Look, I know what you're thinking. Not owning a car in Texas? That's like choosing to live without air conditioning in August – technically possible but bordering on masochistic. And you're not wrong, honestly. Austin's public transit is… well, let's just say it exists, which is more than some Texas cities can claim. But here's the thing – I've been car-free for three years now, and it's taught me something important about how cities could work if we actually designed them for humans instead of metal boxes.
I didn't plan this lifestyle, by the way. My ancient Honda Civic finally died the death of a thousand oil leaks about three years ago, right when my student loans were eating up most of my nonprofit salary. The choice was either go into debt for another car or figure out how to make it work without one. Spoiler alert: I chose option two, mostly because I'm too stubborn to admit defeat and also because car payments terrify me more than cycling in Austin traffic.
The first few months were rough, I'm not gonna lie. Grocery shopping became this elaborate logistical puzzle involving backpacks, bike panniers, and careful meal planning because you can't exactly impulse-buy a watermelon when you're on two wheels. I got rained on. A lot. I showed up to meetings slightly sweaty despite my best efforts. My mom kept sending me Uber gift cards with concerned text messages.
But something interesting happened around month six. I started noticing things about cities – really noticing them – in a way I never had when I was enclosed in a car bubble. The complete absence of sidewalks in some neighborhoods. How hostile certain areas feel when you're not protected by a steel cage. The way some intersections seem designed to actively discourage anyone traveling under 35 mph. Austin, bless its weird heart, is better than a lot of Texas cities for getting around without a car, but it's still pretty clearly designed around the assumption that everyone drives everywhere.
That's when I started getting curious about places that made different assumptions. Through my work and some freelance writing gigs, I've been lucky enough to visit cities that actually prioritized people over parking spaces. And let me tell you, it's been eye-opening.
Last summer I spent two weeks in Copenhagen for a conference, and I'm pretty sure I experienced what religious people call a revelation. Sixty-two percent of people there bike to work. Not because they're all environmental warriors or fitness fanatics, but because it's legitimately the most convenient option. The bike infrastructure isn't some afterthought painted on the side of car lanes – it's a separate, protected network that actually takes you where you need to go.
I rented a bike on my second day and joined this incredible morning flow of cyclists. Business people in suits, parents hauling kids in cargo bikes, elderly folks on electric assists, students with backpacks. At a red light, I ended up next to this woman who had to be in her seventies, and I made some comment about the weather. She told me she'd been cycling these same routes for decades. "When I was young, there were more cars," she said. "Now the bikes have taken back the city." I almost cried right there at the intersection, which would have been embarrassing but also kind of appropriate.
The thing is, Copenhagen didn't just magically become bike-friendly. They made deliberate choices starting in the 1970s to prioritize cycling infrastructure. Wide, separated bike lanes. Traffic lights timed for bike speeds. Bike parking everywhere. It wasn't about banning cars – plenty of people still drive when they need to – but about making cycling so convenient that it becomes the obvious choice for daily trips.
Then there's Barcelona, which I visited last spring. They've created these things called superblocks – basically groups of city blocks where they've diverted through traffic around the perimeter and reclaimed the interior streets for people. Speed limits drop to walking pace, and suddenly you have kids playing in the street, outdoor dining, pop-up markets, actual human interaction.
I stumbled into one of these superblocks in Poblenou on a hot afternoon and found children – actual children! – playing in what used to be a car-dominated street. Their parents were chatting on benches under newly planted trees. There was a spontaneous ping pong game happening on a table where parking spaces used to be. It was so alive, you know? In a way that streets full of parked cars just never are.
The data backs this up too – air pollution in these areas dropped by 25%, noise levels decreased significantly, and contrary to all the predictions of traffic chaos, the surrounding areas didn't turn into parking lot nightmares. People adapt. They find other ways to get around when driving becomes less convenient.
Paris is doing something similar but more dramatic. Mayor Anne Hidalgo has been on this mission to reclaim street space from cars – they've removed like 140,000 on-street parking spaces and created hundreds of kilometers of bike lanes. The banks of the Seine, which used to be a highway, are now pedestrian spaces full of cafés and people actually enjoying the river.
I was there for a few weeks last summer working on an article, and I spent a lot of time at this café on Rue de Rivoli. Used to be a congested, exhaust-filled mess, now it's this thriving pedestrian and cycling street. I was scribbling notes when this elderly gentleman at the next table asked what I was writing. When I explained, he laughed and told me in perfectly charming English that he'd lived in the neighborhood for over sixty years and never thought he'd see it so quiet, so full of people instead of cars. "Now I can hear the birds in the morning," he said. That conversation has stuck with me because he's right – sometimes progress means returning to what cities were like before we redesigned everything around automobiles.
But what about cities that weren't built in the medieval era with narrow streets that naturally discourage cars? What about sprawling American cities designed entirely around car dependency? Can they change?
The answer is cautiously yes, though it's definitely harder. Portland has made some impressive changes despite being in car-centric America. They've created these neighborhood greenways – residential streets optimized for walking and biking with traffic calming features and barriers that let bikes and pedestrians through while preventing cars from using them as shortcuts. It's clever and relatively cheap compared to building entirely new infrastructure.
Even Houston – like, Houston of all places – is making some progress. I was there for a conference last year expecting to feel completely stranded, but their redesigned bus network actually connects major areas with frequent service. It's not Amsterdam-level yet, but it gives some Houstonians a real alternative to driving for at least some trips.
The fifteen-minute city concept is gaining traction too – the idea that you should be able to reach daily necessities within a fifteen-minute walk or bike ride. I experienced this when I was in Melbourne for a writing project and stayed in Carlton for three months. Within five minutes of my apartment, I had groceries, library, doctor, parks, and approximately fifty cafés serving flat whites that would make Italian coffee snobs weep. My daily life involved zero time sitting in traffic or hunting for parking. It was weirdly liberating.
Critics love to bring up weather as if cycling only works in some magical climate utopia. Having biked through Copenhagen's winter sleet and Austin's summer heat, I can tell you that proper infrastructure and appropriate clothing make weather way less of a barrier than people think. As the Danes say, there's no bad weather, only bad clothing.
The accessibility argument comes up a lot too – the concern that car-free designs hurt people with disabilities. It's a legitimate issue that deserves attention, but it's also often used as a blanket argument against any changes. The reality is that well-designed car-light cities can actually improve accessibility through better public transit, smoother pedestrian infrastructure, and clearer policies for people who genuinely need vehicle access.
I learned this from interviewing a disability rights activist in Ljubljana who uses a wheelchair. She was initially worried about the car-free zones but found she actually had more freedom there than in car-dominated areas where sidewalks are blocked by parked vehicles and drivers aren't paying attention to pedestrians.
The common thread in successful examples isn't about banning cars – it's about providing real choices. Making walking, cycling, and transit as convenient as driving has been made through decades of car-centric planning.
Here in Austin, I've seen small changes that give me hope. The protected bike lanes on Rio Grande aren't perfect, but they're a start. The new train line actually connects useful places. More apartment complexes are getting built near transit instead of in car-dependent suburbs. It's incremental progress, but it's something.
The most encouraging sign is how quickly people adapt when given options. When the pandemic prompted cities to create emergency bike lanes and expanded pedestrian spaces, officials expected to remove them afterward. Instead, residents fought to keep them permanent. Once you experience how pleasant city life can be with fewer cars, there's no going back.
My own experience bears this out. What started as a financial necessity has become a genuine preference. Yeah, I still get rained on sometimes, and grocery shopping requires more planning. But I'm in better shape, I save money, my carbon footprint is smaller, and I notice my city in ways I never did from inside a car. I see the birds my elderly Parisian café companion was talking about. I have random conversations with neighbors. I'm not contributing to the traffic that makes everyone miserable.
My parents still worry about my car-free lifestyle, though my dad surprised me last time I visited by suggesting we walk to dinner instead of driving. "Parking's such a hassle anyway," he said, which felt like a small victory. As we walked through his suburban neighborhood, he pointed out things he'd never noticed from his car – a pocket park, interesting architecture, a neighbor's garden. Maybe he's starting to get it.
The thing is, none of this is about perfection or purity. I still take rideshares sometimes when the weather's awful or I'm running late. I rent cars occasionally for trips outside the city. But for daily life, for most trips, for the basic business of living in a city, I've learned that cars aren't actually necessary if the infrastructure supports alternatives.
That's the key insight from all these successful cities – they didn't just remove cars and hope for the best. They invested in making other options genuinely convenient, safe, and pleasant. They chose to prioritize people over parking. And surprise, people responded by walking, biking, and using transit more.
Austin isn't Copenhagen, and Texas isn't the Netherlands. But cities are choices, not inevitabilities. Every street design, every parking requirement, every transit investment is a decision about what kind of place we want to live in. I've seen what's possible when cities make different choices. And honestly? It's pretty great.
Daniel’s a millennial renter learning how to live greener in small spaces. From composting on a balcony to repairing thrifted furniture, he shares honest, low-stress ways to make sustainability doable on a budget. His posts are equal parts curiosity, trial, and tiny wins that actually stick.
