We were surprised that the American Planning Association recently named Montrose one of its “10 Great Neighborhoods” for 2009. Montrose is a great place. But does it, as the association writes, “highlight the roles that planners and planning play in creating communities of lasting value”?

We think that planning helped make Montrose what it is. But much of what's great about that funky urban neighborhood had nothing to do with planning — and in fact, arose in spite of it.

It may surprise you to hear that Montrose was planned. Not publicly, by city officials of course: Houston's not that kind of town. But in the 1910s and '20s, private developers made many important decisions, such as laying out a pedestrian-friendly street grid, that gave the neighborhood good bones.

Those early planners envisioned rows of mansions where Houston's elite could escape downtown's grit and bustle. Later developers added middle-class bungalows, but the basic idea remained the same: Montrose was supposed to be a quiet, leafy respite from the city.

That plan fell apart long before the end of the 20th century. After Montrose fell from fashion among the social elite, its cheap rents attracted gays, lesbians, artists and students. In the '80s and '90s, those poor-but-interesting residents made the place feel wild, exciting, even dangerous. Planned as a refuge from the city, Montrose became a throbbing center of urban life.

Since then, gentrification has mellowed the vibe to a pleasant bohemianism. Montrose remains known for its gay bars — but also for one-of-a-kind coffee shops, boutiques and antiques. These days, planning advocates struggle not to make Montrose feel like an escape from the city, but to help it keep the character that distinguishes it from duller neighborhoods.

Planning fans complain that routine townhouses have swallowed whole streets of the neighborhood's sweet bungalows. And they despair of dull commercial development, such as that which reigns over Montrose and Westheimer, the intersection right at the neighborhood's heart. As the pro-planning group Blueprint Houston recently pointed out, three of the intersection's four corners are occupied by pedestrian-hostile blah-ness: a gas station, a dispirited-looking half-empty strip center and a drive-thru restaurant. No planner in his right mind would allow such crud to command that spot.

And there's the irony. Planning can't take credit for the off-beat charms of Montrose. But without at least some planning — public, private or both — that unplanned charm may disappear.