My apologies for the delay. Hopefully you’ll understand that I was occupied with happenings and challenges that warranted the devotion of more attention than this blogging world. Because really, while I enjoy the chance to write and log life and express, nothing beats living and doing, right?

I must begin by saying that unless you’ve lived in Ottawa, you fully appreciate the beauty of Parliament. What? When you live here, when you drive by it every day, when its clock tower tolls the end of your lunch hour, it becomes a landmark less noteworthy. When they tell you that you’re attending the best journalism school in the country and that you’ll be working in the heart of government happenings, you’ll be excited. If you live here, you just want the envelope confirming you have something to do for the next four years. I lamented the inconvenience of having to walk down Wellington and pick up my press pass. Just for grades, check off to do list and move on.

But as I left the press pass office, I saw a “celebrity” reporter and got excited. As excited as seeing a real celebrity. Maybe this would be a little bit more fun than an assignment. My cameraperson and I walked onto Parliament Hill to get footage. We stopped on the sprawled green hill and looked up (“Way up”, as the giant used to say) at the Gothic-inspired stone majesty of Centre Block. We filmed the steps, the doors, the hallways. We walked past security stops and, carte blanche, explored the halls of our country. Portraits of past prime ministers line the walls. Gargoyles stuck their tongues out at us from every direction. Tourist amoeba groups slimed past us, unable to stop and revel and the beauty as we could..

We went to Question Period. I had been telling myself I “should” go to question period while I still live here. It’s one of the quintessential Ottawa things to do as a journalist, and here I was with the sand sliding down the hourglass and I was looking for excuses not to. There were deadlines, bus schedules, quality time at home to contend with. But a story took me to question period, and so we went.

We waited in the marble stone foyer outside the House of Commons we see every day in the news. Through the iron ivy across the windows, we saw the men and women debating our policy. We waited to interview some. The seasoned journalists hung out at the back. They didn’t go over notes, or refine questions because they knew what they were doing. They talked about going to the pub after, and about the strategies being used inside the House, they “clearly” knew what the best decisions would be, forget what the politicians are doing. Egos were big enough to fill the back of the room as their jeans-clad camera people waited patiently for their targets to come out at the front.

A few MPs came out and garnered little attention. Some steered clear of the bright lights, boom mikes and made mad dashes for the stairwell. I saw the prime minister briefly as he characteristically ignored the journalists. It was like being star struck. The faces I’d written about, had seen reported about on TV and read about were all around me. The pack journalists jumped on the popular MPs, sticking every mic, camera and light as close to the MP’s face as possible. Some yelled the MP’s name, some yelled inappropriate questions trying to get a reaction. I watched and smiled at how entertaining this scene was.
After about an hour, the MPs had been interviewed and moved on. We gathered our coats, bags and camera. We walked out the big stone doors under the peace tower. We left our media-access only and went out into Ottawa. Down the Parliament steps. I looked back at the Hill. At the thing people come to Ottawa to see, but that I only began to truly appreciate minutes earlier.