Field Notes Volume IX

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3 Dear Readers,

Geography is a discipline that we feel is commonly misconceptualized, with outsiders conflating aspects of physical geography with the whole discipline. Though the physical aspect remains important, geography is a quickly growing discipline that strives to conceptualize spatial patterns and organizations in different contexts. Geography allows us to map different understandings of the earth, society, and culture– both visually and through scholarship.

Through Field Notes, we have been able to visualize and publish this new picture of a misconceived discipline. We have taken something that is misunderstood and used the individual voices of our peers to produce a collective explanation. This year, we are proud to publish works from many talented Geography undergraduates as well as those from other disciplines, such as English and Islamic Studies.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

It has been an absolute privilege to work on this year’s edition of Fieldnotes. Curating and publishing this journal has been a labour of love, and we are excited to be able to share with you the incredible work members of McGill’s undergraduate Geography community and friends have created.

Thank you to our authors for their incredible words and maps, to our editors for their efforts working with our authors to perfect their pieces for publication, and special thanks to our graphic designer Johnelle Smith for helping to bring our vision for the journal to life. Lastly, thank you to our readership for supporting Field Notes each year, we are excited for you to see what we have come up with for the 2020 edition!

With love, Jane O’Brien Davis and Tyra Uppal Editors-In-Chief

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Editors-in-Chief: Jane O'Brien Davis and Tyra Uppal Graphic Designer: Johnelle Smith

“Est-ce qu’il fait beau dans le métro?” Participatory Planning for Montréal’s Future by Ari Charles, Myriam Driss and Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

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Methodology, Modifications, and Migraines: An Ethnographic Account of Undergraduate Fieldwork by Joseph Duva Edited by Tessa Murray

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Edited by Michelle Kee

End of Melt-Season Hydrology in the Northwestern Outlet of Foxfonna, Svalbard by Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

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Edited by Zaheen Sinha

Edited by Anna O'Driscoll

Impersonal Spaces: Domestic Roles, Body Image and Urban Planning in A Glass of Blessings by Georgia Maxwell

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Fences and Maasai Settlements Within Kajiado County, Kenya by Elizabeth Stone

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Haunted Areas of Massachusetts by Town by Mollie Donohue-Meyer

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Edited by Lea Joseph

The Topkapi Palace: Spatial Control of Hierarchy and the Panopticon by Kubilay Ogutcu

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Edited by Zaheen Sinha

Edited by Henry Carter

Natural Resource Dependency, Colonial Vestiges, and Latin American New Cities by Madeline Wilson

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Singapore From the Perspective of Dr. Winston Chow (周祥龙) by Emily Chen

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Edited by Lea Joseph

Edited by Henry Carter

Using Landsat-8 Imagery to Conduct an Assessment of Water Turbidity in the Bahamas by Brandon Taylor Edited by Tessa Murray

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Sunsets Along the Appalachian Trail by Luca Fournier and Martin Law

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EST-QU’IL FAIT BEAU DANS LE MÉTRO? PARTICIPATORY PLANNING FOR MONTRÉAL’S FUTURE Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

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Written by Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

7 The Montréal métro has been around since the 1960s, but only one new extension has been opened since 1988. With a growing population and political environment favourable to investing in expansions to the transport network, we wanted to know whether official plans for the métro’s future aligned with the views of city residents, and how those views are shaped. To test this question, we developed a survey grounded in the frameworks of cognitive mapping and participatory planning. The survey asked people to draw their fantasy métro extensions on a map, justify why they added new stations where they did, and identify any official metro expansion plans they had heard of. Using GIS software, we first produced heat maps showing that citizen views correlate with official visions somewhat, but not completely. Then, using both qualitative and quantitative analyses, we determined that citizen views are largely determined by the areas people live in and frequent, but people do consider other factors.

1. INTRODUCTION The Montréal métro is Canada’s busiest rapid transit network, serving over 1.3 million passengers daily (APTA 2019). However, while the surrounding city has continued to grow both economically and in population, the métro itself has remained largely static since it was designed and built between the 1960s and 1980s. In order to remain competitive as a global city, Montréalmust continue to evaluate its transport network, and expand existing systems when they fail to provide sufficient connectivity and accessibility throughout the urban fabric (CCMM 2010).

Edited by Michelle Kee

Moreover, the current political environment is quite favourable toward investments in new transport infrastructure, including métro expansion. The confluence of very public transport-friendly administrations in Montréal city hall and in Ottawa, along with a Québec provincial government whose mobility plans include support for public transport projects (Bruemmer 2019), provide a unique window of opportunity to plan and break ground on the métro’s second generation. Currently, three major projects have widespread institutional support and are in various stages of becoming a reality: the eastward Blue Line extension to Anjou, the diagonal Pink Line from Montréal-Nord to Lachine via downtown, and the Réseau express métropolitain (REM) light rail network (see map 1 ).

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Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

This question is important to ask because considering public needs and rider satisfaction are essential if new expansions to the métro are to be successful.

New tunnels and stations are not cheap, with construction costs as high as $80 in line with public desires, serious harm could be done to both the transit network and to the political system. This is why we want to assess the relationship between the métro’s planned future and public opinion, and in turn, how public opinion is shaped. We are not advocating for a horizontalist decision-making approach for large-scale infrastructure projects, but merely considering how the public is incorporated and consulted in the decision-making process.

In this report, we will first provide background through a literature review on the métro’s history, and then on participatory planning, with a focus on how visions of built transport infrastructure reflect public understandings of the city. Second, we will detail and justify the methodology that we used to answer our research question, including the use of a survey, our sampling strategy, and the parameters of a GIS analysis. Finally, we will discuss our findings, as well as provide concluding thoughts on the limitations of our research and suggestions for future inquiry. 0 million per kilometre (Riga, 2019), so if official plans are not

2. CONTEXT AND FRAMEWORK To provide background to our research, we will examine the bodies of literature on the history of the Montréal métro’s initial layout and its expansion and on participatory planning. Then, we will further explain our theoretical approach to designing our survey and its place within these broader fields.

2.1. HISTORY OF THE MÉTRO

MAP 1. MONTRÉAL MÉTRO LINES AND PROPOSED EXTENSIONS.

Across the Western world, the 1960s were a time of great political and social upheaval. In Montréal, this movement—known in Québec as the Quiet Revolution— resulted in something that would forever change how the city was thought of and experienced: a subway system. With population growth concentrated in the suburbs, new transport solutions were needed to provide mobility across the whole of the metropolitan region. At the same time, Montréal and Québec were establishing a more explicitly francophone, secular identity, which “notably manifested itself nationalization of electrical companies…which became a powerful symbol for the ap-

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

However, political and financial capital are not limitless. While all three of these officially-envisioned projects are considered important by those in power, it is also important to consider how the projects were planned and developed, and ask whether citizens of the metropolitan region agree. Therefore the premise and central question of our research is: although many expansions of the Montréal métro have been proposed over the past few years, the city is dependent on finite resources and subject to shifting provincial and federal priorities. To what extent do official visions for the future of Montréal’s rapid transit network align with the views of its citizens, and how are these views determined? To find out, we asked Montréalers to draw their fantasy métro extensions on a map, and analyzed the results.

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Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

In 1962, the unprecedentedly modernist Place Ville-Marie and several other iconic downtown buildings opened as a symbol of bifurcation between old, industrial Montreal and the new, cosmopolitan Montréal, helping to create new urban imagery (Linteau 2017). Highways, bridges, and tunnels, all for cars, concurrently developed the linkages and pathways of the city and stood tall in the minds of Montréalers. Furthermore, securing the hosting rights to landmark international events such as Expo 67 and the 1976 Summer Olympics signaled to the world that Montréal was back on the map (Ibid.)

THE PUBLIC SPENDING SPREE ON THESE MEGAPROJECTS WAS JUSTIFIED IN THE NAME OF ENCOURAGING FOREIGN INVESTMENT, BUT AFTER EXPO 67 IT BECAME CLEAR THAT THIS WOULD NOT COME. CANADA’S METROPOLIS WOULD STILL BE TORONTO, AND MONTRÉAL WOULD REMAIN MARGINALIZED (Ibid.)

The métro’s achievement was also an anachronism to the car-oriented development of the 1960s, as Montréal was the only North American city to inaugurate a subway that decade (Gilbert and Poitras 2015). The roots of the system were put down when the privately-owned transit companies were taken over by the government in 1951 and amalgamated into the Commission de transport de Montréal (CTM) (Sancton 2015). While the CTM’s predecessor had recommended a subway for the city as far back as the 1940s, the first Drapeau administration scrapped the idea, and conflict and distrust between various levels and factions of government prevented construction from commencing until 1960 (Gilbert and Poitras 2015).

Still, planners had a consensus: there would be a line going from the port to the Rivière-des-Prairies, connected to two parallel lines crossing downtown. Car traffic would be reduced downton, and a métro would boost tax revenue by increasing property values near stations (Ibid.) At the same time as Montréal’s francophone majority asserted itself in urban space, many anglophone residents and industries were beginning to migrate to Toronto, which increasingly saw capital flows previously “reserved” for Montréal (Linteau 2017). Anti-anglophone political symbolism is perhaps why the métro has never been extended to the West Island, a more English-speaking part of the city.

However, Drapeau knew that the economic rivalry posed by Toronto, which

had opened its own subway in 1954, had to be dealt with in some way (Gilbert 2014).

Facing deindustrialization and the loss of importance of its port and train lines for trade, it was clear the city’s path to modernity and continued international competitiveness would have to come from a reinvigorated downtown core (Linteau 2017).

To be a world class city, Montréal needed a métro (Gilbert and Poitras 2015). Despite his own personal ambivalence, Drapeau was ultimately convinced to commit to the métro in part due to its popularity with the city electorate. The planning style was authoritarian: the city government would fund the entire project itself, so it had total control over the route of the first lines (Gilbert 2014). This political drive allowed the initial network to be completed in just six years, opening on October 14, 1966.

Nine days later, Drapeau was re-elected mayor in a landslide (Bourassa 1976).

In designing the first lines, political and financial considerations were at the fore. A planned Red Line to Cartierville to run under Mont-Royal was cancelled so that the Yellow Line could be completed in time to serve the Expo 67 fairgrounds (Gilbert 2014). Additionally, the Orange Line was chosen to run under rue Berri, one block east of rue Saint-Denis, to limit disruption to surface commerce and lower expropriation costs (Ibid.) Later, as construction costs increased and suburban municipalities got more of a say in the planning process, the provincial government imposed a soft moratorium on building new métro lines, leading to a number of proposed extensions being cancelled (Magder and Scott 2017). The most recent station to enter service on the island of Montréal was Acadie in 1988; after that there has only been the three-stop Orange Line extension to Laval, opened in 2007 (Ibid.)

The goal in this summary of the métro’s initial implementation is not to overstate or understate the role of planners and officials, but instead to emphasize how infrastructure projects are inherently influenced by numerous outside political, social, and economic factors. As a result, it is only fair for us to consider the views of ordinary citizens caught in the midst of these forces, and how those views are shaped.

With funding now in place for the proposed Blue Line extension to Anjou, parallels to the 1960s can be seen today. Planners have already selected locations for the five stations and commenced the process of rezoning and expropriating land without meaningful public participation (Saint-Louis 2019, City of Montréal 2019a). The given justification for this process is reminiscent of Drapeau’s vision for a revitalized downtown core. City officials said that the extension is necessary ...in order to improve the mobility in the metropolitan region and relaunch development in eastern Montréal” (MTQ 2019).

2.2 ACCESSIBILITY, IMAGEABILITY, AND COGNITIVE MAPPING Accessibility in the rapid transit context means more than the simple ability of persons with reduced mobility to enjoy the full benefits of the network. Rather, accessibility is a measure of how much of the city is opened up to its residents via the transport system (Jones and Lucas 2012). Growth in subway accessibility has tradi-

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

propriation of the new economy” (Linteau 2017, 266). In keeping with the zeitgeist of the era, just as Hydro-Québec came to be premier Jean Lesage’s most iconic populist project, Montréal’s métro would be the crowning achievement of domineering mayor Jean Drapeau (Linteau 2017).

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Accessibility can be studied at a few different levels, including at the micro level—individual accessibility—and the meso and strategic levels, which consider overall network design and how that design can bring together other elements of the urban system, including land use patterns and employment distribution (Jones and Lucas 2012). Our research incorporates both approaches—we looked both at the service extensions individuals wanted, as well as how the sum of these individual desires would change the transport network were they to come to fruition.

We also developed the theoretical framework underpinning our methodology based on the work of Lynch (1960), who studied the imageability of the city. The key difference with our research is that while Lynch asked respondents about the city that already existed, we asked respondents to imagine the future of the city as they would design it. As will be seen in our results, people drew extensions based on what they thought would be practical, both for themselves and for the city at large.

Yet they also made decisions based on emotional factors. Per Lynch, “the subway is a disconnected nether world, and it is intriguing to speculate what means might be used to mesh it into the structure as a whole” (57). Subway systems are unique in that they are both important parts of the imageability of the urban landscape and, by virtue of being underground, particularly disconnected from traditional mental maps of the aboveground city (Mondschein et al. 2010). Although Montréal’s métro is more imageable than most due to the unique architectural design motifs of each station, the cognitively passive nature of riding the train means that even everyday users will not necessarily be familiar with the specific layout of the lines in relation to features on the surface. Therefore, greatly different meanings can develop for each user (Lynch 1960).

The particular relevance of these twin concepts of accessibility and imageability to our particular study design is the importance of both in shaping individuals’ cognitive maps of the city, which in turn informed how respondents drew and justified their fantasy métro extensions. Cognitive maps are individualized mental constructs which “encompass those cognitive processes which enable people to acquire, code, store, recall and manipulate information about the nature of their spatial environment” (Mondschein et al. 2010, 846). Mixing spatial and qualitative data, people use cognitive maps to define which districts they are comfortable in, which paths are most familiar to them, and ultimately what decisions they should make when navigating urban space, including the métro network (Ibid.) Furthermore, these maps are heavily fluid, as people continually update their perceptions based on new lived experiences (Ibid.)

2.3. PARTICIPATORY PLANNING Participatory planning is defined by Active Neighbourhoods Canada as “an approach to designing active, livable cities, which makes urban planning accessible, community-driven, and fun. It is grounded in the belief that blending local knowledge and expert knowledge leads to strong outcomes” (MUEC 2015). This mixture of local and expert knowledge can be seen in our comparison of citizens’ opinions to official plans, while being able to draw a fantastical map provided a fun aspect for respondents.

However, because so many technical nuances that must be considered in subway construction, any level higher than simple information-only participatory planning is generallynot employed. This can be seen again in the example of the Montréal Blue Line extension, where public meetings will occur only after all major decisions have been taken, and all that will be left to do is announce these to the public (MTQ, 2019).

Although we fully recognize that participatory planning is not by itself a means to an end, we believe it is possible to consult more meaningfully with the public, as demonstrated by the example of San Francisco, where the city council explicitly commissioned a consortium of planning agencies, known as Connect SF, to conduct a study called Subway Vision. Subway Vision greatly influenced our own research design. Using both in-person and online surveys, researchers asked residents to draw desired subway lines and stations (Connect SF 2017). The 2,600 responses were compiled into a heat map (see figure 1 below), an easy-to-grasp visual that we consequently chose to use to demonstrate our results. The study allowed planners and other decision makers to consult an effective stand-in for citizens’ desires in subway development, without having to call a long series of public meetings.

Encouraged by the example of this well-documented exercise in participatory planning, we developed an exact methodology to explore what greater use of participatory planning approaches would look like in the case of Montréal’s new métro expansions. There is hope yet that this sort of process could come to the city in the near future; the city’s 2020 budget for the first time has included funding for exercises in participatory planning (City of Montréal 2019b).

3. METHODOLOGY In this section, we will detail our study methodology, including how we designed our urvey, sampled the public, and analyzed the results. Along the way we will justify the decisions we made and account for potential sources of error.

3.1. SURVEY DESIGN A common primary data collection tool in human geography is the use of brief questionnaires. Although formal interviews can allow for deeper analysis of the

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

tionally been driven by decision-making processes centred on the economic and environmental dimensions of transportation. Investments are reduced to the desire to promote job growth and meet greenhouse gas-reduction targets (Grengs 2005).

However, the concept of transport accessibility encourages us to focus on the social equity dimension. More accessibility indicates that “people can reach the goods and services that society considers are necessary for them to live their daily lives” (Jones and Lucas 2012, 6). This reflects a particular emphasis on the role transport plays not just in sending people where they need to go, but in developing their human potential as citizens of the city.

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15 research question at hand, questionnaires can efficiently collect more data in less time (Parfitt 2005). With the resulting data, it is also possible to classify people, circumstances and environments using variables such as respondents’ age, income, household size and location (Northey et al. 2009) Other data that can be collected relate to people’s behaviours and attitudes. As a result of the flexibility offered by such a questionnaire, we chose this as our survey method to answer our research question.

To conduct our survey, we prepared a questionnaire in both French and English (see appendix A) that took respondents between five and ten minutes to complete. To the best of our abilities, we wrote questions that we thought were focused, precise, neutral, and clear (Ibid.) They ranged from multiple choice and factual questions at the beginning to more complex short answer questions near the end, in keeping with the principle of increasing question difficulty over the length of the questionnaire (Ibid.) The questions, and their associated rationales for asking them, were: 1. First three digits of the respondent’s postal code (FSA): To determine the extent of correlation between where respondents lived and where they marked new stations.

2. Whether the respondent had an Opus card with a monthly métro pass on it: To determine by proxy if someone was likely to be a daily or only occasional métro rider.

3. How the respondent usually accessed the métro: To determine how accessible the métro was to respondents; assuming those who walked found it most accessible.

4. On a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being most satisfied, how satisfied the respondent was with the existing métro network: To see if current attitudes toward the métro influenced responses.

5. Where, on a blank map of Montréal with only the current métro lines labeled, the respondent would place ten new métro stations: The central component of the survey, directly addressing our research question. We left the map mostly blank to avoid biasing respondents toward placing stations in certain areas that may have been labeled, such as

FIGURE 1. SUBWAY VISION HEAT MAP (CONNECT SF 2017).

the airport. The choice of ten stations as a constraint was to encourage some consideration of realism and the trade-offs inherent to the planning process.

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Surveys work by sampling rather than contacting everyone in the population of interest. The primary bounds of the sample are geographic and temporal, reflecting space and time constraints respectively (Parfitt 2005). As sampling relies on the notion that the results from a representative subset of the total population are generalizable to that total population, with every type of survey design, there can be errors. If questions are asked imprecisely, if the sample size is too small, or if respondents are not selected truly randomly, the results will not be reliable or statistically valid (Ibid.) In other words, they will not be replicable were someone else to administer the survey to a different sample (Northey et al. 2009) All of these sources of error had to be controlled for in our survey design.

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17 6. The respondent’s rationale or reasoning for why they placed the new stations where they did: To provide a further way to analyze responses.

7. Whether the respondent had heard of any proposed métro expansions: To get an idea of whether respondents were merely drawing extensions that they were aware of from the news, or whether they were thinking independently of official thought leaders. We placed this question last so it would not affect responses to the mapping component.

We initially ran a short pilot survey on colleagues to check the feasibility of the questionnaire. After slight adjustments, we moved on to our real sampling in the city.

We conducted our fieldwork on weekday afternoons in four locations: on the McGill campus, downtown (in the BAnQ at Berri-UQAM), and at cafés near métro stations in two residential areas: Laurier and Snowdon. The varied locations allowed us to survey a diverse metropolitan population with varied transit needs, including students, commuters, and stay-at-home workers or senior citizens, who might ride the métro outside of peak periods.

During our sampling sessions, we employed a systematic random sampling approach, whereby we asked every fifth seated person if they would be willing to complete the questionnaire. If they agreed, we reviewed the informed consent procedures and gave them the questionnaire in their language of choice. This method avoided potential error that would have been introduced had we only asked those we subjectively deemed approachable (Parfitt 2005, Northey et al. 2009). We also targeted seated people in order to reduce potential error related to the rate of people who declined to complete the survey (response bias), but this is a limitation present with most random samples and it is possible we simply replaced it for another potential source of error in that we did not survey anyone who was in a hurry.

Location

Sample size ( n )

Date of sample

Laurier area

11

November 8

BAnQ (Berri-UQAM)

22

November 18

Snowdon area

9

November 19

McGill campus

8

November 21

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

3.2. SAMPLING STRATEGY

Table 1. Overview of sample locations.

In total, we were able to sample 50 people (see table 1 above) from a variety of postal code FSAs, though these were predominantly concentrated around central areas Montréal (see map 2 below). Of the 50 surveys, 27 were administered in French and 23 in English, which somewhat under-represents the city’s francophone population (Statistics Canada 2016); however, the relative bilingualism of the central districts we conducted our sample in means many of those who completed English surveys could be native francophones.

MAP 2. POSTAL CODE FORWARD SORTATION AREAS (FSAS) OF RESPONDENTS.

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19 3.3. GIS AND DATA PROCESSING To process and analyze our primary data, first we numbered each questionnaire from 1 to 50 so we could keep track of all our data, and compiled all of the survey responses into a

The input process required some data cleaning, as not all respondents followed the questionnaire directions perfectly, for instance by drawing a line with the number ‘5’ next to it, which required us to interpolate five station locations along that line. Overall, we recognize that the subjectivity of the data entry introduced a potential source of error, but we endeavoured to take cues solely from what respondents had written on the map or as their rationale. Therefore, we believe that the data were handled accurately enough that they still reflect the actual desires of respondents.

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

spreadsheet, with a row for each respondent and a column for each question. Then, we created a shapefile of all the station locations given by respondents (see map 3 below, but note it is essentially impossible to distinguish point density at full scale; this is one reason we opted to create heat maps).

With the shapefile imported into QGIS, we then ran different vector analysis operations on it to produce inferential statistics relevant to answering our research question, such as a matrix of the distances between all of the station location points in the shapefile and all of the centroids of the 31 FSAs respondents hailed from.

This later allowed us to compare the extent to which respondents’ marked station locations were correlated to their area of residence. We also calculated the geometric-mathematical centre points (the centroids) of each FSA using a shapefile provided by Statistics Canada.

4. RESULTS AND DISCUSSION In this section, we will share selected survey responses that illustrate broad themes from our questionnaire findings, as well as the heat maps produced by aggregating all of the responses, showing the areas of greatest demand for métro expansion.

We will then analyze these results both quantitatively and qualitatively to formally answer our research question: to what extent do official visions for the future of Montréal’s rapid transit network align with the views of its citizens, and how are these views determined?

4.1. SELECTED RESPONSES The responses to the survey were as varied as the respondents themselves. In figure 2 below, three selected maps drawn by participants are shown. On the left is an example of a respondent who followed the given task clearly, marking ten ‘X’s on the map in neat lines to indicate precisely where they would expand the network. In the centre is an example of a more innovate respondent, who created a circular line

MAP 2. POSTAL CODE FORWARD SORTATION AREAS (FSAS) OF RESPONDENTS.

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21 connecting all of the other lines, while the map on the right exemplifies a minority of respondents who placed very scattered stations and lines.

From our coding of respondents’ given rationales for the expansions they drew, other patterns were evident (see table 2 below). As we had expected, the most common rationales respondents provided were to provide service to new parts of the city and make it easier or faster to travel around the network. However, we also observed evidence of thinking about the state of the network as a whole, including around congestion of certain lines, buses, or transfer stations, concern for the environment, and some consideration of socio-economic conditions.

Rationale category

No.

Pct.

Sample response

Expand to new areas

23

46%

“Add more access to the east”

Improve travel time or ease of use

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38%

“Replace buses which are often late”

Reduce congestion

11

22%

“Spread out transfer points”

Remove cars from the roads

6

12%

“Attract people who currently drive”

Reflect socio-economic concerns

5

10%

“Serve a working-class population”

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Figure 2. Selected maps drawn by respondents.

Table 2. Categorization of respondents’ rationales (totals do not equal 100% because some rationales fit into multiple categories).

4.2. HEAT MAPS We produced five heat maps showing areas where points marked by respondents were most densely and heavily concentrated. As in the San Francisco Subway Vision study, this visual allows for quick appraisal of the corridors with the highest demand for métro extensions, and how well those corridors line up with officially-planned expansions. The latter is important for answering the first part of our research question: to what extent do official visions for the future of Montréal’s rapid transit network align with the views of its citizens?

The heat map of all station locations is shown below (map 4). The other four heat maps, showing the densities of points marked by respondents at each of our four sample sites, are available as maps 5 through 8 in appendix C. From the overall heat map, it is clear that the corridor with the greatest aggregate demand for extension is the eastward Blue Line to Anjou, with Orange Line service past Côte-Vertu in the Ville-Saint-Laurent borough also a priority. Other common desires included a westward extension of the Blue Line into Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, and service to Trudeau International Airport in Dorval.

MAP 4. OVERALL HEAT MAP OF NEW MÉTRO STATIONS DRAWN BY RESPONDENTS (N=500).

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Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

4.3. QUANTITATIVE ANALYSIS In addition to the survey location-specific heat maps, we also conducted a more thorough tatistical analysis comparing the locations of each of the 500 station locations marked by respondents and the centroids of each of the 31 FSAs our respondents lived in. The idea behind his analysis was to address quantitatively the second part of our research question: how are citizens’ views determined? We hypothesized that on average, respondents would mark new station locations closer to the centroid of their FSA of residence, because it seemed most logical that people asked to envision their ideal transport network would propose improving their own access to it first and foremost. That is, citizens’ views would be shaped by their own situations.

We conducted a one-tailed, large independent samples T-test to determine whether there was a statistically significant difference between these two variables: FSA-linked points, and all points. The former refers to a set of lines ( n =500) drawn from each station location marked by respondents to the centroid of the associated respondent’s given FSA. The statistics for all points refer to a larger set of lines ( n =15,500) drawn from each station location to the centroids of each of the 31 FSAs all of our respondents lived in.

This test is statistically appropriate for our study because the two samples were ndependent in the sense that they were not linked temporally, and both reflected the random selection of survey respondents from the target population.

Their sample sizes were both also greater than 30, guaranteeing an approximately normal distribution. We chose a one-tailed test because we did not expect that the mean distance to FSA-linked points would ever be greater than the mean distance to all points.

Therefore, our null hypothesis (H 0 ) was that mean distance to FSA-linked points would be equal to the mean distance to all points, but our alternative hypothesis (H A ) was that mean distance to FSA-linked points would less than the mean distance to all points, indicating that respondents’ marked station locations were on average closer to their homes than the set of all stations marked by all respondents.

Sample

μ

σ

n

FSA-linked points

10.33 km

5.91

500

All points

11.15 km

6.37

15,500

Table 3. Sample means (μ), standard deviations (σ), and sizes (n).

The values we used for our T-test are shown in table 3 above, and the equations we used are in appendix B. Observing the standard condition of α = 0.05, we returned a z-score of -5.913 standard deviations, a number beyond the critical value of -1.96 standard deviations required to reject the null hypothesis at a level of p <.05. Instead, we can conclude with 95% confidence that the mean distance between stations and their associated FSA centroids is between 0.29 km and 1.13 km shorter than the mean distance between those stations and all centroids.

4.4. QUALITATIVE DISCUSSION Here, we will finally discuss our answer to our research question: to what extent do official visions for the future of Montréal’s rapid transit network align with the views of its citizens, and how are these views determined?

Firstly, the views of Montréal citizens align somewhat, but not completely, with official visions for the future of the metro nétwork. Setting aside the eastward Blue Line to Anjou for now, the second- and third-most expressed views on our overall heat map are not currently high priorities for the city. Orange Line service past Côte-Vertu in some form—ranging from a two-stop extension to Bois-Franc to a full loop through Laval—has been a perennial proposal (Fortin 2011), but at the moment there does not appear to be overwhelming political will for it. Similarly, the Blue Line was actually built with provisions for future westward extension past Snowdon, but there have not been serious plans to do this in decades (Magder and Scott 2017).

In terms of what else the city does have on its wishlist, though the Pink Line and parts of the REM’s branches—namely service into the West Island or Trudeau Airport—did show up in some form on a number of respondents’ maps, their overall prominence on our heat map is low, indicating that these official visions may not be as widely-supported as their political proponents claim. Though purely anecdotal, one memorable respondent wrote on their questionnaire that they thought the Pink Line was “stupid.”

As for the Anjou extension, while we observed from the heat map that this is the most popular expansion among citizens, mirroring the ongoing government efforts to construct this extension, it is important to consider a further element of our results: whether respondents who drew this extension indicated knowledge of it.

We had anticipated that public awareness of the project would cause it to be prominent in our results, but ultimately, of the 20 respondents who drew some form of eastward Blue Line extension, only ten indicated knowledge of its formal planning.

This would indicate that the city’s prioritization of the Blue Line may be a response to organic demand among citizens, and citizen views are not entirely shaped by media discourse about official proposals.

This leads into the second part of our research question: if not simple public awareness, what else determined the visions for the métro’s future that citizens expressed to us? From both our site-specific heat maps and especially our statistical

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

From the location-specific heat maps, it is clear that respondents’ marked stationlocations depended somewhat on where they were surveyed, with the diagonal Pink Line showing up stronger on the heat map of responses at Laurier, and the westward Blue Line more prominent on the heat map of responses from Snowdon. Both of these findings make sense considering those extensions would specifically serve those general areas, respectively.

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25

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Furthermore, although the most common rationales respondents gave for their drawings were on either network extent, ease of use, and/or travel time, others showed deeper, more critical thinking about the larger forces at play when it comes to transport planning. Anecdotally again, another notable respondent drew an extension of ten stations to Orange Line in Laval, and wrote “I live downtown, so this wouldn’t help me,” with the implication that the new stations would, however, help others in need of better transport.

These findings all make sense in the context of our conceptual framing around accessibility, imageability, and cognitive mapping. Cognitive maps are so individual, that individual motivations are to be expected when asking people to complete a fantasy mapping exercise based on their cognitive map—recall that the questionnaire maps did not include any features aside from the existing métro lines.

5. LIMITATIONS AND CONCLUSION To conclude, we will discuss some of the limitations of our study design, our ideas for possible future research, and our final thoughts on this project.

5.1. LIMITATIONS We have identified three primary limitations or shortcomings in our research. The first is that we presented respondents with a blank map for the drawing component of the questionnaire. In addition to the interpolation it required during data cleaning and entry, which introduced an element of subjectivity and limited the extent to which the study design could be scaled up, it is possible that some respondents with weak cognitive maps of the city were unable to accurately mark points where they truly wanted them. These maps being inherently individual, it was an element of bias we could never possibly control for.

The second shortcoming we think is relevant is a more broad problem affecting all research that relies on administering questionnaires in public. Although we adhered to our systematic random sampling strategy, we still must stress the caveat that our results are impacted by some form of response bias due to the fact that not all people we approached agreed to participate. A related common issue we could not necessarily control for was the possibility that respondents did not include truthful answers, such as to the question about their FSA. Thirdly, the temporal constraints of this project meant that while our sample size of 50 was not so small as to be non-generalizable, the fact that we only sampled people in central neighbourhoods of Montréal and not any further-out suburbs

means that responses may have been homogenized to some extent. With more time and resources, we could have sampled more people in more places, which would likely lead to some different results.

5.2. TAKEAWAYS AND IDEAS FOR FUTURE RESEARCH To continue and expand our research, more thorough data collection, especially in different parts of the city, would be useful. A mapping portion with clearer guidelines and restrictions would help receiving more precise data points from respondents. We could perhaps conduct an A/B test whereby some respondents would be given a blank map as before, and others a map with more labeled features such as rivers, parks, universities, hospitals, major highways and streets, cultural destinations, airports, and so on. Or, we could limit respondents to only one river crossing, to simulate their added construction cost.

We would certainly also ask questions geared more explicitly towards respondents’ deeper feelings about the network, to capture more about its overall imageability. We would replace some of the existing survey questions, such as those on mode of access to the métro and satisfaction with the network. We admit not having thought the relevance of these questions through very well, which is why we essentially neglected the results from them in our analysis; we did not find any significant correlations or trends to report vis-a-vis the marked station locations, or any way to really use those items to answer our actual research question.

In the end, though, we are pleased with our results, as they largely reflected some of our expectations going into the research, while also surprising us with implications we had not previously considered. Our survey and analysis procedures have revealed that there are a multitude of factors going into how citizens envision their city’s transport network. Above all, they rely on their individual spatial characteristics, but many think about the other forces influencing the evolution of urban spaces and the métro lines that serve them.

As for Montréal, there is clearly some healthy give-and-take between citizen views and official visions for the métro’s future, with evidence that while there is significant agreement between the two sides on some extensions—namely, the Blue Line to Anjou—opinions diverge in the western part of the island. Future surveys like the one we conducted would help officials better respond to these demands and ensure that more robust connections are built between the public and the technocratic planning process, ultimately improving both mobility and citizens’ trust in their government.

Ari Charles, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

analysis, it is clear that people’s views are predominantly, but not entirely, shaped by the locations of their homes and other places they frequent. Note that while our statistical findings were mathematically significant, the real difference between the means (0.82 km) of all points and FSA-linked points was, practically speaking, low.

26

27 REFERENCES APTA [American Public Transportation Association] (2019). Q1 2019 US and Canada

Magder, J. and Scott, M. (2017). The métro at 50: The clash with car culture.

Transit Ridership Report. apta.com/wp-content/uploads/2019-Q1-Ridership-APTA-1.

Montréal Gazette . montrealgazette.com/news/local-news/the-metro-at-50-the-

pdf

clash-with-car-culture 22

Bourassa, G. (1976). The political elite of Montréal: from aristocracy to democracy.

Mondschein, A., Blumenberg, E. and Taylor, B. (2010). Accessibility and cog-

In L.Feldman and M. Goldrick (eds.), Politics and Government of Urban Canada:

nition: the effect of transport mode on spatial knowledge. Urban Studies 47:4,

Selected Readings , 146-156. Toronto: Methuen.

845-866. doi.org/10.1177/0042098009351186

Bruemmer, R. (2019). Extended Blue line confirmed by Trudeau: $1.3 billion to be in-

MUEC [Montreal Urban Ecology Center] (2015). Participatory Urban Planning:

vested. Montréal Gazette . montrealgazette.com/news/local-news/trudeau-confirms-

Planning the City With and For Its Citizens . Active Neighbourhoods Canada.

1-3-billion-for-montreal-metro-b lue-line

participatoryplanning.ca/sites/default/files/upload/document/participatory_urban_plannin g_brochure_2016.pdf

CCMM [Chambre de commerce du Montréal métropolitain] (2010). Public Transit: At the Heart of Montréal’s Economic Development. ccmm.ca/~/media/files/news/stud-

MTQ [Ministère des Transports du Québec] (2019). Prolongement de la ligne

ies/10_11_26_ccmm_etude-transport_en.pdf

bleue du métro de Montréal: le projet entame une nouvelle phase vers sa mise en service en 2026. fil-information.gouv.qc.ca/Pages/Article.aspx?idArti-

City of Montréal (2019a). Projet de prolongement de la ligne bleue. www1.ville.mon-

cle=2707047192

treal.qc.ca/banque311/content/projet-de-prolongement-de-la-ligne-bleue Northey, M., Knight, D. and Draper, D. (2009). Doing field work and writing City of Montréal (2019b). Budget 2020, PTI 2020-2022: Un budget pour vous . ville.

about it. In Making Sense: A Student’s Guide to Research and Writing, Geogra-

montreal.qc.ca/pls/portal/docs/PAGE/SERVICE_FIN_FR/MEDIA/DOCUMENTS/ BUD-

phy and Environmental

GET_2020_PTI_2020_2022_FR.PDF Sciences (4th ed.), 147-158. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

Connect SF (2017). Subway Vision Final Report . San Francisco County Transportation Authority. sfcta.org/sites/default/files/2019-02/2016%20Subway%20Vision.pdf

Parfitt, J. (2005). Questionnaire design and sampling. In R. Flowerdew, D. Martin (eds.), Methods in Human Geography: A guide for students doing a

Fortin, J. (2011). Cinq nouvelles stations de métro vers Laval? Le Journal de Mon-

research project , 78-109. Harlow: Prentice Hall.

tréal .journaldemontreal.com/2011/05/26/cinq-nouvelles-stations-de-metro-vers-laval Riga, A. (2019). Cost of métro’s Blue Line extension rises to $4.5 billion: Gilbert, D. (2014). Penser la mobilité, penser Montréal: la planification du tracé du

reports. Montréal Gazette . montrealgazette.com/news/local-news/cost-of-met-

réseau initial de métro, 1960-1966. Revue d’histoire de l’Amérique française 68:1-2,

ros-blue-line-extension-rises-to-4-5-bil lion-reports

57-83. doi.org/10.7202/1032019ar Saint-Louis, R. (2019). Le bureau de pro ets du prolongement de la ligne bleue Gilbert, D. and Poitras, C. (2015). ‘Subways are not outdated’: debating the Montreal

lance ses opérations. Radio-Canada . ici.radio-canada.ca/nouvelle/1153829/

Metro, 1940-60. Journal of Transport History 36:2, 209-227. doi.org/10.7227/tjth.36.2.5

montreal-bureau-de-projet-ligne-bleue-metro .

Grengs, J. (2005). The abandoned social goals of public transit in the neoliberal city

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ed.) Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

Jones, P. and Lucas, K. (2012). The social consequences of transport decision-mak-

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gc.ca/census-recensement/2016/as-sa/fogs-spg/Facts-cma-eng.cfm?LAN

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G=Eng&GK=CMA&GC=462&TOPIC=5

Lynch, K. (1960). The Image of the City . Cambridge, USA: MIT Press.

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29 APPENDIX A: SURVEYS STUDY ON MONTRÉAL MÉTRO SYSTEM We are urban studies students conducting a study on the layout of the Montréal métro for our urban field studies course. If you agree to participate, we will present to you a brief survey with questions, and one drawing portion where you will be asked to place Xs where you believe new métro stations should be built, to improve the accessibility of the system. The survey questions and drawing will take around five minutes to complete. Your participation is entirely voluntary; and you may skip any questions that you don’t want to answer. No personally identifying information is being collected we will only be using aggregated data for our analysis of the survey. Do you have any questions? Are you ready to begin?

QUESTIONS 1. What are the first three digits of your postal code?

2. Do you have an unlimited monthly métro pass?

☐ Yes

6. Briefly, how would these new stations improve the métro network?

☐ No

3. When you use the métro, what mode of transportation do you tend to use to get to the station? Check all that apply.

☐ By foot ☐ By bike ☐ By bus

☐ By car ☐ Other (write below):

7. Have you heard of any plans for extensions to the métro system? If so, which ones?

4. At what level would you describe your satisfaction level with the layout of the current métro system?

☐ Unsatisfied ☐ Somewhat unsatisfied ☐ Neutral ☐ Somewhat satisfied ☐ Very satisfied ☐ Don’t know

APPENDIX B: STATISTICAL EQUATIONS

5. If you could add up to 10 métro stations anywhere in Montréal, where on this map would

you put them? Please indicate with ‘X’s on the map below, and draw lines connecting them.

Figure 3. Equation for large independent samples T-test.

Figure 4. Equation for 95% confidence interval.

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31 APPENDIX C: ADDITIONAL MAPS

Map 5. Heat map of new métro stations drawn by respondents at Berri-UQAM (n=220).

Map 6. Heat map of new métro stations drawn by respondents at Laurier (n=110).

Map 7. Heat map of new métro stations drawn by respondents at McGill (n=80).

Map 8. Heat map of new métro stations drawn by respondents at Snowdon (n=90).

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

32

Written by Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

Edited by Anna O'Driscoll

33 Glaciers of the Norwegian archipelago, Svalbard, have been retreating and thinning since the 1900s as a response to a warmer climate (Liestøl 1988). The negative mass balance of those glaciers influences the hydrology of the catchment considerably (Hagen, Kohler, et al. 2003). Understanding the hydrological response to deglaciating glaciers on Svalbard is of importance as the water supply depends on glacial melt waters (Hodgkins 1997). The aim of this project is to characterize the hydrological processes for the late-season melt of the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna, using discharge records from July to September 2018 and 2019 and geomorphological observations. With an analysis of discharge records, we conclude that one of the main driver of the discharge is the variation in air temperature which impacts the melting rates. The geomorphological maps show the changes in deposits due to smaller volume of water. Finally, an investigation of the flow paths with the chemical signature of the tributaries show the mixing of glacial melt and groundwater in the stream.

INTRODUCTION The 2017 SWIPA report confirms the state of the Arctic in this time of climate change: it is warming twice as fast as the rest of the world (AMAP 2017). Indeed, the Norwegian archipelago, Svalbard, is not immune to these changes. The glaciers, covering 60% of the archipelago, are highly studied by scientists who have reported how Svalbard glaciers have been retreating and thinning since the 1900s as a response to a warmer climate (Liestøl 1988; Hagen, Liestøl, et al. 1993). The negative mass balance of those glaciers influences the hydrology of the catchment considerably in terms of volume of water and seasonal distribution of discharge (Hagen, Kohler, et al. 2003). Understanding the hydrological response to deglaciating glaciers is of importance around the world. The hydrological response to receding temperate glaciers has been considered (Lane et Nienow 2019, Engel, et al. 2019), and the effect on the stream ecosystem (Brighenti et al. 2019), and on sediment dynamics (Guillon, Mugnier et Buoncristiani 2017) discussed. Glaciers of low flux system, with cold-based regimes, and with strong negative mass balance have not been studied as thoroughly (Hagen, Liestøl, et al. 1993). Even in Svalbard, where there is a major research presence, there are still knowledge gaps concerning the hydrological response to deglaciation of cold-based glaciers (Rutter, et al. 2011). Although it is not fully covered by the scientific community, research is crucial considering that the

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

END OF MELTSEASON HYDROLOGY OF THE NORTHWESTERN OUTLET OF FOXFONNA, SVALBARD

34

35 water supply in the Norwegian High-Arctic depends on glacial meltwaters (Hodgkins 1997).

STUDY AREA This study focusses on the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna. Located at 78.15180°N, 16.10775°E on Spitsbergen, the main island of the Svalbard archipelago, Foxfonna is a retreating, cold-based valley glacier that originates from the Foxfonna icecap (Liestøl 1974). The glacier is small and thin, with a maximum thickness recorded at 100m (Christiansen, French et Humlum 2005). The maximum elevation of the Foxfonna icecap is 806m above sea level, and the snout of the glacier at the northwestern outlet is located at around 300m above sea level. Most of the fieldwork and data collection was done on the northwestern snout of the glacier, on the moraine and by the hydrological monitoring station – identified by the red dot in Figure 2.

The station was located in the proglacial stream of northwestern outlet, in front of a steep marginal moraine.

The climate of western Spitsbergen is characterized by an annual mean temperature of -6 ºC and low annual precipitation of 400mm per year (Hagen, Liestøl, et al. 1993). Recent changes in the air temperature and precipitation of Svalbard have been recorded at all meteorological stations (E. J. Førland, et al. 2009). Indeed, from 1961 to 2012, observations show a warming air temperature, as well as a weak positive precipitation trends (Van Pelt et al. 2016). Since the 1960s, the temperature at the Svalbard Airport has increased by 0.5 ºC per decade (Førland and Haussen-Bauer 2000). There is an overall increase in precipitation observed in western Spitsbergen, with an increase of 2% per decade at the Svalbard airport and an increase of 3-4% per decade at Ny-Ålesund (E. J. Førland, R. Benestad, et al. 2011). Although an increase in precipitation is observed, the change in air temperature results in a smaller fraction of the annual precipitation falling as snow (Førland and Haussen-Bauer 2000). An increase in the frequency of rain-on-snow events and warm winter periods has been recorded. (Van Pelt, et al. 2016, Vikhamar-Schuler, et al.

2016). These changes influence the seasonality of the discharge of catchments where the dominating drivers of discharge are related to snow and ice melt. The proglacial stream of Foxfonna is changing with the retreat of the glacier and the climatic changes, which emphasizes the importance of research in such location.

Figure 1. Photo of the proglacial stream and location of the hydrological monitoring station. September 18, 2019

Northwestern outlet of Foxfonna

Northeastern outlet of Foxfonna

Foxfonna icecap

Rieperbreen

Figure 2: Location of study area in western Spitsbergen, Svalbard. The red box shows the location of the fieldwork and the red dot, the location of the monitoring station

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

In such circumstances, understanding the hydrological response to climate change is a priority. Therefore, the aim of this project is to characterize the hydrological processes for the late season melt of a receding glacier. The northwestern outlet of Foxfonna was studied using discharge records from July to September 2018 and 2019 and geomorphological observations. We will first discuss potential geomorphological changes due to variation in the volume of water based on maps. Then, we describe the phases of the melt season based on a visual interpretation of hydrographs and we analyse the impact of climatic factors on seasonal discharge. Finally, we investigate the flow paths based on their chemical signature. This report is an effort to begin exploring the effect of a retreating glacier and the changing climate on the hydrology of a catchment.

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37 Geomorphological maps

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

The study site was investigated to note the various geomorphologies that compose it. Using a field computer, observations of the sedimentology, lithology, morphology, and vegetation of various components of the study sites were taken to make a geomorphological interpretation of the landscape. Aerial photography was taken using a drone, which was used to create a digital elevation model. Eight-hundred photos were taken along the study site and processed with AgiSoft to create a point cloud and finally a digital elevation model with a resolution of 30cm. The field observations, the aerial photography and the digital elevation model were used to create detailed geomorphological maps in ArcMap. Hydrological Monitoring Station A hydrological monitoring station was installed in the proglacial stream in front of the marginal moraine from July 07, 2019 to October 15, 2019. The sensors measured water temperature, stage and electrical conductivity every minute and the datalogger recorded 15-minute averages. Fieldwork was conducted to ensure the station was functioning properly and to calibrate the sensor from stage to discharge records. Discharge measurements were taken at twelve occasions, by salt dilution. The discharge (Q) was calculated using the mean conductivity during the tracer passage (EC) between time T1 and T2, the base electrical conductivity (EC), the duration of the tracer passage (T1 and T2), the mass of salt in grams (M) and a constant based on the calibration of the electrical conductivity meter (k). The following equation was used: Q= kM/(T2- T1)(EC - ECb) Salt dilution method was chosen over other discharge measurement methods for its precision of stream flow measurements - within ± 5 % (Day 1976). These discharge measurements were taken at various stages to create a relationship between the discharge and the level of the water above the sensor, and therefore extrapolate a discharge record from the stage data.

Due to a pressure sensor malfunction from September 01, 2019 to September 18, 2019, the stage was estimated based on the inverse relationship between discharge and electrical conductivity (see Figure 3). Considering the high R2 coefficient, the equation of the trendline was used to infer the stage record from the electrical conductivity record.

All data collected from September 18, 2019 to October 15, 2019 was not used for analysis, due to the early freezing of the stream which caused extremely low flows, but abnormally high stage values recorded by the sensor due to freezing.

The discharge records from late autumn 2018 were used for comparison and analysis. The data collection and fieldwork were conducted by Dr. Andy Hodson, using

the same method as described above, from July 12, 2018 to September 16, 2018. For the 2018 data, ten salt dilution discharge measurements were taken at a station located within 15m of the 2019 hydrological station.

Water sample collection & hydrochemistry analysis Water samples were collected once for hydrochemistry analysis. At each sample collection site, electrical conductivity was measured in the field. The sample bottles were rinsed three times for pre-contamination and filled with flowing water until full to avoid reoxygenation. Two of the samples were taken at the outflow of the glacier, one was taken at a spring, and two samples were taken at the proglacial area (see points A to E on Figure 6 for detailed location of the sample collection sites). The five water samples were then analysed. Tests were conducted to assess pH, alkalinity (determination by titrimetry), sulphate content (determined by turbidimetry) and silica content (determination by colorimetry).

Data analysis The discharge records from 2018 and 2019 were used for a description of the melt phases. Based on visual interpretation, the hydrographs were separated in periods of similar variation (periods of increasing discharge, decreasing discharge, visible diurnal variation, peaks, etc.). These periods were then described based on literature and interpretation. Following the observations from Gurnell et al. (2011), the time series were subdivided based on the nature of the patterns, where precipitation exhibits random patterns, incident radiation has a strong diurnal pattern, etc. Time-series analyses were conducted for each subdivision of the discharge records – six periods for both years: 1a to 1f and 2a to 2f.

The records were then used for statistical analysis to determine the influence of climatic factors on the discharge. Using a cross-correlation analysis, lag times between the variation in discharge and the variation in air temperature was calculated, for every five-day period. Some periods were removed from the analysis based on two criteria: (i) if the cross-correlation was not significant (p-value >0.05), or (ii) if the calculated lag time was above 11 hours. After 12 hours from the peak, the following day’s melt cycle can confuse the interpretation (Rutter et al. 2011).

Correlations between lagged air temperature the discharge were conducted for every phases of the melt season (1a to 1f and 2a to 2f). Daily precipitation data was used for correlations between discharge and precipitation, also performed for every phases of the melt season.

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

METHODS

38

39 RESULTS & DISCUSSION Geomorphological Maps of the Northwestern outlet of Foxfonna

Figure 4: Photos of the 2019 hydrological monitoring station

Figure 5: Cross-correlation analysis in R, the graph shows the possible Pearson correlation coefficients between air temperature and discharge at different lags and leads – using the discharge and climate records for days 16 to 20th. The appropriate lag time is the closest positive correlation.

Map b shows a large fluvial fan, separated in sections where the glaciofluvial deposits are unvegetated and vegetated, which is related to activity of the fluvial channels. Considering that the vegetation growth in the arctic is relatively slow, vegetated deposits are a sign of fluvial inactivity. We can conclude that the proglacial stream has been more active in the past to mobilize the material to leave such a large deposit and is now less active. Christiansen et al. (2005) monitored to the mean annual rock temperature from the Foxfonna icecap to the neighboring mine shaft. Their results show a temperature gradient of -5.7 ºC at the bottom of the valley to -0.1 ºC under the Foxfonna icecap. The warmer rock temperature under the glacier, even though negative, relates to the thermal regime of the glacier. The negative temperature proves that the glacier is cold based, but the increasing temperature beneath the glacier shows the possibility that Foxfonna has been a temperate or polythermal glacier in the past. This possibility has been encountered at Tellbreen, a small valley glacier located 14km northwest of Foxfonna. Using ground penetration radar on Tellbreen, the reconstruction of ice thicknesses suggests that the temperature ice layer has only recently been lost (Baelum et Benn 2011). The thinning and cooling of Svalbard glaciers change the thermal regime and therefore the volume of yearly melt (Liestøl 1988). Indeed, cold-based glaciers have lower input and output fluxes. This possible change in thermal regime explains the variation in the vegetation of the glaciofluvial deposits. Today, only the middle section of the fan has active channels due to the smaller volume of water.

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

Figure 3: Inverse relationship between EC and stage from August 23rd to August 28, 2019. The equation was used to extrapolate stage records based on the measured EC from September 1st to September 18, 2019, due to a pressure sensor malfunction.

Geomorphological maps were created at different scales (refer to Figure 6): an overview map of the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna (Map a), a detailed map of the proglacial stream (Map b) and a detailed map of the supraglacial channels and the glacier extent (Map c). The geomorphological interpretation is based on aerial photography (2018 and 2019), field observations, as well as digital elevation model from 2011 (resolution of 5m) and 2019 (resolution of 30cm). These maps serve as a snapshot in time to compare the changing landscape. The Foxfonna icecap and glacier are changing and therefore the proglacial landscape will also be modified.

The orthophotos, digital elevation models and geomorphological maps can serve as points of comparison to understand this changing landscape in the future or to understand the past. These high-resolution images are necessary to assess, amongst other things, the change in glaciofluvial deposits.

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41 The geomorphological maps also note the retreat of the glacier. Map c show outline of the glacier in 2011, compared to the extent in 2019. It also shows the evolution of the supraglacial meltwater channels.

Discharge records

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

Hydrographs were created to display the discharge records at the hydrological monitoring station from July 12, 2018 to September 16, 2018 and from July 18, 2019 to September 19, 2019 (Figure 3). Based on these records, phases of the melt season were analysed, and an assessment of the influence of climatic factors on the discharge was made. The hydrographs show discharge (in m3s-1), hourly air temperature (in ºC), daily precipitation (in mm) and the subdivision of the phases of the melt season explained below. Both hydrographs are subdivided in six periods: the 2018 hydrograph as 1a to 1f, and the 2019 hydrograph as periods 2a to 2f.

For both 2018 and 2019, the following six phases were recognized. First, periods 1a and 2a show an increase in discharge and a noticeable diurnal variation. This pattern is indicative of a mix of snow melt and ice melt due to snow line retreat. A melt water outburst is observed in period 1b and at the end of period 2a. This theory is based on the timing of the sudden high discharge, which is at the exact same time for both years, when the precipitation input is absent. Therefore, it is likely that a dam is created upstream and bursts after the discharge reaches a certain level (around 0.8m3s-1) for both years). Periods 1c and 2b are characterised by a decreasing discharge and a clear diurnal variation. The decreasing discharge is related to the end of the snowmelt, while the daily variation is due to the solar input. By the beginning of August, the midnight sun is still present, but the solar zenith angle is increasing, which causes diurnal shading over the catchment. Periods 1e, 2d and 2f show high peaks in discharge, which seem to be caused by precipitation events.

Finally, periods 1f and 2e show very low discharge, related to the end of ice melt due to the air temperature falling below 0 °C. Influence of climatic factors on discharge Considering that the volume of water at the northwestern outlet has been greater in the past, as shown by the glaciofluvial deposit, the influence of climatic factors on discharge was investigated to understand the hydrological processes in this time of climate change. Indeed, considering the smaller fraction of total precipitation falling as snow, the glacier accumulation is smaller, and the stream discharge is changing. Investigating the impact of variation in air temperature and precipitation can give an indication of the factors that drive the stream discharge.

Based on the future changes in climate, the hydrological response of the proglacial stream can be deduced.

Figure 6: Geomorphological maps of the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna. a. Overview map of the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna. b. Detailed map of the proglacial streams in front of the moraine. c. Detailed map of the evolution of the supraglacial channels

To understand the relationship between changes in air temperature and discharge, lag time were calculated in order to eliminate the response time of the system. The lag time calculations show an average lag of 6.36 hours (2018) and 6.86 hours (2019).

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

Phases of the melt-season

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43 Hydrograph 2018 1b

1c

1d

1e

1f

Air temperature (℃)

15 10 5

12.07.18

27.07.18

05.08.18

18.08.18

29.08.18

06.09.18

16.09.18

Hydrograph 2019 Precipitation (mm) Discharge (𝑚𝑚" 𝑠𝑠 $% )

2b

2c

2d

2e

2f

Air temperature (℃)

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

2a

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This result mean that the system takes, on average, from 6 to 7 hours to drain the melt due to air temperature at the bottom of the valley. The variation in lag time throughout the melt seasons did not exhibit any trend, as discussed in Ruther et al.

(2011). Indeed, the lag times they calculated at southern outlet of Foxfonna, called Rieperbreen, showed no significant trends in the lag times throughout the season (Ruther, et al. 2011). For the northwestern outlet, the lag time results for 2018 and 2019 are shown in Figure 8. Even though the periods with precipitation seems to exhibit higher lag times than periods without precipitation, conclusions cannot be formulated due to the low quality of the precipitation data. The only available data is daily and located at sea level, while the elevation of the study sites goes from 100m at the hydrological monitoring station to 806m at the top of the Foxfonna icecap.

Using the lagged air temperature, correlations between the discharge records and air temperature record, and between discharge and precipitation were conducted, for each subdivisions of the melt season. Each phases of the melt season exhibits a specific pattern and this pattern is compared to the one of air temperature to understand the relationship between both records and how this relationship changes throughout the season. Table 1 shows the Pearson correlation coefficient calculated, as well as the lag time for the period.

5

19.07.19

01.08.19

16.08.19

28.08.19

04.09.19

11.09.19

19.09.19

Figure 7: Hydrographs from July to September 2018 and 2019. The blue line shows discharge in m3s-1. The red line shows air temperature records at Janssonhaugen meteorological station.

The grey bars show daily precipitation data at the Svalbard Airport. The vertical separations show the divided phases of the melt season (named 1a to 1f and 2a to 2f). The horizontal axis shows the starting dates of those phases.

The relationship between the lagged air temperature and the discharge is significant for all phases of the melt season, particularly at the beginning of August - period 1c (R2= 0.68*) and 2b (R2 = 0.91*). Indeed, due to the decrease in solar zenith angle a clearer diurnal variation is observed for both the air temperature and the discharge, because parts of the catchment melt at different rates due to shading. For the rest of the melt-season the correlations are significant, which signifies that the lagged air temperature and the discharge vary similarly. This relationship is probably due to the influence of air temperature on the melting rate of snow and ice, which impacts the discharge.

The correlation between precipitation and discharge per period was significant for periods 1f (R2 = 0.98*) and 2e (R2 = 0.75*) only, which is related to the early September rain events. This lack of significance, for all other phases, can be explained by the data used. As stated above, the only precipitation record taken in the area is from the Svalbard Airport, which is located 20km from Foxfonna, at sea level, which is not quite representative of the study site. Also, the only available data is daily precipitation data which is difficult to compare to hourly discharge records. Indeed, the systems responds to precipitation faster than on a 24-hours basis, which makes daily precipitation data less significant.

Figure 8: Calculated lag time between air temperature and discharge. Calculated done by cross-correlation analysis for periods of five days

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

Precipitation (mm) Discharge (𝑚𝑚" 𝑠𝑠 $% )

1a

44

45 due to over pressurized groundwater from beneath the glacier, or a groundwater spring above the glacier which drains in the meltwater channel.

The sample from the outflow of the glacier (B) exhibits a chemical signature which resembles the one of glacial meltwater, with a pH of 6.65 and electrical conductivity of 153µS/cm. The outflow stream is where the supraglacial and subglacial channels drain, which means that the water mixed with groundwater has been diluted with glacial meltwater in the stream.

Samples D and E were both located downstream of the three first sample and the analysis results of those samples show the mixing of glacial and groundwater.

The hydro chemical analysis of the water samples demonstrates that sulphate ions seem to be the driver of electrical conductivity (Figure 8), which is a consequence of the weathering processes, microbial activity and mining activity of the area.

Sophie Gélinas-Gagné

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

Sample C comes from a groundwater spring, which is shown by the high electrical conductivity (546µS/cm), the high alkalinity and high silica content. These results show is typical for water which has longer residence time.

Table 1: The table shows the Pearson correlation coefficients calculated for correlations between discharge and daily precipitation, and discharge and lagged air temperature (statistical significance shown with *). The first column shows the name of the phase of the melt-season. The second column shows the average lag time per phase.

Figure 9: Relationship between electrical conductivity and sulphate ions for the five water samples Table 2: Hydrochemistry analysis results for samples A to E Chemical signature Five water samples were analyzed to begin investigating the flow paths. Samples were taken in the meltwater channel (A), at the outflow of the glacier (B), at a spring on the west side of the moraine (C), on the front of the moraine (D) and in the proglacial stream, by the monitoring station (E). For specific locations of the sample collection, refer to letters A to E on Figure 6, Map A. The results of the hydrochemistry analysis are summarized in Table 2.

The sample from the meltwater channel (A) does not exhibit the usual glacial meltwater chemical signature. The results show the high electrical conductivity and low pH of the sample. These results are not typical of glacial meltwater; the higher silica and sulfate content show the possibility of mixing with groundwater. This could be

CONCLUSION This report offers an overview of the various characteristics of the hydrological processes of the northwestern outlet of Foxfonna. Due to change in air temperature and changes in precipitation types, from snow to rain, there is less accumulation and more ablation, resulting in a negative mass balance and the retreat of the glacier. These changes modify the landscape as well as the hydrological response of the catchment.

The creation of maps helps to analyze the apparent changes in the geomorphology. By observing deposits, we can deduce that the volume of water was greater in the past. Relating this change in volume to the change in thermal regime of the glacier, as shown by other studies (Christiansen, French et Humlum 2005), explains this variation in discharge over time.

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47 By analyzing the discharge records from the end of the melt season, we notice that overall the declining discharge from July to September is due to the reduction of ice melt with decreasing air temperature. The correlation analysis proved the relationship between changes in air temperature and discharge. The discharge is influenced by the shading of the catchment at the end of the period of permanent daylight. The discharge peaks in late August and September must be driven by precipitation, even though it was not statistically proven in this analysis, due to the lack of adequate precipitation measurements. In further research, it would be ideal to include hourly precipitation measurements over the catchment during the period of the study to produce adequate data and formulate stronger conclusions.

REFERENCES AMAP. 2017. Snow, Water, Ice and Permafrsot in the Arctic (SWIPA). Oslo, Norway: Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme (AMAP), xiv + 269pp.

Baelum, K., and D. I. Benn. 2011. “Thermal Structure and Drainage System of a Small Valley Glacier (Tellbreen, Svalbard), investigated by ground penetrating radar.” The Cryosphere 5: 139-49.

Brighenti, S, M Tolotti, M. C. Bruno, G. Wharton, M. T. Pusch, and W. Bertoldi. 2019.

End of Melt-Season Hydrology of the Northwestern Outlet of Foxonna, Savlbard

“Ecosystem shifts in Alpine streams under glacier retreat and rock glacier thaw: A

The chemical signatures of the tributaries contributing to the proglacial stream show the water origin; glacial melt and groundwater. Although the analysis was only performed once in this case, it would have been pertinent to compare results throughout the season. Sample collection done once a month, for example, over the time of the study could have showed the changes in flow path and explain some of the discharge record, by increasing or decreasing storage capacity within different channels. Comparing those results through time could show the proportion of the water coming from glacial melt and from groundwater, which is indicative of the volume of melt.

review.” Science of the Total Environment 675: 542-59.

Christiansen, H. H., H. M. French, and O. Humlum. 2005. “Permafrost in the Gruve-7 mine, Adventdalen, Svalbard.” Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift - Norwegian Journal of Geography 59 (2): 109-15.

Day, T. J. 1976. “On the precision of salt dilution gauging.” Journal of Hydrology 31 (3-4): 293-306.

Engel, M., D. Penna, B. Giacomo, V. Gianluca, W Tirler, and F. Comiti. 2019. “Controls

Furthermore, such research requires monitoring of multiple melt seasons for sufficiently predicting the long-term consequences of a deglaciating catchment.

For a complete assessment of the melt season, the stage of the river should be monitored from May to October to catch the early melting, as well as the late autumn rain events.

on spatial and temporal variability in streamflow and hydrochemistry in a glacierized catchment.” Earth System Science 23: 2041-63.

Førland, E J, R. E. Benestad, F. Flatoy, I. Hanssen-Bauer, J. E. Haugen, K Isaksen, and A. Sorteberg. 2009. Climate development in North Norway and the Svalbard region during 1900-2100. Tromso: Rapportserie Norsk Polarinstitute.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A special thanks to Maria Obwegs (University of Graz), and Karlijn Ploeg (Utrecht University), my fieldwork team, who helped me go through cold days in the field.

Thanks to Andy Hodson (University Center in Svalbard) and Juliano Hanna (Lund University) for the technical support. And finally, thanks to Wayne Pollard for devel-

Førland, Eirik J, and I. Haussen-Bauer. 2000. “Increased Precipitation in the Norwegian Arctic: True or False?” Climatic Change 46: 485-509.

Førland, Eirik J, Rasmus Benestad, Inger Haussen-Bauer, Jan Erik Haugen, and Torill Engen Skaugen. 2011. “Temperature and Precipitation Development at Svalbard 1900-2100.” Advances in Meteorology.

oping my curiosity for the Arctic and helping me in my projects.

Guillon, H., JL Mugnier, and JF Buoncristiani. 2017. “Proglacial sediment dynamics from daily to seasonal scales in a glaciated Alpine catchment (Bossons glacier, Mont Blanc massif, France).” Earth Surface Processes and Landforms 43 (7).

Gurnell, A. M., M. J. Clark, and C. T. Hill. 1992. “Analysis and interpretation of patterns within and between hydroclimatological time series in alpine glacier basin.”

Earth Surface Processes and Landforms 17: 821-39.

Hagen, J. O., J. Kohler, K. Melvold, and J. G. Winther. 2003. “Glaciers in Svalbard: mass balance, runoff and freshwater flux.” Polar Research 22 (2): 145-159.

Hagen, J. O., O. Liestøl, E. Roland, and T. Jørgensen. 1993. Glacier Atlas of Svalbard and Jan Mayen. Norsk Polarinstitut, 169.

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49 Hodgkins, R. 1997. "Glacier hydrology in Svalbard, Norwegian High Arctic." Quaternary Science Reviews 16 (9): 957-73.

Lane, S. N., and P. W. Nienow. 2019. "Decadal-scale climate forcing of Alpine glacial hydrological systems." Water Resources Research 55: 2478-92.

Liestøl, O. 1974. "Glaciological work in 1972." Norsk Polarinstitut Arbok 125-35.

Liestøl, O. 1988. "The glaciers in the Kongsfjorden area, Spitsbergen." Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift Norvegian Journal of Geography 42 (4): 231-38.

Rutter, N., A. Hodson, T. Irvine-Fynn, and M. K. Solas. 2011. "Hydrology and hydrochemistry of a deglaciating high-Arctic catchmen, Svalbard." Journal of Hydrology 410 (1-2): 39-50.

Van Pelt, W. J.J., J. Kohler, G. E. Liston, J. O. Hagen, B. Luks, and C. H. Reijmer. 2016. "Multidecadal Climate and Seasonal Snow Conditions in Svalbard." Journal of geophysical research. Earth surface 121 (11).

Vikhamar-Schuler, Dagrun, Ketil Isaksen, Jan Erik Haugen, Hans Tommervik, and Luks Bartlomiej.

2016. "Changes in Winter Warming Events in the Nordic Arctic Region." Journal of Climate 29 (17): 6223-6244.

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

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Written by Kubilay Ogutcu

Edited by Zaheen Sinha

51 The Ottoman state’s policies under Mehmed II were a turning point for the Ottoman efforts of empire building. The radical political transformations that took place in the wake of the Conquest of Istanbul were paralleled with the visual domain (Kafescioglu, 2012). Architecture was one of the main domains that allowed Mehmed II to reflect these political transformations in the empire. Mehmed II led many great architectural projects to show and consolidate his new imperial vision.

I believe that the Topkapi Palace is one of the most important architectural works from this era in terms of incorporating both administrative and private domains.

To further analyze the reflection of the state on architecture, I am going to ask the question “How did Mehmed II establish a multilayered system of hierarchy and an omnivoyant authority in the Topkapi Palace, which were in parallel to his reforms of empire building?” In my essay, I argue that the multilayered structure of the Empire that was created under Mehmed II was reflected in the architecture of the Topkapi Palace through consecutive courtyards and seclusion. I further argue that Mehmed II established an omnivoyant authority over the palace and his empire through omnivoyant spatial control, by pulling from Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon theory.

The Topkapi Palace introduced a new kind of Ottoman spatial and institutional order, as the Ottoman state was becoming more of a “multi-layered entity bearing the millennial legacy of the eastern Roman Empire” (Kafescioglu, 2012, p. 459) and extending over a large territory. We can see reflections of this multilayered structure in the architecture of Topkapi Palace with its courtyards, each of them serving a specific function. These sections all emphasized an organizational scheme with the newly defined hierarchies of the administrative apparatus and they manifested the absolute authority of the sultan (Kafescioglu, 2012). This authority can be seen around and within the palace and its walls, courtyards and towers.

Before the conquest of Constantinople in 1453 Ottoman palaces in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries “were loosely organized ensembles with a number of pavilions and temporary structures” (Kafescioglu, 2012, p. 461). However, the conquest of Constantinople was an opportunity for Mehmed II to build a palace that would reflect his authority and empire. In contrast to previous Ottoman palaces, Topkapi Palace’s multilayered architecture distinguishes the private spaces for the Ottoman ruler and his entourage from the public and administrative spaces. The construction of Topkapi Palace had started during the period of centralization of power under Kanunname, the new code of laws that was written under Mehmed II. These laws “culminated in Mehmed’ II’s definition of a new self image” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 21). Thus, Topkapi Palace gave him the opportunity to visually demonstrate this. Numerous newly designed buildings performed separate functions within the palace’s complex courtyards as their “location and architectural configuration underlined the inner divisions and differentiations within these separate quarters” (Kafescioglu, 2012, p. 462). Furthermore, the design of Topkapi highlights the different functions of building through the courtyards, while putting emphasis on the sultan’s authority by secluding him from the public sphere.

The palace was built on the highest point in Constantinople, overlooking the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus (Necipoglu, 1991). It was also isolated from the crowded centre of the city, “surrounded by water on two sides and by high walls on the third”

Kubilay Ogutcu

THE TOPKAPI PALACE: SPATIAL CONTROL OF HIERARCHY AND THE PANOPTICON

53 (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 15). It was built this way to ensure the imperial seclusion from the general public. Otherwise, the sultan would be subject to constant observation from their subjects. However, this seclusion was not protected for the sake of the sultan’s safety, but was necessary for the sultan’s image and his sacredness. This hierarchy was institutionalized under Kanunname of Mehmed II, which “regulated the Ottoman court ceremonial, listing the chief officials of the state administrative hierarchy” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 16). I believe it is important to emphasize that Topkapi Palace was also designed and built under Mehmed II’s rule. Thus, the notion of hierarchy in the laws and practices can be observed in the architecture of the palace itself.

only the sultan could pass on horseback through this gate, everyone else had to dismount their horses (Ortayli, 2014). I believe this is an example of the gate symbolizing the sultan and the state. That is why everyone else had to dismount their horses as a respect to the sultan, since he was the figure on top of the hierarchy. The sultan would only appear in the second courtyard for religious holidays, celebrations and in times of crisis. Thus, the second courtyard was “like a magnificent theatre with an impressively large cast, but the principal actor very rarely appeared on stage” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 56). In other words, the sultan was like a divine figure that everyone relied on, and he was felt through the architecture and policies, but he was not accessible nor seen.

The palatial complex consists of three main consecutive courts, with three gates separating them spatially and functionally. These courts were experienced in a processional sequence that “drew the official visitor from one clearly marked ceremonial station to the next” (Necipoglu, 1993, p. 303). The first two courts were reserved for the public services of the Sultan and his household. The sultan kept “his relations with the outer world through governmental service buildings offices” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 8) in these courtyards and through public ceremonies. The third courtyard was the inner and the most private one, which was secluded for the sultan and his royal household. This courtyard itself was divided into different sections, since the Harem and the Palace School were also located there. Thus, the palace consisted of a labyrinthine structure with multiple layers, which are parallel to the new Empire building policies of Mehmed II that complexified the structure of the state.

In addition, I believe the construction of consecutive courtyards was aimed to put the Sultan in a divine and unreachable position, since his quarters were in the last courtyard, which he only left under special circumstances. This emphasizes Mehmed II’s policies of establishing a hierarchy under Kanunname, putting him on top. Furthermore, his private quarters were positioned highest within the palace (Necipoglu, 1991), strengthening the sense of social order physically.

One of the most prominent buildings in the second courtyard was the Imperial Council, which was right under the Tower of Justice. The Imperial Council, or Divan-i Humayun, was the gathering-place of state officials like viziers and kadis.

Here they discussed major issues related to the state. Within the divan, the hierarchical structure was apparent. Firstly, the sultan would use a private door through the Tower of Justice that was connected to the third courtyard (Ortayli, 2014) to ensure the privacy of the sultan. Thus, he could access the council without being seen.

In addition, the sultan would not sit next to his administrators. He would attend the meetings behind a curtained window from the tower, invisible to the outside eye. He was placed above everyone else, like a divine figure watching over everyone.

Thus, the hierarchical structure of the empire was physically represented.

The gate opening to the first courtyard was called the Imperial Gate. The gate can be identified as the first attribute that signalled the authority and power of the sultan to the outside world. On it, Quranic verses about paradise were inscribed (Ortayli, 2014). To the outside world, these gates could be seen as an opening to the paradisiacal, where the state and the sultan provided justice and more for them. Also, I believe the paradisiacal verses can be interpreted as the sultan being a divine idea that is difficult to reach. This courtyard was established as the “public extension of the city” (Salgamcioglu, Edgu, Unlu, Garip, & Kos, 2017, p. 21.6). It was the most accessible court to the public, as people could meet their relatives in the palace here.

In addition, the Deavi Bureau, where the people handed their petitions to the court, was set here (Ortayli, 2014). This bureau was established under Mehmed II and it allowed the public to bring any injustice that they couldn’t solve on the local level to the imperial court. Thus, justice was made accessible to the public, even though the state was portrayed as unreachable through the architecture.

The second courtyard was accessed through the Gate of Salutation. Its name indicates the respect to the state and the sultan. Like the Imperial Gate, this gate also had Quranic verses depicting paradise to the people passing through. In addition,

In contrast to the interior structure, the divan’s exterior structure emphasized the openness and approachability of the state. The divan’s “open sides represented the accessibility of Ottoman justice” (Darling, 2013, p. 132). People who could not resolve their issues on the provincial level could come to the divan and address their problems there after petitioning at the Deavi Bureau in the first courtyard. These complaints were taken seriously by the divan. If there was explicit evidence of bribery or oppression in the provinces, the officials and governors could be executed (Darling, 2013).

The third courtyard was accessed through the Gate of Felicity, which can be defined as “the dividing line between the outer, public zone and the inner, private one” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 8). It was also the most heavily protected gate, as the third courtyard was considered the home of the sultan. The third courtyard consists of numerous buildings, like the palace school and the harem. For my research, I focus on the harem and the Chamber of Petitions.

The harem was part of the palace reserved for the women of the sultan’s household.

The name harem derives from the Arabic word “harim,” meaning inviolable area (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 159). Thus, the name signals that this area was the most private part of the palace. This was certainly true as “no ambassador, dignitary or historian could enter it” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 159). This limits the accounts we have on the harem. Most of the information we have about it comes from former palace inhabitants. Under Mehmed II’s rule, the harem was so secluded from the outside world that many believed there was no established harem at that time. However, there are documents of Suleyman I, a successor of Mehmed II, renovating a harem that was

Kubilay Ogutcu

The Topkapi Palace: Spatial Control of Hierarchy and the Panopticon

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The Chamber of Petitions was built within the third courtyard under the reign of Mehmed II. It was also referred to as the “inner council hall,” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 99) as the outer council hall was Divan-i Humayun, in the second courtyard. The separation of these councils represent the multilayered structure, both physically and administratively, and stress the layers of privacy within Topkapi.

The Chamber of Petitions was the room where the sultan would only meet his high ranking officials. In addition, ambassadors or other officials who were previously received at the second court could be received in the third court (Necipoglu, 1991).

It was a rare privilege to meet the sultan in this chamber, but only for the regular statesman who frequented it. Visiting the sultan in this chamber was not always a pleasant experience for state officials. If the sultan was displeased by a decision in the divan, he could call his administrators here and they could learn that they were to be exiled, imprisoned or executed (Necipoglu, 1991). It is also important to point out that in addition to the outer walls, this chamber screened the ruler further away from the people. It even secluded the sultan from his own officials. This chamber brought a new dimension to his seclusion.

The fourth courtyard consisted of the hanging garden and the outer gardens with kiosks (Necipoglu, 1991) and was an addition of the third courtyard. It can be seen as an “extension of the private royal domain” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 8). These gardens had panoramic views of Constantinople, allowing the sultan to survey over the city. The sequence of progressively private and secluded courtyards ended with the fourth courtyard.

The state’s apparent hierarchy was reflected in the architecture of Topkapi, and this hierarchy was protected under the laws set by Mehmed II. Kanunname consisted of many laws, including the status of citizens of the empire and how to collect taxes over the vast territories. Most importantly, Kanunname “balanced the interests of different social groups and checked abuses” (Darling, 1993, p. 132). Thus, its aim was not only to protect the citizens from each other, but also to “protect the common people against the oppression of the authorities” (Darling, 1993, p. 132).

The sultan ensured that justice was served through the laws of Kanunname.

In addition to the newly introduced code of laws that proposed new policies of centralization and hierarchy, the empire showed many signs of justice under Mehmed II’s rule. The centralization of the political and economic system increased the overall security. The roads were safer and people started to move from the small villages to and around Istanbul (Darling, 1993). The firmly established tax system reduced corruption and provisionism reduced shortages, while putting “more wealth into the hands of his subjects” (Darling, 1993, p. 133). I believe this new domain of justice was achieved through the Kanunname, which put the state in the position of “all seeing,” and which we can relate to the theory of the panopticon.

The theory of the panopticon was first introduced by Jeremy Bentham in 1791. It was the design of a prison that would allow constant surveillance of all its inmates.

The term panopticon means “all seeing” in ancient Greek (Strub, 1989). Bentham assumed that if the prisoners believed that they were constantly being watched, they would “reform their behaviour” (Strub, 1989, p. 40) and act accordingly. Bentham believed that the theory behind this instrument could be used by the government to control the behaviour of large masses by giving the illusion of constantly being watched. In other words, the fear of punishment prevents crime from happening.

Moreover, Foucault builds on this by putting emphasis on unverifiability and conspicuity (Strub, 1989). The tower looking over the prisoners would create the sense that they might be watched over at any time, but they wouldn’t be able to tell, giving the sense of continual inspection. Thus, the inspector in that tower can be defined as “the divine, invisible omnipresence” (Strub, 1989, p. 42). This would create a hierarchical structure, putting the inspector on top. Figure 1 is a design of the panopti-

THE WATCHTOWER CAN BE SEEN IN THE MIDDLE, ALLOWING THE INSPECTOR TO SURVEIL EVERY CELL AROUND IT. HOWEVER, THE INMATES CAN NEVER TELL IF THE INSPECTOR IS IN THE TOWER AND WATCHING OVER THEM. con inspired by Bentham’s description. The watchtower can be seen in the middle, allowing the inspector to surveil every cell around it. However, the inmates can never tell if the inspector is in the tower and watching over them.

People in the empire behaved as the state was always watching, like the inmates in panopticon. This is because they knew that they would be punished if they crossed the laws of Mehmed II. Thus, the signs of justice were seen without constant coercion by the state itself. I believe that because the state and the ruler were seen as an all seeing entity that protects citizens from each other and from oppression of the state officials, it can be seen as the inspector of the panopticon theory. We can also see the reflections of the panopticon in the 15th century Ottoman architecture, especially in Topkapi Palace, that strengthens the sultan’s authority in a physical form.

As I previously discussed, Topkapi Palace was built on the highest point of the old Constantinople’s inner walls. This put the sultan above everyone else and allowed him to have a panoramic view of Constantinople from the gardens in the fourth courtyard. The sultan could survey a vast area of Bosphorus, Asia and Europe. Metaphorically, this panoramic view allowed the sultan to “survey the vast domains over

Kubilay Ogutcu

The Topkapi Palace: Spatial Control of Hierarchy and the Panopticon

established well before his time (Necipoglu, 1991). This emphasizes the fact that the seclusion of the harem from the public sphere was extreme under Mehmed II’s rule.

The privacy of the sultan was extended over women of the palace, thus strengthening the divide over public and private spheres.

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57 which his rule extended” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 184). It was as if he was a divine figure that could see all, allowing him the 38 “eternal vigilance against injustice” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 304) as an omnivoyant ruler.

Kubilay Ogutcu

The Topkapi Palace: Spatial Control of Hierarchy and the Panopticon

Other architectural attributes of the palace that are in parallel to the panopticon are the two council halls and the Tower of Justice. After the construction of the Chamber of Petitions within the second courtyard, the sultan would not frequent the chamber of the divan. Thus, to ensure that his viziers and divan members continued to function properly he had a curtained window built overlooking the Divan-i Humayun within the Tower of Justice. This way he could watch the meeting without

The most striking structure in Topkapi Palace, in terms of height, is the Tower of Justice. The sultan accessed the Imperial Council through this tower and the curtained window was located within it. This tower gave the sultan “the power to see without being seen,” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 244) like in the panopticon theory, in which the inspector sees all but is invisible. It is believed that the tower itself is called the Tower of Justice because the window overlooking the divan signifies the justice of the sultan (Necipogly, 1991). Though the sultan was invisible to the outside eye, he was felt by the general public through his rule and through his justice. From the Tower of Justice the sultan could “metaphorically spy out injustice in the land” (Darling, 2013, p. 132).

Figure 1. Shone, 2013

Figure 2. Necipoğlu, 1991, page 55

being seen. I believe that this custom further strengthened the sultan’s authority and sacredness, as he was an unreachable figure behind a window, overlooking everyone. It also allowed the sultan to be an “omniscient ruler,” (Necipoglu, 1991, p.

20) who checks how his officials of the imperial council were performing their tasks and “whether the reports they presented at the Chamber of the Petitions (within the third court) were accurate” (Necipoglu, 1991, p. 20). This can be viewed as a panopticon effect. The sultan can be characterized as the inspector that is not seen from anywhere by the subjects, but can see all. Thus, the subjects have to act accordingly, because they know that they would be punished otherwise.

In conclusion, under Mehmed II’s rule and through the Kanunname the Ottoman state underwent many changes in terms of the centralization and institutionalization of the administrative and social hierarchy. These policies resonated within the Topkapi Palace through the creation of numerous secluded spaces and courtyards that ensured the spatial control and protection of this institutional hierarchy. These courtyards had specific purposes that progressively opened up to more private zones, while the sultan was the figure that was kept the most sacred by creating a sense of privacy around him. Though the sultan was secluded from the public, he was felt through his laws and justice, and also through the architectural elements of the palace, like in the Divan-i Humayun. In addition, the sultan’s privacy

Figure 2 is a miniature depicting a public council meeting at the Imperial Council in the second court. We can see Suleyman I (top left corner) listening to complaints about the kadi (judge) of Kayseri from the Tower of Justice, behind the curtained window. This miniature represents the sultan as the figure ensuring that justice is served. In addition, he is positioned above the Imperial Council physically, overlooking his administrators, like an inspector ensuring “a reign of justice both symbolically and practically” (Darling, 2013, p. 132).

and consequent sacredness established him as the omnivoyant ruler, which helped him build an empire of justice. This had similarities with Bentham’s panopticon theory, which argued that the illusion of constantly being watched reforms one’s behaviour. The spatial control, in terms of the panopticon effect, allowed the sultan to impose his rule of justice not by physically being present, but by the illusion of it. This resonated within Topkapi Palace through the spatial hierarchy of buildings and courtyards, such as the Tower of Justice, underlining the sultan’s omniscient character.

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59 REFERENCES Darling, L. T. (2013). A history of social justice and political power in the Middle East: the Circle of Justice from Mesopotamia to globalization. New York: Routledge.

Kafescioğlu, Ç. (2012). The visual arts. In S. Faroqhi & K. Fleet (Eds.), The Cambridge History of Turkey (Cambridge History of Turkey, pp. 457-547). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Necipoğlu, Gülru (1991). Architecture, ceremonial, and power: The Topkapı Palace in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Cambridge, Massachusetts Necipoğlu, G. (1993). Framing the Gaze in Ottoman, Safavid, and Mughal Palaces.

Ars Orientalis, 23, 303-342. Freer Gallery of Art, The Smithsonian Institution and Department of the History of Art, University of Michigan.

Ortaylı, I. (2014). Private and royal life in the Ottoman palace. New York: Blue Dome

Salgamcioglu, M. E., Edgu, E., Unlu, A., Garip, E., & Kos, F. C. (2017). Topkapi Palace: Reflections on Social and Spatial Order. Proceedings of the 11th International Space Syntax Symposium. Instituto Superior Técnico, Departamento de Engenharia Civil, Arquitetura e Georrecursos, Portugal.

Shone, T. (2013). Surveillance State. The New York Times Strub, H. (1989). The theory of Panoptical control: Bentham’s Panopticon and Orwells Nineteen Eighty-Four. Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences, 25(1), 40–59.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Press.

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Written by Madeline Wilson

61 Constructive criticism occupies a necessary space in human development.

“Starry eyes” and blind faith can prevent norms, ideas, and initiatives from reaching their full potential. Academics and journalists expose truths, nuances, and complications that have generated dialogue around necessary discussions and amendments to important projects. Yet with these individuals’ ability to critique comes a responsibility. Being in a position to provide criticism requires an inherent privilege. In order for such criticism to be effective, one’s privilege, and the historical realities that have allowed for it, must be recognized and accounted for.

The booming new cities movement has become of increasing interest, particularly to scholars and journalists. Concentrated heavily in the southern hemisphere (Cutts, Moser, n.d.) this movement has accounted for the construction of or intention to construct over 100 brand new cities, master-planned from the top down. A large subset of this movement, postcolonial11 new cities, are being built in formerly colonized states. Some, such as Putrajaya, Malaysia and Dompak, Indonesia are designed to communicate a strong political message by re-establishing a specific and independent brand of national identity, although these projects can actually end up exacerbating the social divisions originally created by the state’s former colonizer (Moser 2015, 31-35). Other postcolonial new cities, such as Yachay, Ecuador, are constructed with the goal of transforming the state into a new knowledge hub, designed to signal to the world the state’s level of postcolonial “development” and compatibility with the 21st century economy.

Not much scholarship exists on the new cities phenomenon because it is so new and rapidly developing,. A handful of current and forthcoming papers trace the legacy of colonialism in new cities, but few specifically focus on those designed to rapidly industrialize the state. In some cases, as I will address in the context of Yachay, official government plans provide a holistic and idealistic framework for their vision of the country, including mechanisms of development such as new city knowledge hubs. Lastly, local, national, and international media outlets provide quicker and more easily digestible analyses of specific new city projects as well as the phenomenon as a whole.

The first section of this paper will contain an overview of the existing literature on postcolonial new cities, with a particular focus on Latin America. This will lead into the body of the paper, an elaboration on the new cities movement and the master-planned city of Yachay, Ecuador as well as an analysis of colonial economies and the process by which colonizers forced their colonies’ economies to remain dependent on primary resource production while the rest of the world began to industrialize. Overall, I will argue that because of this, former colonies will be enticed by the promise that building new cities will facilitate rapid industrialization, yet when these new cities fail due to the very economic dependency forced upon them by former colonial powers, these former colonizers will still be some of the first to 1

Edited by Lea Joseph

It is worth acknowledging now that intense debate does exist on whether or not there is such a thing as a

postcolonial era at all, given that the effects of active colonial movements are very much still present today.

Although if nothing else, this paper should make the residual effects of colonial rule in the context of new cities evident, I acknowledge that the term is inherently problematic in itself. I have chosen to continue using it, however, to distinguish between active and passive colonization, i.e. formal colonial rule and the vestiges of such rule.

Madeline Wilson

NATURAL RESOURCE DEPENDENCY, COLONIAL VESTIGES, AND LATIN AMERICAN NEW CITIES 60

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The economic and political concept of dependency theory describes the process by which colonies were exploited for their non-renewable natural resources to the degree that they became dependent on these sectors and consequently struggled to move away from them. In the Latin American context specifically, this is encompassed by two competing historical schools of thought. Raúl Prebisch1 and the cepalistas, predominant in the 1940s and 50s, argue that the solution to dependency theory lies in import substitution industrialization (ISI), the process by which states begin to domestically produce the industrial products they once imported.

(Barton 2006, 135). It has been argued, however, that this structuralist view, contradicted by Latin America’s continued inequality even after attempting ISI in the mid-20th century, is imperialist by nature and ignores the deep historical roots of Spanish colonial influence in the region (Grosfoguel 2000, 356-358). With the help of Eduardo Galeano2 this cepalista ideology experienced somewhat of a resurrection in the 1990s. On the other hand, the dependista ideology, predominant in the 1970s and 80s and put forth by Ruy Mauro Marini3 (Valencia 2014, 539-540), shifted the focus of the discussion toward internal issues of class relations and structural social colonial vestiges. In arging that the cepalista ideology attempted to push neoliberal market theory onto Latin America, the dependistas have widely been characterized as Marxists (Barton 2006, 135).

Developers and bureaucrats alike are enticed by the idea that building a city from scratch could simultaneously spark economic growth, reduce congestion, and present to the world a vision for the state. Master-planned cities are not new; Brasilia, Brazil and Chandigarh, India were built as early as the 1960s. This newest wave, however, has taken hold particularly in China, Southeast Asia, the Middle East, and now Latin America, seeking to reinvent themselves, often in the wake of oppressive colonial regimes (Reel, 2018).

A blank slate can be hard to resist, particularly for states such as Ecuador who face increasing global pressure to modernize and internal pressure to reduce rampant urban-rural inequality (Moser, Shebel 2019 [forthcoming], 2-3). In Latin America as a whole, the rural poverty rate is twice as high as the urban poverty rate, leading states to prioritize the construction of new urban hubs in an effort to decentralize the population. El Plan Nacional para el Buen Vivir (PNBV), the government 1 Raúl Prebisch was an Argentine economist whose work in structural economics led to the creation of dependency theory. In the late 1960s, he served as the first Secretary-General of the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development, and in this role worked closely alongside international and supra-national organizations to promote the usage of import substitution industrialization (Prebisch 1970.)

2 Eduardo Galeano was an anti-colonialist, anti-capitalist Uruguayan journalist.

3 Ruy Mauro Marini was a Brazilian economist and is largely credited with the full development of dependency theory.

democratic revolution, ethical revolution, social, revolution, a revolution of sovereignty, and an economic revolution. This economic revolution particularly calls for a transition away from “exclusionary” agricultural production and proposes the creation of a “polycentric urban network” as one solution to this systemic problem (Moser, Shebel 2019 [forthcoming], 3) Although not explicitly stated in the PNBV, Yachay was likely conceived as one such hub in this ideal network.

Proposed in 2013 by then-President Rafael Correa, Yachay was designed to rapidly transition Ecuador’s economy, which has historically been dependent on the export of primary resources such as bananas and low-grade oil, into a large scale knowledge hub (Reel 2018). Located in rural Ecuador, 130km outside Quito, the planned city’s focal point was to be Yachay Tech University. To date, Yachay Tech is one of the only functional and structurally sound buildings in the city and serves at this point as a proxy for the city1. Unfortunately, due to fluctuation in oil prices and lacking funding, construction progress began to slow. Although the University is currently functional, a number of its inaugural scholars and employees were dismissed (Mega 2017), many buildings are unfinished (Vega-Villa 2017) and not much else exists of the surrounding city.

Ecuador was colonized by the Spanish crown in the 16th century. In doing so, the Spanish forced Indigenous people living in Ecuador at the time into the empire’s vast and entrenched encomienda2 labor system. In 1822, Ecuador gained independence and joined other Latin American countries in the Republic of Gran Colombia. In 1830, Ecuador left the Gran Colombia and became a formally distinct state.

DEVELOPERS AND BUREAUCRATS ALIKE ARE ENTICED BY THE IDEA THAT BUILDING A CITY FROM SCRATCH COULD PRESENT TO THE WORLD A VISION FOR THE STATE.

Ecuador is naturally plentiful in a number of non-renewable resources, particularly oil and bananas. Although Ecuador’s oil is not of as high a quality as other sources, it is still a primary export and source of state wealth today, and the country is a member of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC). In accordance with dependency theory, Spanish colonizers exploited Ecuador’s natural resource abundancy for their own benefit while simultaneously ensuring that Ecuador remained dependent on these resources for years to come (Barton 2006, 1 2

Typing “Yachay” into Google Maps automatically redirects to Yachay Tech University.

The encomienda labor system, widely recognized as akin to slavery, was put into place by the Spanish in its colonies. The Spanish crown entrusted responsibility of a portion of its colony’s land to a settler, who was tasked with, among other things, ensuring the economic success of the region and the spread of Christianity among its Indigenous population. The encomienda system led to exploitation and mass genocide, and its cessation in 1542 marked a turning point in the abolition of slavery.

Madeline Wilson

Natural Resource Dependency, Colonial Vestiges, and Latin American New Cities

Much has been written about the process by which developing economies transition away from primary resource production in the age of industrialization.

Often, this transition is motivated by international pressure from a combination of outwardly successful individual states as well as supra-national financial organizations. A full literature review on the sources of this pressure and analyses of their economic roles can be found in Aulakh and Kotabe’s article in the Journal of International Management (Aulakh, Kotabe 2008, 209-214).

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Because former colonies such as Ecuador did not have the opportunity to industrialize alongside their colonizers, independence brought its own set of challenges. In order to compete in the modern neoliberal economy, former colonies are pressured to rapidly industrialize or risk falling behind. To these states, constructing brand new knowledge cities and creating national hubs for industrialization and technology seems like the perfect solution. International investors would be drawn to the city, and eventually, to the country as a whole. Unfortunately, both because of and in an attempt to rectify deeply-rooted natural resource dependency, many of these projects run into issues almost as soon as they begin. In the case of Yachay, oil prices fell and foreign investment stagnated. On top of this, many of the buildings already constructed were found to be architecturally unsound and a dwindling budget depleted the import of construction materials.

A knowledge city will naturally encounter its own distinct barriers in a country historically groomed to remain dependent on primary sector exports. In order to establish Yachay’s knowledge hub, Yachay Tech University, as internationally competitive, the government had to import scholars and governing members from outside of Ecuador. To attract such individuals, then-President Correa promised high salaries, yet when funding was threatened, these new hires were forced to leave (Mega 2017). Although Yachay Tech is still a functional university, it has fallen short of Correa’s grandiose aspirations.

The particular irony of the failure of new city projects in former colonies is that those individuals best positioned to provide critiques are also those living in countries that have benefitted the most from the colonial power structures that disadvantaged the subjects of their critique. Scholars from Western countries that were either empires themselves, or gained independence early enough into the industrial era to have not fallen behind, have funding at their disposal to conduct research, and the academic freedom to publish critical takes. For example, the class for which this paper was originally submitted is taught at McGill University, a Western institution with immense amounts of capital and academic freedom as one of its core principles. This is not at all to say, however, that Western scholars and journalists are the only ones critiquing postcolonial new city projects. Many local media outlets publish critical stories and many local scholars share critical takes. However, these local stories often come from more holistically contextual perspectives. It is therefore worth recognizing the persistent effects of colonization, not just on city projects themselves, but also the way they are publicly critiqued.

New city construction in postcolonial cities is multi-dimensional to say the least. Despite being the reason that some of these states seek to construct such cities, historically entrenched resource dependency complicates, and in some cases prevents, the success of projects that seek rapid industrialization as both a means and an end. Formal empires may have dismantled, but it is clear that the effects of colonization are still very much present. It is because of this, that as Western scholars we must recognize our ability to critique failing projects as a privilege in itself. Criticism is necessary and invaluable, but rarely successful without historical contextualization. Some postcolonial city projects, such as those that seek to project a new national identity, have been more successful, yet those that are primarily economic in nature, like Yachay, Ecuador, have not. It is unclear what the specific fate of cities like Yachay will be, but regardless of what happens, they must always be understood not as standalone projects, but as parts of a deeply-rooted regional history.

Madeline Wilson

Natural Resource Dependency, Colonial Vestiges, and Latin American New Cities

134-135). Spanish control of the Ecuadorian market meant that goods exportation was restricted to Spain. Ecuador also did not have the option of independently importing goods, technology, and knowledge. As such, the Ecuadorian market existed solely to provide for locals and the colonial authorities, which entrenched a self-fulfilling dependency on the resources it was selected to provide. While the colonial powers industrialized, the Indigenous Ecuadorian population was forced into non-renewable natural resource subsistence. Modern day Ecuador’s large base of coerced labor and urban/rural inequality can also be traced back as heavily influenced by colonial vestiges, including the encomienda system.

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67 REFERENCES Aulakh, Preet S. and Masaaki Kotabe. 2008. “Insitutional change and organizational transformation in developing economies.” Journal of International Management 14: 209 216.

Barton, Jonathan R. 2006. “Eco-dependency in Latin America.” Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 27: 134-149.

Cutts, Adam and Sarah Moser. “Where to Master-planned Cities Fit in the New Urban Agenda?”

New Cities perspectives, n.d.

Grosfoguel, Ramon. 2000. “Developmentalism, Modernity, and Dependency Theory

Mega, Emiliano Rodríguez. 2017. “Plans for a research powerhouse in the Andes begin to unravel.” Science magazine, July 21, 2017.

Moser, Sarah. 2015. “New cities: Old wine in new bottles?” Dialogues in Human Geography 5, no.1: 31-35.

Prebisch, Raúl. 1970. “Change and development, Latin America’s Great Task.”

Inter-American Development Bank: 1-308.

Reel, Monte. 2018. “The Irresistible Urge to Build Cities From Scratch.” Bloomberg Businessweek, November 2, 2018.

Shebell, Elizabeth and Sarah Moser. “Planning for the Buen Vivir: Socialism, decentralization, and urbanization in rural Ecuador.” International Development Planning Review. Forthcoming.

Valencia, Adrián Sotelo. 2014. “Latin America: Dependency and Super-Exploitation.”

Critical Sociology 40, no. 4: 539-549.

Vega-Villa, Karina R. 2017. “Missed opportunities in Yachay.” Science magazine, October 27, 2017.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

in Latin America.” Nepantla: Views from South 1, no.2: 347-374.

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Written by Brandon Taylor

Edited by Tessa Murray

69 1. INTRODUCTION Water quality is an important factor when it comes to the overall health of an aquatic ecosystem and the organisms within it. Poor water quality can reduce the amount of available food for marine animals, reduce reproduction productivity, and negatively impact light-dependent organisms such as coral and plankton (Quang et al., 2017). Turbidity is a measure of the amount of light scattered through a liquid, as a result of its interactions with particles within it (USGS, n.d.). Low turbidity waters are clearer, while highly turbid water is more murky or cloudy (Brukner, 2019). The relative levels of turbidity in water directly relate to its overall quality, and therefore the ecosystem in inhabits.

Turbidity is often measured in the field using a Secchi Disk, a disk lowered into the water that measures the depth at which it is no longer visible from the surface, and is plotted as a function of turbidity (Brukner, 2019). Though cost-effective, researchers are limited in the spatial extent they can cover using this method, and must interpolate results in between measurement locations which could impact the assessment’s overall accuracy. Instead, remote sensing imagery can be used to measure turbidity values over large regions simultaneously, without taking measurements in every location (Quang et al., 2017). Quang et al., 2017; Dogliotti et al., 2015; Nechad et al., 2009; and Moore, 1980 have shown that the red band is a great indicator of turbidity in water. With an adequate spatial resolution (30 meters) for most regions on the globe from 1970 to the present, Landsat’s Band 4 (red) is ideal to calculate turbidity in a given area.

The Bahamas is well-known for its crystal clear, shallow waters. Every year, millions of tourists visit to see the turquoise waters and pristine beaches (Bahamas Ministry of Tourism & Aviation, 2019,). Apparent in its clarity, the waters here have low turbidity, and the distribution can be mapped using remote sensing. The aim of this project was to determine the relative water quality around the island of New Providence, home of the capital city of Nassau, by using Landsat imagery to measure water turbidity of the coastal waters around the island.

Figure 1.1

Brandon Taylor

USING LANDSAT-8 IMAGERY TO CONDUCT AN ASSESSMENT OF WATER TURBIDITY IN THE BAHAMAS 68

71 Two different methods were used and their results compared during this assessment. Quang et al., 2017, carried out an analysis of water turbidity in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, and concluded a correlation coefficient (r2 = 0.84) between Band 4 reflectance and water turbidity in Formazin Turbidity Units (FTU) (Quang et al., 2017). I applied this relationship equations to the waters of The Bahamas. Furthermore, Nechad et al., 2009 formulated a turbidity algorithm, which aims to be capable of accurately inferring turbidity in Formazin Nephelometric Units (FNU), equivalent to FTU (Daly, n.d.), in any region in the world as opposed to region specific ones (Nechad et al., 2009). This was later tested successfully by Dogliotti et al., 2015, in four different locations around the world. I used this universal algorithm to calculate turbidity in my chosen area, and compared the results to each other.

It is worth noting that these Landsat imagery analyses of turbidity were carried out while simultaneously collecting field samples from these areas to improve their accuracy and deduce a site-specific correlation in the case of Quang et al., 2017.

I was unable to collect my own samples turbidity in New Providence, and instead calculated values using ENVI from abroad without ground truth data.

Data was provided by the U.S. Geological Survey, and collected from the Earth Explorer website. I chose a relatively recent image of the island, from January 19th 2019. This image had very little cloud cover over the study area, and had a Level-1 atmospheric correction. Though the visible bands (Bands 2, 3 and 4), were atmospherically corrected, the thermal and panchromatic bands were not.

Figure 1.2: Landat-8 imagery of study area

Brandon Taylor

Using Landsat-8 Imagery to Conduct an Assessment of Water Turbidity in the Bahamas

70

2. METHODS I began my analysis by selecting a region of interest covering New Providence, and created a subset of the Landsat-8 image that limited my study to a 788 km2 area. To isolate the water for the analysis, I masked out the land using a single-node decision tree classification. Pixels with a Band 5 (near-infrared) value greater than 400 (4% reflectance) were classified as land, and those less than that as water. By looking at the spectral profile of multiple different areas on land and in water on this band’s image, I determined this to be an appropriate threshold. While Band 5 was not atmospherically corrected in this Level-1 data, I believe that the output classification was highly accurate, as the exact shape of the island present in the classification as seen in the true colour imagery, and all in-land bodies of water distinct from the surrounding land.

Figure 1.3

Both the correlation by Quang et al., 2017 and the universal turbidity algorithm by Nechad et al., 2009 require the reflectance values between 0 and 1. To achieve this, Band 4 values were divided by 10,000 in Band Math. These values were inputted as a float() to have a floating-point data type and ensure decimal points were preserved (Actian, 2018). The single band image can be seen above in Figure 2.2.

Figure 2.1

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73 2.1 TURBIDITY CORRELATION EQUATION (QUANG ET AL., 2017) To calculate the turbidity in FTU as determined by Quang et al., 2017, reflectance in Band 4 must be converted to remote sensing reflectance (Rrs), which is a measure of the radiance leaving the water normalized by downwelling solar irradiance at the surface (Baird et al., 2016). To convert between the units, the spectral reflectance is divided by pi (Quang et al., 2017), for which I used 3.14159 in band math. Once calculated, I then inserted the correlation equation calculated by Quang et al., 2017 seen here:

Figure 2.4: Classes of values calculated for Nechad et al., 2009 universal turbidity algorithm

With all pixels outside of the masked area displaying a value of turbidity as a result of the correlation equation, I looked at the quick stats of the new image layer. Based on the range of values for turbidity, I used a decision tree classification to classify different levels of turbidity. Any values that were calculated as negative based on the correlation were added to the unclassified class.

2.2 UNIVERSAL TURBIDITY ALGORITHM (NECHAD ET AL., 2009)

Brandon Taylor

Using Landsat-8 Imagery to Conduct an Assessment of Water Turbidity in the Bahamas

Turbidity (FTU) = 380.82Rrs(λB4) – 1.7826

Figure 2.3: Classes of values calculated for Quang et al., 2017 turbidity correlation equation

With the spectral reflectance of Band 4 now between 0 and 1, I was able to use band math to input the universal algorithm to calculate turbidity in units of FNU. As determined by Nechad et al., 2009 the algorithm equates; Turbidity (FNU) = (ATλ ρw(λ))/(1- ρw(λ)/Cλ) Where AT = 228.1, C = 0.1641 These values apply when the wavelength (λ) is equal to 645 nm, but for the purposes of this analysis, were used along with Landsat-8’s Band 4 value of 654.6 nm. Once the new layer’s pixels displayed turbidity values in FNU using quick stats, I performed a decision tree classification based on the range of values determined by the algorithm, with equal breaks between classes. Colours were assigned to compliment those in the turbidity correlation map, as to compare and contrast results.

Figure 2.5 Figure 2.2

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75 As seen in both the maps and pie charts above, the universal turbidity equation by Nechad et al., 2009 was able to classify a larger number of pixels as having a low turbidity value than the correlation determined by Quang et al., 2017. Only nearshore areas around New Providence were classified as having turbidity levels, which vary greatly from the universal algorithms results. Nearshore turbidity levels, particularly on the south shore of the island, are significantly higher than what is calculated using the algorithm. While the algorithm classifies a larger area with turbidity values, all values classified are in the lowest class of the turbidity correlation results, with no value exceeding 3.00 FNU in the study area. The correlation equation results reach as high as 19.57 FTU. However, both methods conclude that the majority of classified water around the island of New Providence is between 0.00 and 4.99 FTU or FNU.

Figure 3.1

Figure 3.2

4. DISCUSSION Both results appear to draw similar conclusions of very low water turbidity in The Bahamas, but they represent them in very different ways. The correlation equation method found a reasonable amount of variance in its results, that appears to relate well with areas likely to have turbid waters. The central south coast of New Providence, with green and yellow turbidity levels as shown on the map, is home to Bonefish Pond National Park, a protected wetland area with mangroves trapping sediment on the shore (The Islands of The Bahamas, n.d.). Simultaneously, looking at the true colour image of the water shows that highly turbid areas relate most closely to shallow areas, specifically sandbars and spits just off the coast, and only the shallowest areas are classified at all. The relative shallow areas mean there is less water for radiation to pass through, reducing the scattering effect of turbidity and increasing the submarine surface reflectance, possibly leading to misleading results. The relationship determined by Quang et al., 2017 was specific to the Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam, and cannot be directly applied to other areas without modifications to specific regions.

The universal algorithm does a much better job of classifying areas beyond the shallowest waters. However, there is no significant difference in the distribution of turbidity levels around the island, as all values do not exceed 3.00 FNU. For context, potable water standards are typically between 0.05 and 1.50 FNU (Daly, n.d.).

While this does show that The Bahamas has truly clear water, it seems unlikely that the water has such low turbidity everywhere around the island.

5. CONCLUSION

Figures 3.3 and 3.4: Pixel classification results using both methods

Through the use of Landsat-8 imagery, and the previous work of Quang et al., 2017 and Nechad et al., 2009, I attempted to classify the waters around New Providence in The Bahamas based on their turbidity levels, and give a visual representation of the relatively high quality and clarity of the seas in the country. The two methods varied in their results; one displaying a seemingly realistic range of

Brandon Taylor

Using Landsat-8 Imagery to Conduct an Assessment of Water Turbidity in the Bahamas

3. RESULTS

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77 values based on the known environments in the region, but left a majority of areas unclassified in less shallow waters, and the other classifying more of the study area, but with little to no variance above extremely low turbidity values. While it is unclear whether which method produced more accurate results, as both have their advantages and disadvantages, their accuracy cannot be determined without field samples from the area, which should be taken in sync with the date of Landsat imagery acquisition (Dogliotti et al., 2015), as well as multiple day analyses to ensure statistical significance.

REFERENCES Actian. (2018). Floating Point Data Types. Retrieved from https://docs.actian.com/ vector/5.0/index.html#page/SQLLang/Floating_Point_Data_Types.htm.

Bahamas Ministry of Tourism & Aviation. (2019, March 21). The Bahamas Is Enjoying Historic Visitor Numbers. Retrieved from https://www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/the-bahamas-is-enjoying-historic-visitor-numbers-300816799.html.

Baird, M. E., Cherukuru, N., Jones, E., Margvelashvili, N., Mongin, M., Oubelkheir, K., ... Wild-Allen, K. A. (2016, January 8). Remote-sensing reflectance and true colour of the Great Barrier Reef, Australia: Comparison with satellite data. Retrieved from https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1364815215301146.

Bruckner, M. Z. (2019, November 29). Measuring Lake Turbidity Using A Secchi Disk.

Retrieved from https://serc.carleton.edu/microbelife/research_methods/environ_ sampling/turbidity.html.

Daly, J. (n.d.). What is Turbidity? Retrieved from https://www.isanorcal.org/download/tech2007_presentations/turbidity.pdf.

Dogliotti, A. I., Ruddick, K. G., Nechad, B., Doxaran, D., & Knaeps, E. (2015). A single algorithm to retrieve turbidity from remotely-sensed data in all coastal and estuarine waters. Remote Sensing of Environment, 156, 157–168. Retrieved from https://www. sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0034425714003654 Moore, G. K. (1980). Satellite remote sensing of water turbidity. Retrieved from http:// hydrologie.org/hsj/250/hysj_25_04_0407.pdf Nechad, B., Ruddick, K. G., & Park, Y. (2010, January 13). Calibration and validation of a generic multisensor algorithm for mapping of total suspended matter in turbid waters. Retrieved from https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/ S0034425709003617.

The Islands of The Bahamas. (n.d.). Bonefish Pond. Retrieved from https://www. bahamas.com/vendor/bonefish-pond.

Quang, N. H., Sasaki, J., Higa, H., & Huan, N. H. (2017). Spatiotemporal Variation of Turbidity Based on Landsat 8 OLI in Cam Ranh Bay and Thuy Trieu Lagoon, Vietnam.

Retrieved from https://www.mdpi.com/2073-4441/9/8/570 USGS. (n.d.). Turbidity and Water. Retrieved from https://www.usgs.gov/special-topic/water- science-school/science/turbidity-and-water?qt-science_center_objects=0#qt- science_center_objects.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Using Landsat-8 Imagery to Conduct an Assessment of Water Turbidity in the Bahamas

produced by a coupled hydrodynamic, optical, sediment, biogeochemical model

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

UNDERGRADUATE

FIELDWORK

Written by Joseph Duva

79 While physical geography's fieldwork has always been integral in the transformation of the undergraduate student to the scientist (Feig, 2010), the lived experience of undergraduate fieldwork has often gone unnoticed and undocumented. The objective of this paper is to provide an ethnographic account of the day-to-day achievements and challenges the field presents to undergraduate field researchers, many of whom were embarking on their first field experience. I selected three undergraduate students conducting independent research projects as part of an undergraduate physical geography field course on the Gault Nature Reserve (GNR) in Quebec, Canada. Each undergraduate researcher crafted research questions, selected field sites and formulated methodologies. In order to adequately capture the undergraduate field experience, my methodology included audio-recorded semi-structured interviews, surveys, participant observation, and film. Frustrations of undergraduate students grappling with the field's inherent uncertainty permeated throughout our basecamp as research projects developed from loose assemblages of undecided methodologies and research questions to raw data sets that answer decided research questions. This paper focuses on how undergraduate field researchers navigate change and difficulty in their fieldwork while forming a newfound relationship and appreciation for the novel space of the field (Orion 1993). By examining the lived experience of undergraduate fieldwork, one comes to understand the pivotal role fieldwork plays in forming competent, inquisitive scholars of physical geography.

INTRODUCTION

Edited by Tessa Murray

Over the course of ten days, seven fellow undergraduate students and I participated in a physical geography field course at the GNR, located 30km from Montreal, Quebec, on Mont St-Hilaire. The GNR Mont St-Hilaire, a UNESCO Man & Biosphere Reserve, offers a diverse range of fieldwork that can be conducted over a relatively

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METHODOLOGY, MODIFICATIONS, AND MIGRAINES: AN ETHNOGRAPHIC ACCOUNT OF 78

81 small area of 1100ha (UNESCO, 2015) containing old-growth deciduous forests, rare flora and fauna, and minerals only found on the mountain. As part of the field course, we were tasked to develop and carry out an independent research project.

We were allotted three to four days of data collection (some students needed three, others needed four). My independent research project directed a gaze on the research of my peers, and a desire to "shed light on the nature of 'the soft underbelly of science'" (Latour & Woolgar, 1986). My positionality to my informants prior to my field research was that of a colleague, friend, and someone with a basic understanding of physical geography. Initially, I interpreted this familiar relationship as a limitation to my research due to concerns of informants telling me what I wanted to hear or assuming I understood methodologies or terminologies utilized in their research. In hindsight, my positionality enhanced my research, as I was able to quickly establish a rapport with informants and develop an understanding of their research adaptations during the accelerated three to four days of independent fieldwork. I selected three undergraduate field researchers with different research questions, methodologies, and field sites. Each researcher's fieldwork offered a wide breadth of challenges encountered in the field that were unique to their research, contributing to an in-depth portrait of undergraduate physical geography field research. My three informants, given the pseudonyms of Sofia, Emma and Cody, were all well versed in the theory of physical geography and possessed a field experience limited to class field trips and weekend course excursions. Sofia's research focused on measuring stream discharge, Emma investigated the chemical composition of Mont Saint-Hilaire's Lac Hertel, and Cody studied post-burn regrowth of the mountain's forests.

Within the first day of independent fieldwork students' perceived notions of the field shifted from one of a seemingly controlled protected environment, owned and operated by our university and teeming with hikers and school trips, to an awareness of the field's unpredictable nature. The brief and guided field experience offered by classroom excursions and afternoon field exercises inhibits a legitimate understanding of what can indeed go wrong in the field, and what the field represents to scientists. A brief genuine glimpse into the field's hardships was established during the brief duration of independent undergraduate field research on Mt. St. Hilaire. All decision making was left to the undergraduate researcher, as was the responsibility to adapt one's decision making to the field’s ever-changing conditions. Before the conception of a research proposal, I asked a classmate, "Do you think anything will go wrong with your research project?" The student, baffled that I would ask such a question and perhaps thinking that I implied their research project was imperfect and prone to mishap, replied, "Well, I really hope not." Throughout our research, my fellow researchers and I came to understand that there is no hand to hold in the field and hoping your research will not go wrong is frivolous; things will go wrong. The following ethnographic account of undergraduate field research reflects on the lived experience of undergraduate field researchers, posing the question: how do undergraduate field researchers navigate change and difficulty in their fieldwork?

METHODOLOGY I spent the three days of research dividing my time with my three informants and their research projects, juggling the filming of methodologies, jotting down notes, and engaging in participant observation. The use of film in my research allows readers to firmly grasp the challenges and accomplishments of my informants' field research, as one can see the beads of sweat and hear the shortness of breath Cody and I experienced hiking to his mountain peak field site. Film offered a critical tool in providing a thorough account of my informants' methodology. Film captured methodological mishaps and countless iterations of a single reading, displaying "fieldwork in the field" not fieldwork manicured and refined in a journal article. The film's audiovisual capabilities provide a succinct site description, enhancing written descriptions of the field.

THE BRIEF AND GUIDED FIELD EXPERIENCE OFFERED BY CLASSROOM EXCURSIONS INHIBITS A LEGITIMATE UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT CAN GO WRONG IN THE FIELD, AND WHAT THE FIELD REPRESENTS TO SCIENTISTS. My body, when engaging in participant observation in the field, provided a qualitative tool for measuring and empathizing with the conditions of the informants' experience. During breaks or while travelling between field locations, I conducted audio-recorded semi-structured interviews. Our evenings back at our basecamp, which consisted of three chalets: one canteen, meeting room, and dormitories, frequently offered time for rest and relaxation. I distributed surveys during our evening R&R, asking all students to reflect on their day of fieldwork once they were removed from the field and given time to digest what stood out as significant: challenges, surprises that occurred in their research, and an assessment of stress level. Three surveys were issued to each member of the course. Some questions remained constant over each daily survey. These static questions included an assessment of the participant's stress level, a question about whether anything in their research was surprising, and whether any modifications were anticipated as needing to be made or which were made — one to six questions varied between the daily surveys. Examples of questions included whether the student preferred conducting fieldwork individually or in groups, the effect of black flies and mosquitoes on productivity, the biggest challenge in the field, and how the research experience changed the student's perception of field work.

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Methodology, Modifications, and Migraines: An Ethnographic Account of Undergraduate Fieldwork

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Methodology, Modifications, and Migraines: An Ethnographic Account of Undergraduate Fieldwork

On Day 1, I observed Sofia and Emma conducting streamflow discharge in raw, gusty weather. The budding field researchers trudged in boots to their field site, carrying waders and backpacks full of instrumentation. Once we arrived at the outflow stream located directly below Lac Hertel's dam, relentless gusts of wind fill a stream basin bare of trees. Grasses lining the bank ripple with each gust of wind, collapsed under the researchers’ feet as they approached their stream. The unsheltered area, coupled with the booming wind, hindered verbal interaction and forced a concentrated style of communication. The students worked cooperatively to set up measurement locations, adjusting their methodology after troubleshooting confounding data. I asked Sophia how they decided to divide and measure the stream's velocity: Sophia: We divided where the water flows in 9 sections of 30 cm and then she is marking the halfway between those points where we'll take our measurements. So we're going to measure the depth and do 60% of that to have the height of our Owen meter.

Emma: Okay, I'm ready to start doing depth do you want to write?

Sophia: No we're going to do depth and measure [streamflow velocity] at the same time because it was useless last time.

Lessons from earlier methodological mishaps were taken into account during Sophia and Emma's first independent field foray. The field is a constant teacher in an unwalled classroom with variables abound. The students clearly were challenged by the wind and cool temperatures, as I observed and experienced dexterity diminishing in the unfavourable conditions. Cold metal instruments, frigid fingers, and high winds slowed the speed of each step. Both researchers made it clear to me that the low temperatures directly impacted the thoroughness of their research. The cold weather made accepting results faster and easier. The realities of the field conditions affected their plan. Sophia commented: My ‘plan A’ was to measure runoff (pointing to the mountain’s peaks on a map). So you see these are all mountain tops and this is a watershed. So by measuring the discharge here before and after a storm, you'd have all of the runoff coming here. So if you measure that [runoff] every hour and you measure rain every hour, you can get a water balance equation, and you'll know the portion of water going through runoff and evapotranspiration. And if it doesn't rain then I'll have to do plan B. But right now, on day 1 and 2, whatever the weather is I have the same methods, and on Wednesday morning I'll decide if I can do A, B or C. Yesterday there was supposed to be 20mm of rain and that'll be enough to have a change in the runoff. But today it says they'll be 1 mm of rain in the next four days. So plan A right now is garbage.

Once we concluded our data collection I asked Emma what she found most difficult in the field, she replied: "The cold, I'm very comfortable with the experiment, the cold is the only thing that bothers me." In summary, our cold, windy morning measuring stream velocity taught Sofia and Emma that field conditions

morning measuring stream velocity taught Sofia and Emma that field conditions directly influence expectations and results of fieldwork. Weather and fieldwork data collection are integrally connected and only can be separated in a closed, indoor classroom.

DAY 2: COMFORTABLE BEING UNCOMFORTABLE One can't expect to be comfortable in the field. It's incongruous to consider comfort when physical and mental challenges are occurring on a multitude of planes. Fieldwork on Mt. St. Hilaire was defined by swarming black flies, water in your boots, physical exertion scaling the mountain. There is a mental discomfort of doing work you haven't experienced (particularly in undergraduate fieldwork), the arduous task of ensuring you have all the necessary equipment and instruments, and the frustration of fatigue. Undergraduate fieldwork offers a scenario that shows how field variables can affect data collection This is captured in the following exchange: Sophia: Maybe a pebble was stuck in it [Owen meter] [...] I'm confused, I can't see the propeller [...] looks like it gets stuck on something [...] I see it turning and then it stops in the middle.

I then pressed Sophia on if her data that afternoon, and the fatigue she experienced as the day progressed, differed from the data collected fresh in the morning. Sophia reflected on physical and social variables beyond that of fatigue that can influence results.

Sophia: The readings from this morning are different, and it doesn't have to be fatigue [that could affect it] it could be bugs or annoyances from a field partner can affect thoroughness.

Sophia continued: I'm definitely not as thorough as I was this morning, I'm feeling tired.

DAY 3: THE FIELD AND ITS LABOUR Day 3 involved hiking up the mountain with Cody to identify and examine post burn secondary succession sequences of oak-maple forests on Mont St. Hilaire. Our field location was a burn site on the peak of the mountain's East Hill and required an arduous hike to access it. The hike proved steep and forced us to take multiple breaks. Breaks were interspersed with light banter, juxtaposed with the muted sounds of our footsteps on the forest's deadfall as we trudged to our far away field location. This was the final day I collected data, and this fieldwork was the most physically demanding. The challenge of scaling the hill and locating the field site with only a compass and GPS in hand posed a level of difficulty unique to Cody's fieldwork. My experience collecting data with Sophia and Emma was centred around low lying terrain graced with streams and Lac Hertel. Though being cold or wet wasn't an issue for us like it was for me at the stream and lake field sites, what was most challenging physically was the heat and physical exertion that emphasized it. Once we reached the peak, we were greeted with an entangled lower canopy that gave rise to a fresh burn site of enriched soil lush with green meadow

Joseph Duva

DAY 1: FIELDS OF GREEN, STREAMS OF WIND

85 canopy that gave rise to a fresh burn site of enriched soil lush with green meadow grass. Cody formed a perimeter with measuring tape around a patch of trees where we would collect our data. We spent over an hour monotonously coring trees, some of which outright rejecting our corers, forcing us to omit the trees from Cody's data set. At one point panic struck the both of us when the corer, fully lodged into the tree, would not budge. No matter how much we turned the instrument, it refused to come loose and release itself from the grip of the tree. Our time was limited, we were finished with collecting samples from other trees in our study area, and the only thing that prevented us from returning to basecamp was this lone instrument protruding from a humble maple tree. Our setback called for immediate adaptation: dinner hour was rapidly approaching and, after looking up the price of the instrument, we certainly were not willing to show up to the base camp with only one out of two tree corers. Cody brilliantly formulated a method to loosen the corer free by carefully inserting our second corer above, below, and to the right of the fixed instrument. Eventually, Cody's method proved successful, and we began our descent to the base camp relieved with both corers in hand. Cody's methodology and research question did not experience a dramatic revelation of what alterations needed to occur in the core of his independent research project. What did occur was a revelation of the adaptations a field researcher needs to employ in response to the field's physical ailments, and what it takes to navigate scenarios removed from one's data set but defined by panic and uncertainty.

CONCLUSION The lived experiences of undergraduate fieldwork define the development of the physical geographer. The undergraduate field experience offers a liminal space that doesn't outright transition an individual from student to scientist but transitions the individual from student to one that is armed with a set of skills and perspective that cannot be formed in a classroom setting. Observing my fellow researchers initially conducting their independent research projects with an air of uncertainty and unsureness and transitioning to confident, in-depth discussions of their shortcomings and triumphs in fieldwork on the last day of fieldwork maintain the notion of the essential nature of fieldwork in creating successful physical geographers. The final interview I conducted was about a week after we arrived back to Montreal from the field. I wanted to catch up with some of my informants, and I asked Sophia about the status of her research project and to reflect on the limitations her research possessed now that we are all tasked with analyzing and converting our raw data into a manicured paper: What is your research project now?

Sophia: Flow regime of the lake, studying inflows and outflows. So data is mostly about the outflow, but I'm using other people's data about the inflow to see the difference and understand why there is so much water coming out of the outflow if the inflows don't bring in that much water. And of course my research isn't going to be that interesting because it's only a three-day snapshot of time, but I think it would be interesting to use the same methodology over mid-winter to summer to see if snowmelt is the cause of the outflow or if it’s groundwater.

So my research has changed a lot. And I did a geomorphology assessment on the river. I don't

know if I'm going to use it all or use it as a site description.

What were the greatest limitations to your research?

Sophia: There's no way of knowing this in advance, but if I had that idea [current research subject] then I would have spent my time better in the field and measuring the inflows and outflows myself to have the same kind of bias. Measurement error will be the same if I'm doing it all the time but other than that of course, more time would have been so useful in the field as well as now. But that's always a limitation. My research is very different in this timeframe than it would be if I had less or more time.

Sophia's field experience stood out to me when re-reading field notes, editing film footage and recalling the field's most memorable moments. Sophia successfully navigated change and difficulty in her fieldwork, forming an entirely new research project that was in agreement with the data she collected during our brief stay in the field. A newfound relationship and appreciation for the novel space of the field (Orion 1993) were established in Sophia, but above all else, Sophia, my informants and all my classmates took one step closer to becoming competent, inquisitive scholars of physical geography grown out of field experience.

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Methodology, Modifications, and Migraines: An Ethnographic Account of Undergraduate Fieldwork

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87 REFERENCES Feig, Anthony D. “Technology, Accuracy and Scientific Thought in Field Camp: An Ethnographic Study.” Journal of Geoscience Education, vol. 58, no. 4, 2010, pp.

241–251., doi:10.5408/1.3534863.

Orion, Nir. “A Model for the Development and Implementation of Field Trips as an Integral Part of the Science Curriculum.” School Science and Mathematics, vol. 93, no. 6, 1993, pp. 325–331., doi:10.1111/j.1949-8594.1993.tb12254.x.

Latour, Bruno, and Steve Woolgar. “Chapter 1: From Order To Disorder.” Laboratory Life, 1986, pp. 15–42., doi:10.2307/j.ctt32bbxc.6.

“Mont Saint Hilaire.” Mont Saint Hilaire | United Nations Educational, Scientific and ecological-sciences/biosphere-reserves/e urope-north-america/canada/mont-sainthilaire/.

Rhoads, Bruce L, and Colin E Thorn. “ Observation in Geomorphology.” Observation in Geomorphology, 1996, pp. 21–56.

Clancey, William J. “Field Science Ethnography: Methods for Systematic Observation on an Arctic Expedition.” Field Methods, vol. 13, no. 3, 2001, pp. 223–243., doi:1 0.1177/1525822x0101300301.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Cultural Organization, 2015, www.unesco.org/new/en/natural-sciences/environment/

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Written by Emily Chen

89 It is 16:30 on May 17, 2019 and my interview partner, Arzen, and I are in the upscale Clinton Street Baking Co. & Restaurant on Purvis Street in Singapore’s Central Area. Sitting across from us is Dr. Winston Chow (周祥龙), an assistant professor of geography at the National University of Singapore, who in July will be transitioning into his new position as an associate professor of humanities at Singapore Management University. When asked about his research, Chow refers to himself as an urban climatologist before eagerly explaining how his research focus recently shifted to the social aspects of urban vulnerability to climate change. He believes that the “science side” of climate change needs to look more critically at the inequalities surrounding the issue and how these disparities in turn impact urban climate change. For the next two hours we discuss how he, as a native Singaporean, believes Singapore has changed and what his experiences have been growing up amidst this urban change.

Citizen engagement in politics and social phenomena are the first things that come to mind for Chow when asked about the ways in which Singaporeans have changed from when he was a child. According to him, “young people” especially are “more cautious and worried about the future,” often inspired by viral phenomena like the #MeToo movement, and more attuned to Western cultures and foreign music like K-pop than he and his peers were as students. As the conversation shifts to Singapore’s current politics and the country’s satisfaction with their current leaders, Chow becomes animated, his thoughts verbalized quickly like he has thought about this topic a lot. “The youth don’t know what the old Singapore was like,” he says rather ruefully. “They didn’t know a time without working transit, internet, aircon...so now their focus is on self-actualization.” He gently chides this group for not having better awareness of Singapore’s historical struggle before moving on to describe the older generation. “The older people have gone through everything,” he explains. “They’ve seen the advantages of a one-party state, so there is rising discontent with the current leaders because they act less like the former leaders [i.e.

Lee Kuan Yew, the first prime minister of Singapore] and more like administrators.

Meanwhile, my generation’s opinion on the current political system is in between these two extremes of discontent. I see Singapore as a good place.”

Without hesitation, he rattles off a long and diverse list of reasons for why he returned to his home country after relocating temporarily to the United States for his Ph.D., which include the feeling that he “owed his country” to return, his desire to raise his children near his family, and fond memories from his “fortunate upbringing.” Chow remains fiercely loyal to his country’s history by praising Lee Kuan Yew and declaring “not all of the change has been bad.” He acknowledges that while there is “a sense of loss of history and heritage” as a result of Singapore’s focus on “relentless modernization,” some places “were terrible and needed to be changed.”

He shares his take on Patrick Henry’s famous quotation, “Give me liberty, or give me wealth,” as an example of the mantra that Singaporeans, both politicians and citizens, have embraced regarding their country’s urban development. As Chow notes, “Singapore has [one of the] highest GDP per capita, but at what cost?”

Edited by Zaheen Sinha

Emily Chen

SINGAPORE FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF DR. WINSTON CHOW (周祥龙) 88

91 To explain why a single political party, the People’s Action Party, has ruled Singapore for the past sixty years, Chow hypothesizes that as long as “the majority of people are well-taken of [have a livable wage, food on the table, and affordable housing], they will vote for the same party” every election cycle. Recently, however, there has been growing discontent with the idea that everyone has equal access to opportunities like job prospects, with critics arguing that thiswidespread principle purported by Singapore’s leaders is not exactly true. The never-ending battle to grow their economic power has caused the Singaporean government to disproportionately fund the creative class by pouring an excess of money towards discovering that “lightning in a bottle” industry that will turn the country into a global superpower. Whereas those who studied to become engineers, doctors, and lawyers used to be “student gods,” there is now a “more formalized emphasis on computer science” and students are studying creative arts at the secondary level in specialized arts schools like the School of the Arts. He recalls that in his time, creative arts schools and management universities were not possible because the country’s focus was entirely on economic survival.

To answer whether he thinks Singapore is better or worse off than before, Chow quotes his former military sergeant (all Singaporean men must fulfill two years of active duty): “when elephants screw, the grass suffers.” This crude joke, he explains, is meant to show that Singapore’s future (the grass) is somewhat dependent on the whims of other countries (the elephants). “For example, if the trade war between the United States and China blows up, Singapore would majorly suffer.

We’re like a boat in the ocean. We’re very vulnerable.” His opinions emulate a larger

IN HIS TIME, CREATIVE ARTS SCHOOLS AND MANAGEMENT UNIVERSITIES WERE NOT POSSIBLE BECAUSE THE COUNTRY’S FOCUS WAS ENTIRELY ON ECONOMIC SURVIVAL. pattern of city-state anxiety among Singaporeans, with their fears of losing control and being attacked evident in their constant preparation for the future and any potential issues.

Of course, no conversation about Singapore would be complete without discussing their rich history surrounding food. Chow emphasizes that “food is a key component in the Singaporean identity.” Singaporeans love their food, especially because it is “cheap, readily available, cozy, and good; not too fancy.” In this case, he is referring specifically to food sold in hawker centers, which are open-air gathering places made up of a diverse array of independent food vendors where locals and tourists alike gather for a quick meal. Chow admits that hawker centers have been a subject of much debate recently. In the same vein as his comments about a chang-

-ing attitude towards certain professions, he describes how hawker vendors can no longer rely on their children to carry on the family business. “Some hawkers don’t even want their kids to follow in their footsteps because it’s tough work for very little money. Hawkers get up at 2am, prepare for the day at 4am, start cooking at 5am, serve until 2pm, prepare some food for the next day, and fall asleep at 8pm, every day, for 20 to 30 years.” He is matter-of-fact that Singaporeans will eventually “lose the age-old tradition of hawker stalls,” but he thinks it was “socially unsustainable anyway and inevitable that they would disappear.”

Chow vehemently disagrees with UNESCO’s recent efforts to preserve these stalls through a UNESCO world heritage nomination, which he describes as “disgusting” and a “failed attempt at preservation.” But while he has not considered it before, he does agree with our observation that the demolition of traditional representations of place identity like heritage buildings in favor of new urban development has allowed a new Singaporean identity to emerge through food. And despite the upheaval surrounding Singapore’s food culture, one thing that has not changed is food’s ability to unite Singaporeans of all ethnicities. To illustrate his point, he recounts the outrage that erupted from across Singapore and the rest of the Southeast Asian region when a MasterChef UK judge asked a Malay chef why the chicken in the latter’s chicken rice dish was not crispy. “It just goes to show that you don’t mess with Singaporeans about food,” he laughs.

As our conversation wraps up, we turn to discussions about Singapore’s future. Chow is hesitant about sharing where he thinks Singapore is headed. “I don’t want to make a statement because I don’t know. The cone of uncertainty is too big.”

However, he does have hopes for Singapore’s future. He brings up the Chinese proverb “the first generation makes the wealth, the second generation invests the wealth, and the third generation spends it and dies.” He jokes that he hopes the country makes it past the third generation. According to him, we are at the end of the second generation right now. “Ultimately,” he says, “I hope for economic and social stability, and right now, we have both.”

Emily Chen

Singapore From the Perspective of Dr. Winston Chow (周祥龙)

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Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Written by Georgia Maxwell

Edited by Lea Joseph

93 In Barbara Pym’s A Glass of Blessings (1958), Wilmet Forsyth, a bored housewife, spends her idle days attending church, shopping, and fantasizing about Piers Longridge, her best friend’s brother. Throughout Pym’s text, Wilmet circulates through a handful of London spaces, which are often gendered, and classified as domestic or non-domestic. While both genders are present in both of these spaces, women are presented as the undisputed owners of the domestic, whereas men control the non-domestic. Certain men, however, take on domestic roles, and as a result, they take ownership of these domestic spaces. This crossing of gender-based roles troubles the social order of Wilmet’s community, and creates rivalries between certain male and female characters. In A Glass of Blessings, the conflicts which ensue from men taking on domestic roles demonstrates how space exerts powerful forces that shape human conceptions of self.

In A Glass of Blessings, characters label spaces as either male or female. Often, these gendered spaces are London restaurants or cafés. For example, after Mary and Wilmet go dress shopping they have tea at “a favourite haunt for shopping women,” which is conveniently located down the street (Pym 85). Once inside, Mary notices that few men are present and states, “this place is really for women, isn’t it” (Pym 85). Since the café is located near the dress stores, it attracts women who have finished shopping, and becomes a female space. In contrast, Wilmet and Harry dine at “a rather masculine sort of restaurant, famed for its meat, where great joints [are] wheeled up to the table for one’s choice and approval” (Pym 92). This restaurant is masculine not because of its location, but rather because of the type, and the portions, of food it serves. Wilmet notes how these joints of meat are “heated up in the leaping flames while patrons look nervously on” (Pym 92). Lévi-Strauss argues that roast meat is associated with masculinity in many different cultures (483-5).

Further, Shapiro notes that this restaurant is based on one that Pym herself visited.

Pym recorded in her diary that the restaurant served “gorgeous roast beef…and here a woman is given as much as a man” (Shapiro 196). Since the restaurant is masculine, all patrons are given man-sized portions. In Pym’s text, the gender associated with certain foods reflects how spaces themselves are gendered. Wilmet, however, does not assign a gender to every restaurant she visits. After a settlement meeting, she visits “an extremely unappetizing” cafeteria with her mother-in-law, Sybil (Pym 21). Wilmet describes how “as we manoeuvred our heavy trays along the counter, I tried to choose the dishes that seemed most harmless – a cheese salad with a roll and butter, some stewed apple, and a cup of black coffee” (Pym 21). As a member of the upper-class, Wilmet is disgusted by this lower-class food. She is too preoccupied with the poor quality of the food to attach a gender to the space.

Beyond restaurants, spaces in Wilmet’s own home become gendered depending on the company present. On her birthday, Wilmet’s husband Rodney has a male colleague over for dinner. Once they eat Sybil remarks, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port and manly conversation. Women are supposed not to like port except in a rather vulgar way…and the male conversation that goes with it is thought to be unsuitable for feminine ears” (Pym 13). Once Sybil and Wilmet leave the dining-room, it becomes a male space. The men now overtake it and consume what Sybil considers to be a masculine drink. Once the colleague leaves, however, the space will no longer be a make-shift “boys’ club,” as the family dines there every

Georgia Maxwell

IMPERSONAL SPACES: DOMESTIC ROLES, BODY IMAGE AND URBAN PLANNING IN A GLASS OF BLESSINGS 92

95 night. St. Luke’s Church, the community Parish, is coded as a female space, despite the obvious fact that the Priests are men. When the phone rings during a service, Wilmet assumes that it must be “one of Father Thames’s wealthy elderly female friends inviting him to luncheon or dinner” (Pym 2). Wilmet automatically assumes that a woman is calling, for very few men are involved with the church. She later notes that “at so many church gatherings, the women outnumber[ ] the men” (Pym 55). Raz similarly states that “the high percentage of women in the church” was “a growing trend since the late nineteenth century” (Social 17). Further, Raz notes that “In Pym’s world, the church is more than a house of religious worship; it is the heart of the community and the center of life for most of the characters” (Social 13). As a space filled with women, the church becomes the center for female community. For example, Wilmet thinks to herself that parish occasions are “all the social life” Mary has (Pym 82), and her own social life similarly revolves around the church. Rodney, in contrast, does not attend church. His friends and his mistress come from his workplace.

In addition to being gendered, spaces in Pym’s text are either domestic or non-domestic. Domestic spaces, however, are not only confined to the home. While A Glass of Blessings is set in the late fifties, war-time rationing and austerity measures fundamentally changed conceptions of the domestic long after the war had ended. Zweiniger notes that “during the 1940s housewifery and motherhood acquired an enhanced sense of national importance since the successful implementation of rationing and other economy measures was vital in maintaining public health and morale” (99). With war-time rationing, housewives became important figures in Britain’s fight to win the war. This feeling of importance was bolstered by various propaganda means that presented housewives’ cooking as the “battle on the kitchen front” (Zweiniger 99). World War II pushed housewives’ domestic tasks from the private sphere into the public. In Pym’s text, St. Luke’s Church is one example of a public domestic space, since it requires various domestic tasks to run.

Raz notes that “In the post-war setting of London, it was indeed a challenge for clergy to recall people to the churches” (Social 16). Food was one solution to this problem (Social 16). For the Corpus Christi evening service, St. Luke’s serves food in an attempt to attract new patrons. Wilmet describes how the church advertises that the service will have “a procession with candles, followed by refreshments in the church hall” (Pym 221). As a result, “the service had attracted quite a number of strangers” (Pym 221). The Church’s marketing scheme requires domestic skills, however, for they need women to cook for such a function. Mrs. Greenhill is one volunteer who fills this post. Wilmet describes how “Mrs. Greenhill looking quietly triumphant, was dispensing tea” (Pym 223). Later, Wilmet sees her “come hurrying in with more cakes” (Pym 228). The church’s use of food to attract new patrons transforms it into a domestic space.

In the parish newspaper, The Church Times, Father Thames places an ad for a new housekeeper. He writes, “Isn’t there some good woman (or man) who would feel drawn to do really Christian Work and look after Father Bode and Myself?” (Pym 25). Father Thames understands the value of a housekeeper, for he and Father Bode “can just about boil an egg between [them]” (Pym 25). As Zweiniger notes, “Full-time housewifery was a power base since husbands were…dependent on female domes-

tic skills” (104-5). Yet as Pym demonstrates, husbands are not the only men who are dependent on such skills. Adolf argues that “housework, a systemic activity that helps to affix most women to domestically defined roles, is also a site at which the system’s own logic breaks down” (37). While housework functions to keep women confined to the home, men at the same time are unable to complete these tasks.

Since Father Thames and Father Bode live alone at the Clergy house, they need a housekeeper to cook and clean for them. Through the Priests’ need for a housekeeper, the clergy house becomes a domestic space.

While the church and the clergy house function as domestic spaces in A Glass of Blessings, other spaces remain strictly non-domestic. In the comfort of their home, Wilmet and Sybil discuss a newspaper story whereby “a woman civil servant…was discovered preparing Brussel sprouts behind a filing cabinet” (Pym 8). While Wilmet and Sybil feel bad for “the poor thing” (Pym 8), the story is also comical. The joke relies upon on readers’ knowledge that offices are strictly non-domestic spaces. Food preparation is a domestic task, and does not fit within the schema of the workplace. The woman cooking Brussel sprouts represents her lack of belonging.

The characters laugh because they themselves believe this. This signifies that she does not belong.

Like the women’s café Wilmet and Mary visit, certain non-domestic spaces are signified as such because of where they are situated. For example, Wilmet meets Piers for lunch at a restaurant on Fleet Street. Piers explains to her that “you will see hordes of workers pouring into it, so you’ll hardly be able to miss it” (Pym 170). This restaurant is a popular spot for workers because it is located within the commercial district. While it is not explicitly stated, the restaurant is covertly gendered as male.

Wilmet thinks to herself that “it did not sound at all my kind of place” (Pym 170).

Wilmet does not make this statement simply because she does not work. When she looks around the space, she notices how “most of its occupants were business men

IN PYM’S TEXT, MEN ARE POSITIONED AS THE RIGHTFUL OCCUPANTS OF NONDOMESTIC SPACES. WHEN WOMEN ARE PRESENT, THEY CLEARLY DO NOT BELONG. reading newspapers or talking shop together” (Pym 170). She notes after the fact, however, that there are some “lone women reading novels or just eating and looking blankly in front of them” (Pym 170). Wilmet positions the restaurant as a gathering place for men, for it is a non-domestic space. While women are not barred from the restaurant, Wilmet’s description indicates that they are not particularly welcome; nor is there that many women in the space who could be eating together. In Pym’s text, men are positioned as the rightful occupants of non-domestic spaces. When women are present, they clearly do not belong.

Georgia Maxwell

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97 Women are similarly positioned as the rightful occupants of domestic spaces.

As Adolf notes, “ideologies of masculine and feminine social and cultural responsibilities for most families emerged divided, and with each separate realm arose a separate discursive tradition founded to maintain the order of a new and rapidly shifting society” (36). While Wilmet imagines what it would be like to work—“I sometimes liked to imagine myself in a small cozy office where a little group of women might gather in a room, drinking tea and eating biscuits, discussing the iniquities of the boss” (Pym 23)—Rodney does not allow her to get a job. Wilmet explains that he “had the old-fashioned idea that wives should not work unless it was financially necessary” (Pym 15). Even though they have a housekeeper, and Wilmet has no children, Rodney does not believe that she should transgress the domestic realm. Women are also considered to be the rightful occupants of the housekeeper position at the clergy house. In Father Thames’ ad, he writes that they are looking for “some good woman (or man)” (Pym 25). The possibility that the housekeeper could be male is an afterthought, as indicated by Father Thames’ use of parentheses.

Echoing Father Thames, the church’s Master of Ceremonies states, “it’s funny to see a man cooking” (Pym 59).

The position, however, ends up being filled by a gay man, Mr. Bason. As the clergy’s housekeeper, Mr. Bason troubles the cultural division of gender, spaces, and responsibilities. He threatens gendered social roles, and the cohesion of society itself (Adolf 36). As a result, Mr. Bason must continuously perform his culinary skills in front of Wilmet and others to demonstrate that he deserves to fill this position.

When he runs into Wilmet at the Ash Wednesday service, he shows her a list of dinners he’s been compiling (Pym 150). Similarly, he presents himself as an expert on the Priests’ food preferences: “Father Bode will have his cornflakes… Of course Father Thames has a continental breakfast, coffee and croissants.” (Pym 193). Mr. Bason continuously show-cases his commitment to house-keeping, for his position is not a given, but rather it must be maintained.

Mr. Bason is not the only gay man who takes on a traditionally female role in a domestic space. Keith, Piers’ partner, takes on the brunt of the domestic duties of their shared flat. When Wilmet first meets Keith, he is doing “the weekend shopping” (Pym 206), and he tells her “in a confidential tone” that Piers will “eat anything, really” (Pym 208). This establishes the dynamic that Keith does the cooking. When Piers has Wilmet over, Keith cleans Piers’ room and meticulously lays out a spread for tea: “there was a check tablecloth on a low table, and plates of sandwiches and biscuits and a pink and white gateau arranged on plastic doilies” (Pym 211).

By taking-over domestic spaces, Keith and Mr. Bason creates rivalries with Mrs. Greenhill and Wilmet. Mr. Bason constantly insults Mrs. Greenhill, who used to be the clergy’s housekeeper. Despite the fact that Mrs. Greenhill quit of her own volition, and that Mr. Bason was never present when she worked at the clergy house, he constantly remarks upon how terrible her cooking was. Before bragging to Wilmet that he is cooking octopus for Lent, he states, “poor Mrs. Greenhill hadn’t any idea beyond boiled cod or macaroni and cheese for Lent. I hope to do a good deal better than that” (Pym 150). He not only insults her cooking, but her housekeeping skills as well: “the state of that kitchen, you wouldn’t believe it! I should think baked

beans and chips was all she knew how to cook!” (Pym 58). Through presenting his superior meal ideas next to Mrs. Greenhill’s average ones, Mr. Bason attempts to maintain power over her, and retain his position as housekeeper. Yet Mr. Bason does not have a personal issue with Mrs. Greenhill. Rather, he has a vendetta against female cooks in general. He states, “I feel that women don’t really understand the finer points of cooking” (Pym 59). In Mr. Bason’s mind, he is not only in competition with Mrs. Greenhill, but with women in general, since women and domestic spaces are culturally synonymous. Adolf argues that housewives are presented with “a paradoxical challenge. For dirt can never fully be gotten rid of, and germs defy eradication” (36). The domestic must continuously be maintained, for once cleanliness is achieved and food has been cooked, dirt will reappear and food will be eaten. While this paradox keeps women confined within the domestic sphere, it means that men like Mr. Mr. Bason have to continuously work to remain within it.

For once the octopus is consumed, and the kitchen is cleaned, a new woman could be brought in at any second. Similarly, while austerity measures and war time propaganda highlighted the importance of housewifery, they also contributed to cementing women as the rightful occupants of this position. As a result, Mr. Bason must consistently prove that he deserves to make the next meal, or a more obvious choice for a housekeeper could be brought in.

The domestic role that Keith takes on in his and Piers’ flat creates opposition between him and Wilmet. Only in this instance, Wilmet considers herself to be the aggrieved party. Wilmet views Keith as her enemy, for she falls in love with Piers at the beginning of the novel. Once Wilmet meets Keith at the grocery store, she immediately dislikes him. She describes him as having a “flat, rather common little voice” and thinks that his hair “glisten[s] like the wet fur of an animal” (Pym 207).

Wilmet’s contempt for Keith is unfounded, for he is nothing but nice to her. It becomes obvious to everyone but Wilmet, however, that Piers and Keith are together.

For example, once Sybil meets Keith she says, “I believe that [Piers] has loved not wisely but too well” (Pym 237). Tsagaris notes, “Wilmet, apparently, is the only character in the novel who does not realize that Piers is gay” (97).

Yet Wilmet’s fantasies suggest that she is competing with Keith domestically, as well as romantically. During tea, Keith attempts to discuss the domestic task of washing paint. She crossly replies that she has never washed paint, and asks “But am I any worse for that? I could do it if I had to” (Pym 209). Her defensive response perhaps stems from the knowledge that she has no domestic skills, and feels inferior to Keith. Further, Wilmet states, “I gave myself up to a happy dream in which I went to look after Piers when he was ill or depressed or just had a hangover” (Pym 174). Wilmet wants to take care of Piers domestically and emotionally. As Langhamer notes, the domestic life of post-war women “had encompassed an emotional dimension” which included “the management of other people’s emotion in particular” (2). Wilmet remarks, “I had no children, I wasn’t even asked to clean the brasses or arrange the flowers in church” (Pym 188). While she occupies other domestic spaces, such as the church and her home, she performs no meaningful tasks within them.

She wants to complete domestic tasks for Piers, and be in charge of his domestic space.

Georgia Maxwell

Impersonal Spaces: Domestic Roles, Body Image and Urban Planning in A Glass of Blessings

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99 Tsagaris notes that “Pym makes Piers into sort of a joke as a Don Juan figure because he makes a fool of the heroine not by leaving her for another woman but for a man” (100). As Tsagaris suggests, A Glass of Blessings positions readers to read Piers as choosing Keith over Wilmet. For example, Wilmet thinks to herself, “the ironical thing was that it was Keith, that rather absurd little figure, who had brought about the change I thought I had noticed in Piers and which I had attributed to my own charms and loving care!” (Pym 215). Wilmet is upset that Keith is the one caring for Piers, for she had imagined herself as unofficially filling this position.

there is a certain amount of re-building going on around her. Hornsey discusses how Abercrombie’s plan for re-building London was really a “program of social reconstruction that sought to reconfigure the individual’s relationship to the reformed built environment” (42). If city planners control the spaces that citizens inhabit, then they control the spaces that citizens imagine themselves to inhabit.

While Abercrombie’s plan largely did not come to fruition, Hornsey’s text demonstrates that people’s environment regulates the space they inhabit, and how they conceptualize their body images.

Keith is not only positioned as taking over a traditionally female domestic role, but also as taking a woman’s rightful place in Piers’ romantic life. In reality,

Hornsey notes that city planners “often divided their imagined mobile Londoners along fault lines of class, age, and gender” (49). In their physical configuration of London, city planners relied on their own cultural conceptions of men and women, and the underlying ideologies of gendered responsibilities (Adolf 36). The associations between women as domestic, and men as non-domestic, informed how cities were planned; at the same time, they reinforced the divisions implicit in such associations. For example, the café that “is really for women” (Pym 85), attracts these women because it is next to the dress shops. Similarly, the restaurant that Piers and Wilmet dine at attracts “hordes of workers” (Pym 170) because it is situated near Piers’ work, and other office buildings.

PEOPLE DO NOT REMAIN IN THE SAME SPACE, AND BODY IMAGES CHANGE AS PEOPLE INHABIT DIFFERENT SPACES however, there was never any competition, and Piers was never with Wilmet to begin with. Piers are Keith were living together when Wilmet first ran into him at St. Luke’s, and Piers tells her that “women are so terrifying these days” (Pym 5). Further, Wilmet possesses no domestic skills, whereas Keith is a master of the domestic. It only appears as though Piers has chosen Keith over Wilmet, since Wilmet’s gender makes her the defacto occupant of Piers’ domestic and romantic life.

Wilmet’s domestic fantasies are strange, however, considering her utter lack of any domestic inclination. These imagined scenarios present a juxtaposition between her real-life skills, and her internal body image. Adolf argues that “the body image is the body’s own trope: it is the narrative that explains the fact of the body and of its everyday existence” (Adolf 4). People’s body images are how they understand their presence, their purpose, and conceptualize themselves. Yet bodies do not exist in a vacuum. Adolf argues that “a body image changes as an awareness of physical surroundings changes, as individuals experience their lived bodies differently, depending upon motility, emotion, and other fundamentals of everyday life” (5). Body images are heavily influenced by spaces. Further, people do not remain in the same space, and body images change as people inhabit different spaces. Wilmet’s body image reflects the spaces she inhabits, which are typically female and domestic. These spaces continuously reinforce her unfounded association between her gender and her domesticity.

It is no accident, however, that Wilmet’s physical environment reinforces her connection between femininity and domesticity. In his text, Hornsey discusses Patrick Abercrombie’s County of London Plan, which aimed to rebuild and re-plan London after large sections of the city were ruined by the Blitz (40). While it is unclear how much of Wilmet’s community is being rebuilt and re-planned, she states, “It made me sad to think of the decay and shabbiness all around, and the streamlined blocks of new flats springing up on the bombed sites” (Pym 19). This indicates that

Wilmet cannot drive, so she often relies on public transit routes to take her around the city. For example, she rides a bus which shuttles her between St. Luke’s clergy, and the shops (Pym 24). Despite the fact that her housekeeper presumably takes care of the shopping, she notes, “I sometimes strayed into [grocery stores], idly and extravagantly filling my basket with any expensive delicacy that happened to catch my eye” (Pym 192). The city is not stagnant, rather it is “a dynamic system of forces that would, through its own mechanics, draw citizens in toward…the meaningful sociality they promoted and sustained” (Hornsey 46). Wilmet is funnelled by the city into the grocery store, even though she has no need, nor want, to be there.

Zweiniger notes that a 1951 mass-observation study revealed that food shopping fell under the domain of the housewife, and took “about an hour a day on average” (108-9). London reinforces Wilmet’s body image as a domesticated housewife, even though she admits, “I’m useless” (Pym 75). Wilmet circulates, and is circulated by, a city designed to keep women and the domestic synonymous.

Similarly, Mrs. Greenhill is continuously treated as Mr. Bason’s rival simply because she is a woman, despite the fact that she is a terrible cook. Mrs. Greenhill used to cook bland, English dishes; whereas Mr. Bason branches out into a wide range of cuisines, such as “lasagne verde – in compliment to Father Thames’ Italian holiday” (Pym 258). Mr. Bason’s food is clearly superior. As Shapiro notes, English food had an international reputation of being inedible (174). Yet Mr. Bason still treats Mrs. Greenhill as his competition, simply because she is a woman. The fact that gender is the only qualification necessary for being the housekeeper can be seen when Father Thames asks Wilmet to take up the position, even though he has no knowledge of her (lack of) skills. Even Wilmet wonders “Why…had Father Thames seemed to think that I might be suitable?” (Pym 26). The cultural conflation of women and the domestic is so strong that Father Thames assumes Wilmet would make a good housekeeper, based on her gender alone. In contrast, Mr. Bason remarks that

Georgia Maxwell

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100

101 Yet the strong association between women and the housekeeper role is also perpetuated by the clergy themselves. In Father Thames’ ad, he positions the housekeeper position as “really Christian work” (Pym 25). How Christian this work really is, however, is unclear. Rather, Father Thames appears to be exploiting the fact that the main way women could become involved in the church is through domestic tasks. Raz argues that “[Pym’s] protagonists find meaning… in the rituals of church cleaning and decorating” (“Ugly Victorian Churches” 1). Perhaps, they find meaning through these domestic rituals for this is the only opportunity presented to them.

Mary states, “Oh, I don’t think women should be admitted to Holy Orders…Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but it wouldn’t seem right to me” (Pym 223). Yet whether this opinion is her own, or has been influenced by a life time spent in the church, is unclear. Mary’s brief attempt to join a convent, however, indicates that she does believe women should take on roles in the church other than domestic ones. By reinforcing the association between women and femininity, the Priests are able to assign women the tasks that they do not know how, or do not care, to do themselves.

Further, keeping women and the domestic synonymous keeps Church occupancy up, for it is one of the few public domestic spaces available. As Wilmet remarks, “everybody wants to be needed, women especially” (Pym 177), and the clergy uses this want to their own advantage.

Hornsey notes that sexuality also guided city planning and policing. Following the war, there was a “perceived increase in visible queer activity” caused by the increased policing of gay men (Hornsey 83). Hornsey argues that “within a postwar climate dominated by the ordered communitarian visions of urban planners and policy makers, the sexual immortality of the queer male pervert became newly configured in terms of his distinct and complex criminal relationship to the metropolis itself” (84). How gay men circulated around the city became a way of identifying them, and regulating their activity, through city policy and planning. Hornsey argues that before the war, “the bachelor had remained a largely benign figure…then the early 1950s saw his very definite reformation as a malignant social threat” (84).

The increased policing of gay men created the body image of the dangerous bachelor, for it made having a relationship more dangerous. For example, Sybil refers to Piers as “unsatisfactory” and wonders if she thinks this “because he has had rather a lot of jobs and hasn’t married yet” (Pym 14). Like the association between women and domesticity, planning against gay men became a self-fulfilling prophecy. In designing municipal and legal policies under the notion that gay men were “metropolitan pervert[s]” (Hornsey 112), their body images were reinforced as such. This can be seen when Harry gives “an angry snort” at the mention of Piers (Pym 38). In turning gay men into sinister figures, the city perpetuates this image in the minds of Londoners.

Perhaps Mr. Bason’s and Keith’s domestic roles are also a form of city planning. Adolf notes that “rules for living within the walls of the private home are dictated by…cultural constrains as much as much as public regulations are” (37). Private spaces are not free from cultural norms; nor the law, for British law criminalized sex between men in private (Lewis 204). The ideologies that informed, and were

reinforced by city planning, still exert forces on shaping Keith’s and Mr. Bason’s body images, even in the privacy of their own homes. At the same time, however, since these constraints invade their home, by re-making their own private spaces through their domestic roles, Keith and Mr. Bason can begin to re-form their very own body images. For example, through being the clergy’s live-in housekeeper, Mr. Bason fights against the body image of the dangerous bachelor, for he is entrusted with the important task of taking care of the Priests. Similarly, through his domestic skills Keith reforms his and Piers’ space from a flat for single men into a home for a couple.

Keith and Mr. Bason re-form, and re-produce, their body images against the ones the city reinforces. As well, both Keith and Mr. Bason bring Wilmet into these remade spaces for tea. Through entering these spaces, Wilmet’s conception of her own body image, and of Keith’s and Mr. Bason’s, begins to change as well. For example, as Wilmet has tea at Keith and Piers’ flat, she admits, “it was quite obvious that I was going to find it impossible to dislike Keith” (Pym 211). After, she tells Keith “I expect you’ve been very good for [Piers]” (235). After visiting their home, she accepts the domestic spot that Keith occupies in Piers’ life. Keith and Mr. Bason turn the logic of city planning—“to reassert control over ordinary daily life” (Hornsey 68)— against itself. In remaking their own private spaces, they can remake their body images in their own eyes, and in the eyes of others.

In A Glass of Blessings, city spaces work to keep certain citizens in, and others out; certain associations together, and others apart. These very divisions which guide city organization at the same time reinforce these very body images in the minds of citizens. Yet the malleability of spaces, and their direct influence upon body images, also offers opportunities for citizens to re-define, and re-imagine themselves, through remaking their own spaces. Much of Pym’s subtle humour, however, relies on the clashes created by placing bodies in spaces where they do not belong. Yet the force that this humour still holds today demonstrates that contemporary readers’ conceptions of themselves and others are being re-created in the same ways as when Pym wrote her text.

Georgia Maxwell

Impersonal Spaces: Domestic Roles, Body Image and Urban Planning in A Glass of Blessings

“such jobs aren’t at all easy to get” (Pym 57).

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103 REFERENCES Adolf, Andrea. Food and Femininity in Twentieth-Century British Women’s Fiction.

Surrey: Ashgate, 2009.

Hornsey, Richard. The Spiv and the Architect: Unruly Life in Postwar London. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010.

Langhamer, Claire. “Feeling, Women and Work in The Long 1950s.” Women’s History Review, vol. 26, no. 1, 2017, pp. 77-92. McGill Online Database.

Lewis, Brian. Wolfenden’s Witness: Homosexuality in Postwar Britain. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016.

Cape, New York: Harper & Row, 1978.

Pym, Barbara. A Glass of Blessings. 1958. London: Virago Press, 2009.

Raz, Orna. The Social Dimensions in the Novels of Barbara Pym, 1949-1963. New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 2007.

Raz, Orna. “Ugly Victorian Churches and Anglo-Catholic Rituals: Spiritual Uplift in Barbara Pym’s Novels of the 1950s.” Interdisciplinary Literary Studies, vol. 11, no.1, 2009, pp.1-11. MLA International Bibliography.

Shapiro, Laura. What She Ate: Six Remarkable Women and the Food That Tells Their Stories. New York: Viking, 2017.

Tsagaris, Ellen M. The Subversion of Romance in The Novels of Barbara Pym. Ohio: Bowling Green University, 1998.

Zweiniger-Bargielowska, Ina. Austerity in Britain: Rationing, Control, and Consumption 1939-1955. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Lévi-Strauss, Claude. The Origin of Table Manners. 1968, translated By Jonathan

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

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Created by Elizabeth Stone

Edited by Henry Carter

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From May to July 2019 I worked as an intern at the South Rift Association of Landowners (SORALO), my internship duties included the creation of this map of fences and Maasai settlements (bomas) within the greater SORALO landscape. Fencing is a substantial threat to wildlife and Maasai pastoralism, as both depend on the freedom of movement for access to scarce and unevenly distributed resources. This map is part of a project to close this gap as Kajiado and Narok Counties contain a known wildlife corridor between the Maasai Mara and Amboseli National Parks. The mapping of Maasai bomas is also quite essential as they situate the fences' locations within biological, ecological, and social context.

Placing these fences and settlements within the landscape’s context is especially important as most of Kajiado and Narok counties are not protected and thus, run the risk of mismanagement, thus threatening Maasai livelihoods and wildlife survival.

More and more Maasai Group Ranches are subdividing as climate change makes traditional pastoralism less sustainable, making the mapping of fences incredibly valuable, although quite time-consuming.

As evidence of the slow nature of this task, I only managed to label 3,000 square kilometers of Kajiado County in two months this summer, out of a potential 40,000 square kilometers. Specifically, I performed this analysis on QGIS, using a base map of Google Satellite imagery and a 40,000 square kilometer grid. As I was creating these shapefiles, I also labelled every fence by type (brush, wire, or other) and quality (ranking of 1-3, with 1 indicating low quality and 3 indicating high quality), and each Maasai boma by quality, as all Maasai bomas use brush fencing. Some regions examined were also heavily agricultural (wire fences), and in these instances I only labelled a large, outer fence instead of each individual fence. As of now, there are plans to outsource and expand upon the dataset I have already created, but it is unknown when this will be completed.

Elizabeth Stone

FENCES AND MAASAI SETTLEMENTS WITHIN KAJIADO COUNTY, KENYA

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Fences and Maasai Settlements in Kajiado County, Kenya

Fences and Settlements in the Rombo, Olkaria, Kuku, Entarara, Engama, and Emperon Group Ranches

Legend Fences County Boundaries Settlements

Author: Elizabeth Stone CRS: 1984 WGS 37S Base Map: Google Earth

HAUNTED AREAS OF 108

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MASSACHUSETTS

BY TOWN

From the infamous Salem Witch Trials to the case of Lizzie Borden to the many supernatural sightings at the Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts, located in the Northeast United States, has a haunted history. Relying on raster techniques, this map seeks to answer the question “Where in Massachusetts am I most likely to have a supernatural experience?” Here, a supernatural experience is defined as any phenomenon or event that is inexplicable through scientific reasoning, and a haunted site as any location where these supernatural experiences have been known to occur. The map to some extent follows the gradient of population distribution that occurs from the coast to inland.

Edited by Henry Carter

Mollie Donohue-Meyer

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

Created by Mollie Donohue-Meyer

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Ari Charle, Myriam Driss & Sebastien Pentland-Hyde

Est-qu’il fait beau dans le métro?

Participatory planning for Montréal’s future

SUNSETS ALONG THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL 113

Created by Luca Fournier and Martin Law

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