Oh, Canada.

The first Canada Day I spent in Ottawa was a few years before I actually moved there. It was 2004, and I was a couple of months away from moving to Vancouver. I quit my job at the end of June with the intention of spending as much of my summer with my friends and family as possible, and when July first rolled around, I was already deep into living the dream. On the last day of June I drove to Ottawa from the cottage on Twelve Mile Lake, near Minden. These were the days before cellphones (or at least, they were for me, and even if I had one I don't think it would have worked on the roads I was wheeling along). I was driving my parents' borrowed Civic, and my mother was quietly beside herself, as she often was when I was tasked with driving anywhere on my own. My father was the picture of calm, drawing out the route for me on an Ontario map, tracing my trail in pink crayon. My father taught me to paddle a canoe and drive a car, and read a map. Or at least, he did his level best.

It was my first drive down those beautiful back roads near Algonquin Park and the edges of the Canadian Shield, my first solo trip along that path that would become so much more familiar in the years to come. After dinner I arrived at Freya's house on Smirle Street. A few hours later, my boyfriend came in from Oshawa, the first of many friends who would trickle in over the course of that evening and the next day. My memories of that Canada Day proper are generally out of focus. We hung around my friend Sarah's incredible Glebe backyard, that neighbourhood another foreshadow of my later life. Around sundown we stumbled down the Rideau Canal past people and families much less intoxicated than we. We stared up at the fireworks over Parliament Hill as overzealous Sens fans shouted in our ears. We stumbled back home and kept the party going, a great, sweaty, enthusiastic hoarde. The next morning, or maybe afternoon, we all woke up from pass-out points in stairwells and sofas and drove back out to the lake for a few more days of lake swimming and long sunsets. At the time I remember thinking, this is the happiest I will ever be. And in a certain way, I was right.

Years later, about two-thirds of the way through my Ottawa years, I celebrated what would be my last Canada Day in the capital. My parents came up for Canada Day as they often did. I hated living in Ottawa, I really did. The best times I spent there were when I had visitors, though, especially visitors who cleaned out my refrigerator and helped me rearrange the furniture. I'd taken a few days off at the end of June and was about to start a new job right after the holiday, and I was a delightful ball of nerves. As usual, part of the reason for my parents' visit was to calm me the fuck down; if you have ever spent Canada Day in our nation's capital you will realize what a tall order that was during the most hyper and frenetic few days in that frozen cursed city. Nevertheless, I put on a brave face and attempted to enjoy the fruits of the capital celebrations, or at least do a decent job of pretending.

On June 30th, we walked down to Parliament Hill and wandered around a little, visited the tourist centre my mom always liked to check out (my parents are the reason tourist centres exist). The sun was setting, and across the street they were doing the sound checks for the big Canada Day concert the next day. We were planning on coming down for that too, mainly because I knew that Joel Plaskett was on the bill and in spite of my severe agoraphobia and ambivalent nationalism, I'd be damned if I was going to miss a chance to see my secret husband live. As my parents thumbed through pamphlets I heard a sudden, familiar strain, the sound of a twelve-string guitar strumming a pattern I'd know anywhere, the opening chords of Face of the Earth. I squinted across the street and saw Joel's tiny frame on stage. "It's him," I said to my dad. He nodded, and I dashed across the street like the spasmatic fangirl I was. There were some people milling around, but mostly the area around the stage was deserted. I pressed myself up against the barricade and got as close as I could. No one else stood between me and Joel as he sang that heartbreaking song, the song that had so perfectly summed up the beautiful sadness that I felt in my Ottawa years. When he finished playing, I felt so quiet. I turned around to see my parents standing right behind me, and I don't think I said anything at all as we walked back to my little Glebe apartment. Within a year I'd leave Ottawa for Kingston. There are very few moments of my time in the capital that I feel truly thankful for, but that up close and personal moment with Plaskett on the Hill is definitely one of them.

There are other Canada Days I'd like to write about, and maybe I will, but not right now. Right now I'm slicing strawberries in my kitchen on Canada Street and waiting for Freya and her family to get here. Right now I'm making gin punch and watering my flowers and feeling the profound feeling of gratitude that comes with being home, strong, and free. Oh, Canada.