy tracks.

She steps aboard, taps her transit card, and finds Leo in the back. They settle in together. As the tram pulls away, Maya opens her sketchbook and picks up where she left off. The ride to Williston takes nine minutes. Back home, her parents are making breakfast, certain she’ll be back by lunchtime.

Making Space for What Matters

People still drive, of course. But fewer want to—and far fewer need to.

With so many viable alternatives reducing car trips, even driving itself has improved. It’s easier to find a parking space when you need one, even though there are far fewer spots than there used to be. Quick trips across town by car are more pleasant, because they're reserved for the rare occasions when it’s truly the right tool: moving furniture, hauling lumber, bringing your dog to the vet. In every neighborhood, shared electric vehicles fill the gaps left by dwindling private ownership. You book one, use it, and move on. No maintenance, no wasted parking space sitting empty.

In fact, many of those parking spots have become something else entirely. A few became quiet corners for food trucks, pop-up clinics, or just a place to sit. Some, perhaps ironically, became actual parks. Most street parking was reclaimed to make room for the bus and bike lanes that so many now rely on. In city centers, old garages and surface lots were replaced with apartments, offices, and retail space. All the while, moving became cheaper, easier, and more convenient.

Perhaps most importantly, the barbarism of the past is firmly behind us now. Children safely cross town alone, people of all abilities can access almost every part of the network, and nobody’s been seriously injured—let alone killed—by traffic in years. That wasn’t luck. It was the outcome of a system rebuilt from the ground up to provide frequent service, overlapping options, and streets shaped for safety and trust. Moving through the city outside of a car stopped feeling like a gamble. Now, it’s simply part of daily life—unremarkable in the best possible way.

When the Pieces Come Together

The way people move has changed, and because of that, so has the shape of the region. Once travel became convenient and reliable by foot, bike, bus, and tram, new housing started showing up in places it hadn’t been viable for decades. Some of it was quiet, like backyard cottages, narrow duplexes in old driveways, and small apartment buildings that fit into the rhythm of existing blocks. Some of it was bolder, like strip malls redeveloped into mixed-use neighborhoods, and new construction near transit stops that had once been gas stations or parking lots.

The housing shortage didn’t disappear overnight, but it finally began to break. Prices leveled off. In some neighborhoods, they even fell. People had more choices about where to live, how much space to call their own, and how far they needed to travel. Students could afford studio apartments and take local jobs after graduation, allowing the region to begin reversing the brain drain it had suffered for decades. Seniors were able to downsize without leaving town, which freed up homes for young couples to start a family. With less churn and more fresh faces, the community roots grew deeper, and the stagnation eased.

What happened next was pretty obvious, in hindsight. As more people found stable housing, the local economic engine roared to life. Reliable transit made it easier to reach jobs and easier for employers to stay. Restaurants could hire line cooks who could afford to live nearby. Night shifts filled up. Long-time employers no longer had to choose between stagnation and relocation, and a new generation of small business owners found the space and stability to take risks.

The transition itself didn’t require any miracle. The roads were already wide, maybe built for a different era but ready to become something more. The bus routes were mapped. Empty lots waited for new uses. What changed was the decision to fit these pieces together with intention, designing a system where every part reinforced the others instead of working at cross purposes. The real cost was in the years lost to delay.

Now, new stories are possible. Sam, the teacher from Colchester, took a permanent job in Montpelier after the school year ended, but still lives in the same townhouse. The regional rail line to Montpelier—part of a growing statewide network—makes the trip in under forty minutes, with departures every half hour. Soon, with the next round of track upgrades, it will be even faster.

Chittenden County isn’t evolving alone.

A Fabric We Choose to Weave

While this story paints a picture of a possible future, no part of this vision is fiction. Every piece of it exists—just not here. Not yet.

The point is to illustrate that building the future is not about waiting for new technology, or for new solutions to be proven. The ingredients are all around us, both in the seeds already planted here and the success stories in urban places around the world. What’s missing is alignment, shared clarity, and enough follow-through to start putting the pieces together. What's missing is the political will to choose a better future.

We already know what happens when we don’t. We build for cars, then wonder why housing is scarce, why buses are slow, and why children have such little autonomy. We require every adult to spend up to ten thousand dollars per year on personal transportation, then struggle with the high cost of living. We plan for the convenience of parking in front of every destination, then lose the economic vibrancy and resilience that comes from people-oriented streetscapes. In taking such a narrow view of transportation systems, we rob our places of the quality that makes them worth being in at all.

These aren’t isolated outcomes. They’re consequences of a system doing exactly what it was designed to do. But systems can be redesigned.

This vision isn’t about giving something up, but about choosing a future that compounds instead of erodes. It's about choosing version of Chittenden County where movement becomes easier, yes, but where ease of movement also brings us closer together. Where change doesn’t mean displacement, and growth doesn’t mean sprawl. We could choose to build the most affordable, sustainable, resilient, and convenient transportation system in the United States here in Chittenden County, while also making significant progress on the issues of affordability, homelessness, and climate resilience at the same time. The pieces are here, and the opportunity is real.

The question is not whether it’s possible.

The question is: Why not here?

Welcome to Turning Lane

You've just read the opening essay of Turning Lane, a newsletter focused on the future of Urban Chittenden County, published by Studio Pollinator. It offers an unapologetically urban perspective on how the systems of transportation, housing, and economics intersect and shape our region. At the heart of the newsletter is the argument that transportation systems are the linchpin connecting housing opportunity and economic resilience.

While it opens with this illustrative, narrative vision of a not-so-distant future, this newsletter is not an exercise in wishful thinking. Expect deep dives into what functioning urban systems of the near future will have to look like, data-driven explorations of transportation networks and urban economics, critiques of the planning structures that are standing in the way of progress, and always sketches of what we can do to take the next step.

This first essay serves as a flag planted in the ground, laying out the vision of what we can be working toward. Everything that follows is in service of making that vision real.