It’s snowing in October. Hands buried deep in my pockets, I half-jog towards Parliament, cursing the fact that Canada’s capital city also happens to be the second coldest in the world. After Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, of course.
Tourists move around the downtown core in gaggles, clutching cameras in their frozen hands, looking mystified at how their nice Canadian holiday has turned into a sojourn in a frozen wasteland.
Despite the cold and the snow, very little seems out of place on this final day before Canadians head to the polls. It’s the day before one of the most anticipated elections in recent Canadian history, though, and I am in the heart of the capital city. Surely something exciting must be going on.
I soon notice small clusters of people streaming in the direction of Parliament Hill, and decide to follow them. They’re walking at a fast pace as well, but with a determination that seems to indicate that something important is about to happen.
The closer I get to Parliament, the more crowds of people I see. There are all walks of life here: families clustered together in big groups, gaggles of friends, people walking alone or with their dogs.
Each group turns down a side street, instead of following the main drag to what is perhaps our nation’s most well recognized building.
“Oh well,” I think. Maybe they know about something I don’t? Maybe there’s a spur of the moment rally going on? Maybe one of the federal leaders has made a surprise, last-minute stop in Ottawa?
I should’ve known better. Focusing on the cold and the potential pursuit of a story, I had stupidly forgotten to follow my nose.
These crowds, excitedly moving towards Parliament were, in fact, stopping one block before the Hill. They were making their way towards Ottawa’s bi-annual Poutine Fest.
The intoxicating scent of gravy-soaked French fries momentarily swayed me from my mission of finding something interesting to report on.
Ever the glutton, I placed myself in line behind the truck that seemed to serve the largest portions of Canada’s favourite artery-clogging delicacy.
As the line slowly inched forward, I indulged in some people watching and a respectful amount of friendly eavesdropping.
Twitter, Facebook and the news would all lead us to believe that the entire country is caught in the grip of election fever.
Social media is filled to the brim with political opinions, the results of the latest polls and proud “I voted” selfies, usually accompanied by decently self-righteous rants.
Maybe, at day 78 of campaigning, everybody is just sick of talking politics. Maybe everybody had already voted, and took to consuming cheese curds and fries, calm after having done their democratic duty in determining the future of the nation.
Maybe, possibly, people just don’t care quite as much as we all like to think they do.
As the crowd milled, they talked about their kids and about the cold. They extolled the virtues of one stand, while giving rave reviews of the pulled pork poutine from another.
One block away from Parliament Hill, you could have easily been forgiven for having no clue that there was an election going on, and that the Canadian government would be undergoing a massive shift in a mere matter of hours.
Poutine in hand, I trekked the full 30 seconds from Poutine Fest to Parliament. The crowds thinned as I distanced myself from the wafting scents of food, and as I turned the final corner I was struck once again by the beauty of our parliament buildings.
As a former resident of Ottawa, Parliament was always something I noticed, but never really took the time to stop and admire.
Yet, as the longest election since 1872 dragged on, Parliament’s symbolism as the bastion of Canada’s democracy has once again drawn the attention of the nation.
We watched the federal leaders debate time and time again. We heard their voices grow hoarse on the campaign trail, and saw them shake line after line of hands. We grew so used to the multi-coloured array of lawn signs in our neighbourhoods that the names of our local candidates seemed as though they would be imprinted in our heads for years to come. They won’t.
As my poutine and I walked up the lawn leading to Centre Block, I couldn’t help but feel calmed by the normalcy of my surroundings.
Tourists clustered around the centennial flame, contorting themselves into all kinds of positions, trying to capture the perfect selfie of themselves and the flame and the Peace Tower and the Canadian flag.
T-shirt-clad kids played soccer on the lawn, as their parents watched on the sidelines, peaking out from their scarves, clutching cups of coffee in between their mittens.
One man wore a poster board over his chest, piles of pamphlets in his arms. He tried to teach me about the Chinese practice of Falun Gong as I walked by.
Offering my apologies and my assurances that I really would not be well suited to any form of meditative exercise, I nearly tripped over a woman crouched on the ground.
In front of her, taped to the grey stone slabs, were caricatures of four of the federal party leaders. Aha! Politics! I found them!
“I’m conducting an informal poll,” she says. “Just tell me which one you like and I’ll write it down.”
A watercolour Stephen Harper glares up at me, a grey block of hair filling up half of the white cardstock sheet. Harper is all alone on his paper, not a single passer-by having bestowed their confidence with a vote for old Steve.
Beside Harper’s scowling portrait is a beaming sketch of the younger Trudeau, his mouth stretched into a grin so wide it almost looks like a grimace.
The way his paper is positioned looks almost like the popular kid in school gloating at his cranky classmate. Trudeau’s tallies of approval filling up most of the page’s white spaces. Nevermind the Nanos or the Ipsos: looks like they’ve got polling science down to an art right here.
Harper’s completely empty page makes more sense once I squint towards the end of the lawn: a dozen people stand huddled together, waving signs back and forth as they chant. The wind is strong, and I can’t make out a word of what they are saying.
As I move closer, I can hear one name being repeated over and over again in the lyrics of the chant: “Harper.”
More and more people make their way up the path, joining the crowd of protesters. Within minutes their numbers have doubled. Soon, they have tripled.
A sea of signs bob in the air: “Stop Harper,” “HEAVE STEVE,” “Vote Public Service,” read some of them.
Children run through the legs of their parents, who in turn try and coral them into taking pictures with the signs. Some are so young that only the top of their head stands out above the letters.
A group of musicians gather on the steps, running back and forth as they untangle a thick jumble of black cords. Others make their way through the crowds, handing out flyers with the lyrics to Harperman printed on them.
A whisper runs though the crowd as the chatter suddenly dims. Slowly, heads start to turn to the traffic-filled Wellington Street that runs in front of Parliament. A big red bus has pulled up.
“Oh my God, Justin Trudeau is here!” shouts a tall woman in a blue puffer coat.
The rumour dies as quickly as it has spread, as a group clad in jeans and thick sweaters tumble out of the bus. Most definitely not the Liberal entourage.
The bus-goers walk briskly up the path, as the MC announces their arrival.
“We have a group joining us here from Toronto to sing Harperman with us today! Let’s welcome them!” she says.
The new arrivals merge with the earlier protesters, forming a sizeable crowd as local news teams begin to swarm on site, running to and fro with cameras on their shoulders and mics in hand.
A guitar strikes the first few notes, and the group becomes still for a minute, drawing one breath before they burst into song.
“Harperman it’s time for you to go,” the group sings boisterously, raising their signs high in the air, the higher-pitched children’s voices standing out above the voices of the rest crowd.
A group of women clad in florals lead the song, their richly patterned coats sticking out against the public servants, young families, activists and onlookers gathered together, clutching their lyrics and singing loudly against the biting wind.
Confident that the election is alive and well here after all, I make my way away from the Hill.
It’s a quiet night in Ottawa, however, and the closest thing I can find to a political event is a Vietnamese restaurant with signs from all three major parties plastered across its windows.
If this partisan way of showing non-partisanship is designed to attract clients, then it’s working. The place is packed, with dozens of hot bowls of soup steaming up the windows from within.
Discouraged and slightly hungry, I give up my political search for the evening.
Election Day dawns bright and early with another crisp Ottawa morning. Despite having voted in Halifax, I quickly head out to a local polling station, expecting to see line-ups around the corner.
Twist: there are only three people here, and I’m not allowed into the room to go talk to them. E-Day is off to a rough start.
I decide to make my way towards Parliament again, hoping to find more eager crowds on the Hill (or, worst case scenario, procure some more poutine).
“Because most of the people in Ottawa are bureaucrats, we technically have no political opinions. In other cities people can share their opinions a little bit more, meaning that the aura of excitement around the elections might be a little bit more.”
The light drizzle is keeping people off the streets, making downtown Ottawa relatively quiet. As I arrive on the Hill, the lawns and the walk are empty, save for a large media crew. It appears that they had the same idea as I did, as they walk around searching for people to talk to.
On a whim, I decide to take a tour of Parliament: maybe, going into the seat of power, there will be a hint of excitement at the changes that are to come?
Once again, a silly choice. The House of Commons hasn’t sat in months. On this final day of 78 days of campaigning, Parliament remains empty once more, save for a group of tourists being ushered around the cavernous stone halls.
My guide tells us about the history of the country and of our parliamentary system. He points out portraits and sculptures as we make our way around the building. At the end of the tour, he adds a brief side note for the tourists to inform them there is a federal election happening today.
I corner him quickly at the end of the tour, as the crowd dissipates.
“The general consensus on the Hill is that people are excited for the election, but we can’t be very vocal about what we want the results to be or are hoping for the results to be, so that may be why it doesn’t seem as though people are excited,” he says.
I expected a quick, one-sentence quote from this guide who preferred not to be named, but he continued with the most insightful commentary of my time in Ottawa.
“Politics is like religion. People don’t want to offend anybody; they don’t want to burn bridges, they’re going to tread softly. They’re going to keep their opinions to themselves and let their opinions speak in the election booth.”
And then comes the sentence that seems to define my hunt for a story in the nation’s capital:
“Because most of the people in Ottawa are bureaucrats, we technically have no political opinions. In other cities people can share their opinions a little bit more, meaning that the aura of excitement around the elections might be a little bit more.”
Aha! It all makes sense now, I suppose.
As the polls in Atlantic Canada begin to close, I make my way to the campus bar at the University of Ottawa: the election plays on one television in the corner of the room, but most heads are turned the opposite direction, focusing intently on the Blue Jays game.
Unable to find a seat or even a place to stand, I seek refuge in the home of some fourth-year political science students. They all watch Peter Mansbridge with rapt attention on the television, while simultaneously clutching iPads for polling data and iPhones to consult Twitter.
This is the crux of the Ottawa reaction to the election: people care, but they show it behind closed doors. As my wise guide pointed out, political activism is a lot less easy to spot in a town filled to the brim with public servants.
I usher in the new Liberal majority amongst screaming, hugging, giddy students, all of whose part-time jobs are on the Hill, and none of whom can give an official response to their views on the election. But the jubilant cries at each Liberal riding gained speak much louder than any statement could about how Ottawa’s feelings about the end of the Harper era.
Buoyant with the thrill of a new government and a landmark election (and possibly a glass or two of celebratory champagne), I hit the streets of Ottawa in the hope of finding other revellers, or at least one or two saddened Conservatives.
Ottawa is not known across the country as a particularly lively city. On Election Night 2015 it proved every critic right. Ottawa after the Senators win a game is filled with screaming fans and honking cars. But Ottawa after a declared Liberal majority is close to a ghost town, the roads quiet, figures tightly bundled up in coats walking quickly as they make their way home.
Pounding the eerily empty pavement of downtown Ottawa, I find a bar screening the final inning of the Blue Jays game on all four screens.
The sea of blue hats offers no hint of political affiliation, but instead of sports fanaticism. The patrons inside scream not out of excitement at a new chapter in Canadian history, but instead at the baseball results blaring loudly from all corners of the room.
“I really don’t know about the election. We were about to roll a joint though. Want a hit?”
After an extensive search and a series of lewd heckles from a drunken homeless man, I eventually find a group of four people, huddled around the Byward Market BeaverTail stand.
With great enthusiasm, voice recorder in hand, I walk up and ask what their thoughts are about the election results.
They smile widely, eyelids drooping as they chuckle. I ask again, fearing they hadn’t heard me.
“I really don’t know about the election. We were about to roll a joint though. Want a hit?”
I resist the urge to inform the kind stoners of how their request related to the Liberal Party’s promise of legalized weed, refuse the offer and move on.
I continue to wander through the empty Byward market until I find a woman who is willing to say a few words about the election. But alas, she didn’t even vote.
“I will be honest with you, I didn’t vote because I disagree with the system. We’re supposed to be democratic and we’re not, because we’re voting for a party that are going to govern us for the next four years and they’re not going to ask us for any vote on what they’ve decided ” says Alexandra Brunet, a Montreal native visiting Ottawa for the weekend.
Watching a sea of red sweep the ridings across our country, it would be so very easy to think that election mania was everywhere in Canada, as people desperate for a change turned out in hoards to vote. And maybe that enthusiasm was in Ottawa too, hiding behind other closed doors, keeping any partisan enthusiasm out of the public eye.
But on a cold October weekend in the nation’s capital, this fervour was near impossible to find.
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