I declare myself a local
One of my favourite things about living in Ottawa is being able to show visiting family and friends around the city. On those long summer days when, even if you were to walk around buck naked with a 10-person crew using a variety of air-conditioning and fanning units to constantly cool the air around you, it remains stubbornly and unbearably muggy and gross, I still enjoy sharing the city with newcomers.
This weekend, my Dad’s cousin’s son (my second cousin?) was in town with his wife and three boys. Despite the distant relation, our two sides of the family have always been close. To make the family tree even more complicated, he is my god-father as well as my dad’s god-son. While I was “finding myself” in Europe, many moons ago, he put me up in his home and gave me a good job. But that’s a story for another post.
I tend towards the notion that I am “from” Ottawa these days. My only other viable options are to say that I am from Barrie, where I lived for four years and where my parent’s remain, or from the small-ass town of Azilda, where I spend those magical childhood years between 6 and 14. I have now been in Ottawa for seven years, but since that is three more that I spent in Barrie, and far more recent than my Azilda years, it’s as accurate an answer as any.
But Ottawa is a little microcosm of Canada in the sense that the tendency of people who ask you where you are from leans towards wanting to know where else you are from, unless you are born and raised - as if is makes that much of a difference. I’ve been here long enough to blend seamlessly with the fat-cat locals, to giggle in annoyance at the gaggles of tourists, and to impart wisdom on more recently arrived denizens. I think I’ve earned the right to answer the question “Where are you from” with “Why, Ottawa, of course” without having to add any caveats or footnotes.
When I drag family members around our capital, I do so with a sense of pride because I’m not just showing them around Ottawa, I’m helping them get a sense of Canada as well. The numerous sets of provincial and territorial flags lets me yammer on about the regional differences (“uh, those three flags are, um, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta – in no particular order. They’re the west.”), the War Museum gives them a sense of how un-militaristic we are (the room with all the old tanks and other equipment looks as though it has enough firepower to take on our current army/navy/air force, mothballs and all!) and the Parliament Buildings allow us to show our pride and our roots.
In true Ottawanian fashion, I am also accumulating a few good local stories for the guests. The locks at the end of the Rideau Canal are a good conversation starter about the Irish who built it, the old City Hall has some good ghost stories, and the stories of various neighbourhoods can be fascinating for anyone interested. I can also quickly locate the best ice-cream, Chinese food, pub, and park in just about any part of the greater downtown area, all while skilfully avoiding the Market and its overpriced, over-touristed silliness.
The only problem is that I am using up all my family members I can introduce to the city.
D.
This weekend, my Dad’s cousin’s son (my second cousin?) was in town with his wife and three boys. Despite the distant relation, our two sides of the family have always been close. To make the family tree even more complicated, he is my god-father as well as my dad’s god-son. While I was “finding myself” in Europe, many moons ago, he put me up in his home and gave me a good job. But that’s a story for another post.
I tend towards the notion that I am “from” Ottawa these days. My only other viable options are to say that I am from Barrie, where I lived for four years and where my parent’s remain, or from the small-ass town of Azilda, where I spend those magical childhood years between 6 and 14. I have now been in Ottawa for seven years, but since that is three more that I spent in Barrie, and far more recent than my Azilda years, it’s as accurate an answer as any.
But Ottawa is a little microcosm of Canada in the sense that the tendency of people who ask you where you are from leans towards wanting to know where else you are from, unless you are born and raised - as if is makes that much of a difference. I’ve been here long enough to blend seamlessly with the fat-cat locals, to giggle in annoyance at the gaggles of tourists, and to impart wisdom on more recently arrived denizens. I think I’ve earned the right to answer the question “Where are you from” with “Why, Ottawa, of course” without having to add any caveats or footnotes.
When I drag family members around our capital, I do so with a sense of pride because I’m not just showing them around Ottawa, I’m helping them get a sense of Canada as well. The numerous sets of provincial and territorial flags lets me yammer on about the regional differences (“uh, those three flags are, um, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta – in no particular order. They’re the west.”), the War Museum gives them a sense of how un-militaristic we are (the room with all the old tanks and other equipment looks as though it has enough firepower to take on our current army/navy/air force, mothballs and all!) and the Parliament Buildings allow us to show our pride and our roots.
In true Ottawanian fashion, I am also accumulating a few good local stories for the guests. The locks at the end of the Rideau Canal are a good conversation starter about the Irish who built it, the old City Hall has some good ghost stories, and the stories of various neighbourhoods can be fascinating for anyone interested. I can also quickly locate the best ice-cream, Chinese food, pub, and park in just about any part of the greater downtown area, all while skilfully avoiding the Market and its overpriced, over-touristed silliness.
The only problem is that I am using up all my family members I can introduce to the city.
D.
