In the summer of 1967, roughly 50 million people came to Montréal, and an overwhelming majority of those people would have passed through this space, the former Place-des-Nations. To think that such a crossroads of world culture would become a temporary parking space for eighteen-wheelers is beyond offensive. So many have told me of the electricity in the air in this place that fateful summer; despite its appearances, it still retains a particular emotive quality. It imposes an odd reverence on you, as though it was a ruin of a once great people. How hard would it really be to transform this space into something worthy of its significance, of our accomplishment?