Popped up to Ottawa for the weekend with Cousin T. Pulled in to the Lord Elton at noon, dropped the car and bags, and headed out to fish and chips with iced teas and ciders on the Sparks Street Mall. Strolled down to the river via the locks and along the river to the Pont Alexander. Ottawa was at its most fabulous in the weather department. Warm and Balmy with sun and breeze for all. The beautiful people were out and about. Heath, coolness, and good cheer radiated from every crowd and individual. Tramping cross the Bridge is a pleasure in all but the most freezing weather and we stopped into the Musee du Civilization for a bit of the ol’ city of stone, Petra. Not quite as fantastic as advertised but there was a neat photo gallery at the end. The artifacts were awe inspiring to be sure but lost its punch pretty quick. Cousin T. enjoyed a squarish portrait of an ancient Mr. Potato Head and we both appreciated the smoothness of an ancient marble naked lady. Next we double timed it through the nurses exhibit. Was most impressed with the iron lung, had heard about them in songs ( such as Mr. Frump in the Iron Lung by Weird Al Yankovich) and whatnot but never had seen one in person. We then breezed through the expanse of Canadian History in the Hall of Canada. We follow a simple dictum. Keep moving until sometime catches our eye, only then stop. No need to read every little thingy. I particularly enjoyed a certain chair in the 19th century parlor which has a tubular back and round seat. I also liked the wheat and the ship wrights display as an old ancestor of ours was a ships carpenter on a French privateer and later built ships for the Americans in Philadelphia. Slightly disappointed that belaying pins are glued down. Cousin T. enjoyed the whale blubber. Before re-crossing the bridge we observed an amphibious bus enter the water at the marina. We had to run to see it go in the water. It would have been cooler if it had been going faster. Insurance companies have put the damper on so many activities. The walk to the National Art Gallery was quite hot and we were glad to enjoy a drink in the cafeteria before entering the galleries. The first thing we saw was a gigantic baby head sculpture. I had to have my picture taken by it but as I was posing two museum guards assaulted me with accusations of my shirt touching the baby which it most certainly was not, I was a full foot and a half away. They repositioned me and Cousin T. took the picture. We looked to the right to some weird microphone that was going round and round over some cardboard houses and making whale noises. Tom Thompson and the Group of Seven gallery were awesome as usual and the main reason for our visit to the gallery. We took in Benjamin West’s panorama of General Wolfe biting it at Quebec and the famous portrait of Joseph Brant. Everything I’ve read about the Wolfe minus the Boston Brahmin Parkman’s description rates Wolfe as a ripe fathead. Fred Anderson wonders in his epic “The Crucible of War: The Seven Years’ War and The Fate of Empire in British North America, 1754-1766,” if Wolfe were not in fact egomaniac with a death wish. Brant of course glared at us from across the room as if he was displeased with the portrayal of the loyal savage attending Wolfe’s heroic death. In fact Wolfe mistreated his native allies with contempt, the end result of which that most, if not all had become disgusted with the siege of Quebec and found more satisfactory summer pursuits long before Wolfe got himself killed. Most disturbing in the gallery was a painting of a droopy man sitting naked on a rock holding in his gnarly hand a second but tinier naked droopy man. The “Trailer” sculpture was the most dubious piece of art we saw. The photo of the vampire people at a hoedown was right out and the giant photos of a victorian dandy left us pondering the limits of art as we exited and began making our way over to the Brig pub next to Zaphod’s in the Byward Market. Today was not the day for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster however. We paused to watch some Brazilian martial arts people perform their deadly dance in slow motion. Cousin T. seemed mesmerized and I have to admit it was rather fascinating. I’m not convinced it’s entirely practical but its cool anyhow. The atrium at the Brig is a favorite of mine. The dense green foliage above screens one from the harshest of the suns rays while still allowing you to enjoy the outdoors and the distance from the sidewalk removes one from the hustle and bustle. Tea, cider, spring rolls, orientally prepared chicken, and deep talk satisfied our dinner needs. After dinner we made our way back to the hotel via the mall, canal, and park in which a sizable blues festival was taking place. We kicked up our feet and watched police chase videos for about two hours on Spike TV. At ten thirty we made our way to Parliament to watch the sound and light show. The beginning is the most dramatic. Thunder and lightning followed by various cries of the wild such as wolfes and loons and such are followed by first nations chanting and pierre trudoue quotes. I’ve seen it a bunch of times and even though I always think I won’t really enjoy seeing it again it never fails to thrill and even raise a ping of regret that I am not a proud Canadian as the music thrills to conclusion and the people gathered on the cool night grass cheer with patriotic delight. I suggested shawarma and we wandered down to Sparks Street in search of that meaty treat. Gently rotisseried beef, soaked in its own juices and served with a fresh pita and hummus can’t be beat for a midnight snack. I like to put fries in mine as well. Well we wandered down Sparks street until we came to outdoor seating at the Ashtar Terrace. The place was packed with people. This was the place for shawarma but what caught our attention was the noticeable lack of food on the tables. And thats when we saw them. 3 foot Nargiles, Hookahs, and bit of the old hubbly bubbly. Sweet. Neither Cousin T. or I had ever tried this particular activity. I knew a guy in college who tried to smoke pot out of one but claimed it was a total waste. We pulled up a chair and waited with anticipation for our Hookah to arrive. The waitress was very kind to us newbies and showed us how to operate the device. The “do not inhale” warning was taken to heart. We passed the hose back and forth and listened to the blaring Arabic music. There is an instrument in this music that sounds like a whiney electric guitar, like someone is really bending it Hendrix style. Instead of shawarma we ordered tea. Hookah smoking I have found is an extremely contemplative activity and having chatted ourselves hoarse during the drive up and dinner it was most pleasant to soak in the scene and limit ourselves to the occasional comment and smile. The crowd was nearly half ethnic in a seemly arabic way and most of the other half euro-canadian. Everyone around us was having a fantastic time. It seemed so positive to share this middle eastern leisure activity in a time when it their is stress between arabic culture and white people. Kumbya and all that good stuff. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. Followed by an episode of Futurama. I can’t lie to you, I coughed up a rather nasty loogy in the morning. But it was worth it. In the AM the sun shined through our hotel window and we cleaned ourselves up. We sampled the awesome breakfast buffet at the Lord E. I have also often enjoyed the Buffet at the Chateau Laurier and I have to say it was almost as awesome as that. We ate outside and sat down to coffee and bacon just as the Bear hatted fellows marched past in their brilliant red, pounding out triumphant tunes on their instruments. We did not follow for the Parliament ceremony but I have seen it before. I described to Cousin T. how the officer sticks his eye up to the gun barrels and the great amount of stomping about. I once witnessed a retarded women cross the barrier and march herself into the middle of the proceedings. I thought the guards were especially kind as they escorted her to the side and wondered if the enforcement at my own great capital might not have just blasted her. We finished breaky as the Brits say and watched a bit of “Encino Man” with Pauly Shore back at the room. The Guards marched past and from our room looking down we saw what looked like an eight years old dressed in perfect imitation of Canada’s finest walking behind the procession. Our way out of town was a bit rough. Having not quenched the Shawarma urge the night before I drove aimlessly about between Sparks and the highway before giving up. We tried to find route 31 south but this road was heinously marked. We ended up at the airport and then traveled along the side of the canal before finally rallying. Just as we turned on the correct route (Bank Street is 31 for future reference) I saw to my right the gleaming chrome of Shawarma Station. We purchased two and some drinks for a picnic lunch and made our way down to the St. Lawrence. Their we witnessed the battle of Chrysler’s Farm which originally took place in 1813 with a lot more guys. It was a good show and while Cousin T. was not overly impressed with his first shawarma he ate most of it and I of course fully enjoyed mine. As the battle commenced the sound of horns and “goal” “goal” “goal” and wild cheering from the next field over where an Italian festival was going on signaled the 2006 FiFA World Cup victory. The trip back was rather melancholy. Back to the grind of life. We picked up some exotic non-American candy bars for friends and family and once again I was cheated by a litany of rules about GST tax refunds when I tried to turn in my receipts. They just put the desk there to get your hopes up. One cannot appreciate enough the joy of such a weekend in this troubled and confusing world and I heartily thank the people of Ottawa, the fine people at Ashtar Terrace, and especially cousin T. for sharing with me one of the finest weekends it has been my pleasure to enjoy.
