Ottawa in October

Quick trip home. Three nights, mid-October, staying with my mom. No hotel. G came with me.

Ottawa in October is the city at its most beautiful, which is something I didn't appreciate when I lived there because when you're 17, fall colors are just the thing that happens before winter ruins everything. Now I fly in from Miami and see it with the eyes of someone who lives in a city where the trees don't change and the temperature in October is still 85 degrees. The color hits different.

The Gatineau Hills across the river from Parliament turn red and orange and gold in a display that rivals New England but gets a fraction of the press. My dad and I drove the Champlain Parkway on the Quebec side on a Saturday morning, just the two of us. He pointed out things I'd seen a hundred times like I was seeing them for the first time, which is a dad thing I've stopped finding annoying and started finding endearing. He drove slowly. He took the scenic route because there's only the scenic route. The lookout at Champlain Point has a view of the entire Ottawa River valley in full color, a view that makes you understand why Group of Seven painters moved to Canada. We stood there for ten minutes. He took photos with his phone held at the wrong angle. I didn't correct him. He asked about work, about Miami, about G. We talked the way dads and sons talk when they don't see each other often enough: carefully at first, then all at once, then quietly, standing next to each other looking at the same view.

G and my mom have their own rhythm now, built over several years of visits. Tea in the morning at the kitchen table, which starts around 7 when they're both up and I'm still asleep. By the time I come downstairs, they've covered more ground than I cover in a week of phone calls. My mom shows G photos of me as a kid that I'd prefer she didn't see. School photos. Hockey team photos. The one from grade 8 where I had a haircut that G describes as "ambitious." G stores these for future use. My mom loves having a co-conspirator.

They cook together in the evenings, which is a development that's happened gradually. My mom's cooking is the food I grew up on: roast chicken, soups, a specific pasta bake that nobody else makes the way she does. G has started contributing dishes from Iris's kitchen, and watching the two of them negotiate a meal, two women from completely different food traditions finding common ground over a cutting board, is one of the better things that's come from these visits.

We did Shawarma Palace again because it's non-negotiable. Same order. Same garlic sauce. Same reaction from G: "still better than anything in Miami." At this point it's a tradition, not a recommendation. My dad came with us this time and ordered the mixed plate, which is the wrong order (chicken plate, extra garlic, extra turnips, the correct order has been established since 2019 and does not need revision) but he enjoyed it and I let it go because he's my dad and you don't correct your dad's shawarma order. He also ate his with a fork and knife, which G and I watched in silence. Some battles aren't worth fighting.

We also had dinner one night at Supply and Demand on York Street in the ByWard Market, which does modern Canadian food with an emphasis on local sourcing. The duck breast with seasonal vegetables was excellent. G had the fish and said it was the best fish she'd had in Ottawa, which Iris would dispute if she heard about it, so we agreed not to mention it.

One evening we walked through the ByWard Market, which in October has a harvest energy: pumpkins stacked outside the shops, apple cider at the stands, the smell of fresh bread and roasting coffee. The market vendors know the season is ending and there's a slight urgency to it, everyone selling the last of the fall produce before November shuts things down. We bought apple cider and cinnamon doughnuts from a stand that's been there since I was a kid and ate them walking through the market while G pointed at every pumpkin display like she'd never seen a pumpkin before. Growing up in London, maybe she hadn't seen them arranged on hay bales with corn stalks. Ottawa does fall like a competitive sport.

We stopped at Zak's Diner on Dalhousie Street because G had never been and it's a neon-lit, 1950s-style diner that's been there since 1986 and does milkshakes and burgers and all-day breakfast in a booth with a jukebox at the table. It's not fancy. It's fun. G ordered a milkshake and fries and said "this is the most Canadian thing we've done" which isn't accurate (the shawarma is the most Canadian thing) but I understood what she meant.

The canal in October with the changing leaves is a different walk than any other season. The water reflects the trees and the whole thing looks like someone oversaturated a photo except it's real. We walked to Dow's Lake and back one afternoon, about an hour, the path quiet, the air cool in a way that Miami air never is. G wore my toque again because she still hasn't bought one despite coming to Ottawa every year. I've offered to buy her one. She prefers mine. I've stopped asking why.

G said "your city is prettier than you give it credit for." She's right. I never notice the canal until she points at it.

Three nights. Family, shawarma, fall leaves, my dad's photography, my mom's pasta bake, G in my toque.