What I Did On My Ottawa Vacation

Sorry this took so long to go up. If this was real life, and I really had to write a report for school, I would make up for my tardiness by handing this in bound by a classy duotang and with an illustrated title page. Well, just imagine a picture of the Parliament Buildings and the Museum of Civilization (neither of which I went to) with "My Ottawa Vacation" in the classiest of fonts: Curlz! Or maybe you don't have to imagine it!


But what did I really do on my Ottawa vacation? Well, I saw my brother for the first time in almost a year, for one thing. It was strange- we hadn't seen each other in so long, but we didn't talk about that. Or give a Cliff's Notes version of what we had been up to. instead we settled into our usual routine of good-natured banter and teasing. I don't think my brother would have been so calm if he wasn't freshly in love. The whole thing's awfully cute from her bangs to my brother's plan that they'll live in his garrett for a month. Yes, my brother lives in a garrett. Vincent Van Gogh would find it small. If he wasn't hepped up on goofballs. Or absinthe. Whatever, I'm no art historian.

His roommates could sustain a sitcom, at least. There's the tall Philosophy M.A., who acts like Michael Cera and blow dries his air. I argued about homoeroticism vs. hyper masculinity for a while, since he (incorrectly in my view) believes that for the former to exist there must be some kind of intentionality on the part of the creator. I'm not sure if Commando is an able rebuttal or not. Then there's Vanessa, whose current boyfriend I met before her and who teaches locking at a dance studio. She would sing about my fishnets every time she saw me in a skirt. The last character has a name that should have prepared him for a life of porn stardom, but had decided to dedicated himself to campus activism instead. Unsurprisingly, he is vegan. They all treat my brother like some kind of den daddy, which is hilarious to watch. If your the little sister he has, at one time, shot in the face with a BB gun.

Oh, and things were done, of course. My brother is much cooler than I am, which means he knows all of the fun things to do in town. Like Time Kode on Friday, which is an almost-scenester gathering, but far enough from the beaten path that most of the bullshit is cleared out. And, reader, I danced. I danced because there was a protective layer of bad dancers around me, and the music was very good and very loud, and because I was wearing an extra-large hoodie. Oh, and there was a random movie with Sun Ra in it being projected, so maybe he was working his crazy mojo on me. The next day we met up with my cousin and his lovely wife R. I've been half in love with R since my cousin married her. She seems to know everyone, and have done everything, except for the things she's learning to do now. She also knows all of the good thrift and vintage shops, which is what we did. And all of the tony home furnishing stores. Some of those chairs- the leather, the line- were enough to make you house proud. And reject Ikea as the Swedish anti-christ.

Then it was dinner, and a movie. I was debating between Pontypool and I Love You, Man. I like to suppport Canadian film as much as the next person, especially when it involves zombies, but I also have a deep, deep need for glossy entertainment. So, I chose I love You, Man. To which I say: eh. I didn't regret any of the ticket price, but it really wasn't worth a penny more. It coasted a lot on the charm of Paul Rudd and Jason Segal, but anything that pulls off a running joke about Anwar Sadat (and a dog with an uncanny resemblence) is not entirely worthless. My brother *hated* it though, although perhaps it was less because it was boring and more because it might be uncomfortably familiar. This was discussed over brunch the next morning at the Manx, as my brother's best friend charmed some tea out of the waitress. I pushed my omelette around and wondered if I hadn't crossed some invisble line of authenticity by getting one with goat cheese and roasted peppers. I could have concluded this on the bus back to Montreal, after but I read. So I wouldn't miss my brother, or my family back in Guelph, or wonder soppily if I would ever wear a tatoo as well as my he does.

So, I left Ottawa without hitting any major tourist spot, not even the cat shelter. And I love my cats. But maybe that's the best way to see Ottawa, if you're a Canadian. Stay away from the tourist traps and you won't feel like a stock player in CanadaTown. And you might have a better chance of seeing my awesome brother.