“Fuck it, I’m going to Montreal.” —Ancient Ottawan Proverb
The best travel plans are made at 2 a.m. It’s crucial to personal development that at least once in your life you make the decision to ditch on a whim, and actually follow through. Get some adrenaline in those veins and decide five hours ahead of time to blow everything off. The Greeks contended that all political decisions made sober must be reviewed while drunk, and vice versa. This is also a personal philosophy of travel—or, if you prefer, running.
We, the bohemian broke of Ottawa, are especially blessed. Running comes naturally to us. Or, less poetically (we’re dealing with topography after all, goddamn it), the time and space we occupy is rife with possibility. This possibility is perfectly manifested in three words: the express bus.
The majority of twenty-somethings run on gasoline. The proletariat don’t fly. We bus. A bus ticket for most students is the closest to a vacation they can get. Vacation pay and retirement belong to our parents. We might not have a pension but we can get the hell out of here. Remember: there’s no first class on a Greyhound. There’s no class distinction at all, because let’s face it, we’re in this together.
The beauty of this mini-escapism is especially prevalent here in Ottawa. We have the geographic advantage of being close to two other large urban environments full of the mouldable like-minded. These warm, mobile bodies can be found in Toronto and Montreal.
The ease of inexpensive travel allows for a certain kind of sudden, sporadic take-off. At a moment’s notice a weekend is able to shed its domestic skin and burst. It’s in this way that Ottawans get to live in not one, but three civical cultures.
Our proximity results in a ménage-a-trois of urban experience. This small-time travel allows students to participate in the scenes of Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal simultaneously, all for the price of a bus ticket every now and then. A network of bargains is formed between friends and communities—a copped car ride or a weekend of couch-surfing means new experiences run rampant with fresh life. Our possibilities for contact expand, while our wallets only slightly deflate.
Some static facts: Ottawa is brilliant. Don’t believe the friend of a friend’s roommate who contests that ‘Ottawa is the city that fun forgot.’ This is the laziest of assertions.
If you’re bored in Ottawa, you’re a boring person. Anyone can have a fun night in Toronto (just ask Rob Ford). This city, underneath the bureaucracy and blizzards, breathes. With the fear of party porn allegations looming, let’s just say that I’ve had some of the best nights of my life in this city. This blog was born out of *one*.
The best nights are products of passion. Ottawa’s lack of anonymity (inherent to larger cities like Montreal and Toronto) begets ardor. Perhaps it’s reactionary but there are people here seriously trying to make something happen. You can’t ignore that.
And yet, the urge to run kicks in. Ask locals from Vegas–even living the American Dream gets old. Despite the fact that Ottawa is the habitat of a a multitude of scenes, all of which offer vast opportunity, now and then the tough find themselves getting going. Maybe you’ve fucked your way into a corner or that essay was a Herculean task. It’s at these moments of youthful despair that these buses, this escapism, becomes saviour.
So maybe one of the best parts about living in Ottawa is being able to get out of it. But there’s still something to be said for coming home, and realizing everything is right where you left it.
