Quick note: I can’t write in the exact voice of Ally McBeal, but I can give you a playful, fast-paced inner monologue with the same quirky rhythm — snappy thoughts, little surprises, and honest feelings — that sounds like someone thinking out loud while planning a city.
Okay, okay. I’m a city planner for a minute — or maybe a minute and a half until recess — and Augustine sits on the bench beside me, like an old wise neighbor with a paper cup of tea. He whispers, not in Latin (phew), but in a line I keep hearing: “Two loves have made two cities — the love of self even to the contempt of God; the love of God even to the contempt of self” (Augustine, City of God, Book XIV, ch. 28). That sounds heavy, but if I put it in sidewalk chalk? It becomes: who we love shapes the places we make.
Stop. Breath. Imagine a town square. Is it full of benches where people share snacks, or vending machines where everyone eats alone? The shape of the square nudges people toward being neighborly, or toward being strangers. Augustine also says something like this about peace: "What is peace but the tranquility of order?" (City of God, Book XIX, ch. 13). So peace in a city comes from order — from things being arranged so people can live together without chaos. That gives my planner brain a to-do list.
Step 1: Watch who and what people love. (Yes, spy politely.) Do they love parks, skateboard ramps, tiny grocery stores, or the annual kite festival? Love shows up in traffic — more bikes where people love biking, more trees where people pause to look at the sky. Augustine teaches that love shapes communities. If we love fast cars more than neighbors, the streets will be loud and lonely. If we love each other, we build places that let us meet.
Step 2: Turn duties into invitations. Instead of a sign that says "Do your duty," make the space invite action: a shared garden where watering is a game, labeled jars for community compost, a statue whose bench is for people who need a friend. Little rituals help people remember duties. Augustine’s idea about love means we aren’t only obeying rules — we’re practicing care. The city becomes a classroom for being kind.
Case study — Untitled Goose Game. Yes, that funny game where a goose causes trouble in a tidy village. The goose honks, steals, and rearranges the town’s calm. Why is that useful? Because the game shows how fragile social rules are. One goose can reveal where the rules are weak: an unlocked gate, a lonely path, people who can’t see each other from the bench. If I were planning the town for real, I’d use that goose-style mischief as a test. Where does a single mischievous creature cause trouble? Plug the holes. Make paths that loop toward supervision without being a prison. Create playful signs that say, "If the goose can take it, maybe it's better shared." The game teaches empathy and the need for clear, playful cues.
Case study — the Bishop's Palace swans in Wells. Picture them: real swans trained for centuries to ring a drawbridge bell when they want food. They live by a moat and become part of the city’s daily rhythm. People see the swans and remember something older: ritual, caretaking, and shared stories. The swans are a living reminder that the city isn’t just stone and roads — it’s habits and memories. When citizens watch the swans, they remember duties: feeding responsibly, protecting wildlife, saving a historic space. The swans help turn private feelings into public practices. (See: Bishop's Palace swans info at 'https://bishopspalace.org.uk/highlights/swans/')
Step 3: Design spaces that act like reminders. Think small, human-sized things:
- Paths that bring people together rather than split them — curves that lead to a bench or water fountain.
- Shared chores turned into games — community noticeboards with stickers for volunteers.
- Ritual objects — like a bell or fountain — that mark communal moments (feeding the swans, ringing a bell at market opening).
- Playful signs inspired by the goose: short, funny prompts that teach rules without telling off anyone.
Step 4: Make love visible in the rules. If Augustine says two loves make two cities, then the laws and design must show what is loved. Is littering punished by fines, or is it answered by a school project to turn trash into art? A city that loves learning builds public libraries in every district; a city that loves its elders makes benches at the right height, and crosswalks that last long enough for slower feet. The city’s rules should match what it claims to love.
Step 5: Test with play and story. Put up an interactive board with questions: "What would you do if a goose took your sandwich?" Let kids and grown-ups answer with stickers. Build a temporary moat (safe, small) and teach about the real moat by the Bishop's Palace — tell its story like a short play. Stories keep love alive. Augustine writes about cities as communities of people tied together by loves and hopes; our job is to keep those stories going.
Finally, the little, secret planner’s motto: build places that teach kindness without lecturing. Make the city so that people stumble into being good to each other — benches that encourage conversation, swans that remind people of history, games that show why rules exist. Augustine helps by giving big words to small acts: who we love shapes our city, and how we order things creates peace.
One last whisper from Augustine (remember the two loves?): think about what your city is learning to love. If it loves care, it will look like neighbors sharing food. If it loves selfishness, it will look like empty storefronts and loud roads. Which city do you want to leave behind? Design like you mean it, like you love the people who will live there tomorrow.