Tag: ottawa

The Evolving Ethnic Character

November 5, 2024

During the late 1950s, I worked alongside Steve as a draftsman at the Buildings and Grounds Department of the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. Although we were recent Hungarian immigrants, we differed in our behavior in the office; he used to bring his breakfast to work unlike me, I ate at home. He spread some grease paper on his drafting table and ate his breakfast of smelly, garlicky sausage with a thick slice of brown bread. The powerful smell permeating the room bothered the rest of us working there, but nobody wanted to tell him to eat his breakfast at home and save us from the unpleasant smells. Eating a smelly breakfast at work was not Canadian, and still is not. I am not sure if that behavior was Hungarian. However, I heard Steve became a successful architect and integrated into Canadian society in a few years.

In contrast to Steve, some individuals never assimilate into the local culture and instead choose to return home. A Hungarian friend’s mother embraced women’s freedom in Canada and entered the workforce. Her husband was not as successful, and he felt he had lost his masculine dominance in the household, so he returned to Hungary, but the wife stayed in Canada with the children.

I do not know how others in Vancouver perceived my ethnicity when I arrived in Canada in the late 1950s, except that they noticed my English language skills and accent. I improved in record time and assimilated into local culture in many other ways.

One strategy I used was always to try to fit in and go with the flow; for example, I acquired a taste for beer when I drank with my classmates while finishing architectural projects at all-night sessions at the UBC School of Architecture.  I was not too fond of beer then, but drinking with my classmates led me to develop a taste for it.

Other opportunities for cultural assimilation arose when I attended concerts with Elvis Presley at the PNE and Dave Brubeck at the old Georgia Auditorium in Vancouver. Later on, I acquired a taste for rock music. My father could not understand why I listened to The Grateful Dead, The Bachman Turner Overdrive, Credence Clearwater Revival, and their ilk; he thought music was only classical.  

I further embraced local culture when we started camping and canoeing after marriage. Later, we traveled widely in a tent trailer across Canada with our children and a dog. After getting tired of hauling a tent trailer, we bought a cottage. And cottaging is a Canadian thing; only a couple of immigrants own cottages out of a hundred neighbors where our cottage is (I realize immigrants may not have the money for a cottage).

While I have been in North America since 1957 and consider myself part of North American culture, I am always intrigued when I hear Hungarian being spoken. My language abilities in Hungarian are equivalent to that of a sixteen-year-old, the age I was when I departed the country. While traveling in France last summer, I heard a group talking in Hungarian in Arles. I introduced myself to them, and we spoke about Hungary today compared to the one I left. I had to search for some words since my fluency in Hungarian was spotty, but it was a satisfying conversation.

A recent event drew me back to my ethnic background. Kathy met a Hungarian woman at a grocery store who recommended that we join the Hungarian Community Center in Ottawa.  I followed up and decided to attend a social event celebrating the anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. I hoped to listen to conversations in Hungarian and perhaps meet some people from Sopron from where we fled, so I looked forward to the event. I was somewhat fearful of how I would react to my countrymen and whether I could intelligently converse with them, limited by my sparse vocabulary and lack of practice speaking the language.

Upon entering the building, nobody welcomed us. We found our way to take a couple of seats and looked around. All age groups were there, from children to grey hairs, and they all seemed to know each other. And I heard only Hungarian spoken. There was a celebratory feeling in the air; some people were informally dressed, while others wore pin-striped suits. Nobody showed interest in us.

The MC asked the Hungarian Ambassador to Canada to speak. She spoke in Hungarian, and I whispered to Kathy and explained what was happening.

Although we were in Canada, curiously, there was absolutely no French or English spoken, and there was no acknowledgment of land rights by the Indigenous people of Canada, a custom in all public events now. That made me think that the Hungarians have a thousand-year history occupying the land of Hungary. The Ottomans took over the land at one time and the Germans at another time, but there had never been an acknowledgment of previous land ownership and compensation for taking the land. To my knowledge, the concept of compensation to earlier landowners has no currency in Hungarian thought. That made me think of how people interpret history in different parts of the world.

After the Ambassador’s speech, we enjoyed some poetry and dancing by third-generation Candaian-Hungarians, indicating that some families kept their culture intact. When the Ambassador asked people who came to Canada after the 1956 Revolution to stand up, I counted half a dozen out of fifty, including myself. So, most of these people were second—and third-generation Hungarians who maintained their native culture.

One of the celebration’s highlights was serving “langos,” a Hungarian breakfast food similar to doughnuts, fried dough covered with cheese, cinnamon, and/or garlic. I lined up to get a couple of langos and limited by my language skills, I ended up with two plain ones. There is not much taste to plain ones, so I returned for another one with cheese and garlic to enhance its flavor. I put on too much garlic that burned our mouths, and we took it home, not wanting to throw it away in front of the Hungarian crowd, showing our dislike of it.

Frankly, the event disappointed me because nobody welcomed or showed interest in us while we sat in the audience. Of course, we could have approached people, but they all seemed either to know and talk with each other or to be occupied with moving chairs around and other official matters.

The people were not unfriendly; they seemed to accept and ignore us. For some reason, I felt quite at home, understanding the language, although Kathy felt ignored. I felt as if I was on an island with my old countrymen. When I lined up for our langos at the kitchen, I heard the women working there talking to each other; one kneading the dough and cutting portions to fry, another frying, and the third putting the cheese and/or cinnamon on and serving it. The entire atmosphere felt homey. Based on our strange experience with this celebration, we decided to try again and attend a party next week with dinner, a concert, and dancing. I hope we won’t. be disappointed.

The Flag Raising

October 25 2024

I had mixed feelings about going. It would evoke nostalgic memories—neither negative nor positive, just neutral emotions. I may meet people with my ethnic background. Ethnic individuals tend to display increasingly ethnic behavior as they age. I was not one of those people; I escaped Hungary because there was no future for me there, or at least, that is what my parents thought.

Upon learning about the flag-raising ceremony at Ottawa City Hall to commemorate the 68th anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956, I decided to go downtown and see what it was all about. Perhaps I’ll encounter elderly and weathered Hungarians, eavesdrop on Hungarian conversations, and cross paths with someone from Sopron, a small town close to the Austrian border where we lived and from where I walked to Vienna shortly after the October 23, 1956, Revolution.
At the base of a flagpole, I spotted the Hungarian flag and approached a clutch of people congregating. Speaking in English, I asked a bald and paunchy character if he was Hungarian. He said no, mentioning that he was part of a Member of Parliament’s staff from Wascana, Saskatchewan. He also informed me that the MP would speak briefly during the presentation. Ok. And then the Liberal MP from Wascana, seeing me talking to his staff, came over, shook hands, and explained that he was one-quarter Hungarian. I responded that I am 100 percent Hungarian. I inquired about his absence from the caucus meeting this morning, where numerous MPs were anticipated to call for the Prime Minister’s resignation as head of the Liberal Party. I cannot recall his answer, but he was a nice young fellow, and we exchanged a few words about the beauty of his province.

Turning around, a blonde woman in a business suit introduced herself as the Commercial Attaché for the Hungarian Embassy. We switched to speaking Hungarian, and suddenly, I noticed that all the people were well-dressed: the women wore business attire, and the men wore suits. I realized I was underdressed, I wore a red windbreaker, jeans, running shoes, and a baseball cap. If only I had shaved and dressed more formally this morning. Come to think of it, it is a major annual event to celebrate the Hungarian heroes who fought Russian tanks with handguns and risked their lives.

In just a few days and the weeks that followed the uprising in Budapest, the Russian tanks arrived and crushed the Revolution. Three thousand individuals perished, and 200,000 fled to foreign nations as refugees. Thirty-five thousand Hungarian refugees came to Canada after the Revolution.

We were greeted and addressed by the Deputy Mayor of Ottawa. As we sat down, I noticed at least fifty people had attended the event. I felt I was in a multicultural milieu already – Canadian and Hungarian –  especially after the Deputy Mayor started his speech by thanking the Anishinaabe people for using their unceded land, a standard introduction for public events in Canada recently. It is a small token for reconciling the injustices Canadians meted out to the Indigenous people in the past. I find this practice gratuitous, odious, and dishonest; I never heard that we Canadians would ever return the lands to the indigenous people. So, what is the purpose of this note of thanks? And, of course, it had nothing to do with the Hungarian Revolution half a world away, sixty-eight years ago.

The two MPs spoke next before the Hungarian Ambassador to Canada talked about the Revolution. She mentioned a few Hungarian Canadians who had become famous internationally, including Alanna Morrisette, whose grandfather came to Canada after the Revolution, and John Polanyi of the University of Toronto, a Nobel Prize winner who attended high school in Toronto in the early 1940s, when his parents sent him to Canada for safety during the rise of Nazi Germany.

The other curious thing was that the Ambassador spoke in English and French, Canada’s official languages, but not in Hungarian. I am sure there must be some protocol for speaking in public in Canada, but this was a Hungarian event celebrating a historical event, so I thought she could have given a trilingual presentation greeting us.

While listening to the anthems of Hungary and Canada, the Ambassador raised the flag, and that was it. I looked around for some kindred souls but saw mostly suited men and well-dressed women. If they were Hungarians, they were the second generation following the Revolution.  A clutch of embassy people spoke in Hungarian next to me when I noticed three scruffy looking, wizened old folks who turned out to be Hungarians. They all knew each other, and their facial expressions seemed to exude some impatience with all these well-dredded folks, all the officials present without direct experience of the Revolution.

The irony of this celebration did not escape me: Victor Orban, the current Prime Minister of Hungary, is friendly with Putin’s Russia, while here we are celebrating the freedom fight against the Russians sixty years ago.

I was in grade eleven in 1956, when the Uprising broke out. Our small town had no news except that trouble was brewing in Budapest. It was big trouble, it turned out, and my parents worried about my older brother Peter, a first-year medical student in Budapest. Not having cell phones, we had no news of Peter. It took three or four days, I cannot recall exactly, when Peter showed up at the apartment house where we lived, dirty and tired after walking from Budapest to Sopron, a distance of some two hundred kilometers (circa 120 miles).

As soon as Peter showed up, our mother prepared a couple of sandwiches and ordered us to walk to Vienna with the name of a Jesuit priest who had been a classmate of my uncle at the University of Vienna. We were obedient boys, and Peter and I started walking on the highway to Vienna, where we joined an exodus of wall-to-wall people escaping the country. It was a time when my brain did not seem to function with understanding; I felt like a robot, without thinking, a state of mind that saved my sanity. We had no idea where our journey would take us and what we would do when we arrived. So yes, the flag-raising event did stir up some memories, which had faded over time. The walk to Vienna was a significant event in my life and made me think about what could have happened if we had stayed back home in Hungary. I recall a film I saw once that tracked the lives of people who made a career decision and compared their lives to what could have happened if they had made another career decision. In real life, one cannot return and take another fork in the road. My immigrant story has been a challenging but highly satisfying experience. I would not have missed it if I had a choice.

What You Learn on a Bike Ride

September 9 2024

I put the bikes on the Thule rack to drive to one of the parking lots along the Ottawa River Parkway. Although we could have cycled from our house to get there, whenever possible I avoid riding on city streets with all the traffic on them.  But when we arrived at the Parkway, we found the two lanes with access to the parking lots closed to car traffic; they were reserved for cyclists on this Saturday. So, we decided to park on a vacant government parking lot nearby, hoping that there would be no monitoring of these lots on a Saturday (by the way, the remote work policy mandates the civil service to work two days per week in the office, so most parking lots for them are nearly empty).

Riding over to the Parkway, we noticed a giant sign indicating the Saturday cycling only sign on the “Kichi Zibi Mekan,” the new name for the Parkway. Let me provide a little history. We used to call this road the “Western Parkway” or the “Ottawa River Parkway”. Both names were geographically suggestive. But in 2012, the government renamed it “Sir John A. MacDonald Parkway” after the first Prime Minister of Canada, a historical name unrelated to geography. We used to call it the “SJAM,” an easy and short name. In 2023, the government renamed it in the Algonquin language, “Kichi Zibi Mekan,” in English: “Great Old River.”

I preferred the Ottawa River Parkway name; it seemed tied to and congruent with the Ottawa River when driving, walking, or riding. Renaming decisions were and are political, in my view. The Conservative government picked Sir John’s name. Sir John was a Conservative politician. When Sir John acquired a bad reputation for his policies towards First Nations, the Canadian public ostracized him. Remember when his monuments were destroyed? This reflects the changing attitudes towards historical figures in Canada.

Instead of returning to the original name, the government, in the spirit of the current ‘reconciliation’ with Indigenous people in Canada, named it in the Algonquin language that few people speak in Ottawa. This ‘reconciliation’ refers to the ongoing efforts to address the historical injustices and promote a better relationship between the Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples in Canada. The name seems divorced from the Ottawa River for English-speaking people; it is three words in the Algonquin language. It is unintelligible to me. However, it is a step towards recognizing and honoring Ottawa’s Indigenous history and culture.

Our bicycle ride took us across the old railroad bridge from Ottawa to Gatineau. I thought the bridge’s name was the Prince of Wales Bridge. The Quebec, Ontario, Ottawa, and Occidental Railway was built in 1880 and christened with a name that lasted over 124 years, although its function as a rail bridge had stopped years ago. However, the bridge went through a major rehabilitation the past couple of years, into a multi-use pathway spanning the Ottawa River; the Ottawa City Council reopened it as the Chief William Commanda bridge.

My curiosity led me to find out who Chief William Commanda was. Commanda was an Algonquin elder, spiritual leader, and chief of the Ashininabeg First Nation for 19 years. In 2008, he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada, an award for meritorious service in Canada. The rehabilitation of the bridge and its renaming as the Chief William Commanda Bridge not only honors his legacy but also provides a safe and scenic route for cyclists and pedestrians to cross the Ottawa River.

I cannot comment on how well-known Commanda was among the Algonquin people or on his accomplishments since this was the first I had heard of him before the Ottawa City Council announced the name of the rehabilitated bridge. But I wonder why we needed a new name and why the new geographic names in Ottawa appear to be acquiring Algonquin memes.

To understand the local politicians’ emphasis on the Algonquin Nation, it’s important to note that the Algonquins have occupied the Ottawa area for over a thousand years. Today, most of the 8,000 Algonquin people live on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River. Therefore, using Algonquin history in naming local streets, bridges, and venues is attractive from a historical perspective and a way to pay respect to the Indigenous people who have shaped the region’s history.

I am less impressed by the use of the Algonquin language in naming parts of Ottawa, like Kichi Zibi Mikan for the Ottawa River Parkway; the words in English mean “Great River Road.” Why not call it the latter? It is understandable in English and carries the historical Algonquin connotation. Members of the Algonquin nation may understand the name but form a minuscule percentage of the population of Ottawa, where over 36,000 people speak Arabic, 16,000 speak Spanish, and 14,000 speak Chinese, in contrast to the 1000 people who speak any indigenous language, including Algonquin (Ottawa’s population is one million).   Based on this precedent, should we see Ottawa venues named in Arabic, Spanish, and Chinese words?

The growth and diversity of Ottawa’s population make the city an exciting place for bike rides. Reflecting on our experiences during our bike rides, we often like to end our trips with a relaxing coffee. This time, the bike path returning from Gatineau across the William Commanda Bridge led us to the Art-Is-In Bakery close to downtown, where we had lunch. I was pleasantly surprised by the long lineup for service and the bustling crowd inside and on the outside patio, especially the vibrant presence of young people. It felt like a scene from the cafes in Marseille around the inner harbor, a delightful surprise in the heart of Ottawa.

There is no question that Ottawa is becoming a sophisticated metropolitan city, with elaborate bike paths sporting historical names and crowded cafes with outdoor patios. However, I prefer to keep street names and similar venues in their original toponymy and not subject them to political whims.

Climate Change in Fifty Years

August 2, 2024

While drilling a tooth in my mouth, the dentist asked me if I thought it was warmer in Ottawa now than a decade ago. Once he pulled out the drill from my mouth and my tongue got free to speak, I said yes. I said absolutely; this area is becoming a retirement community with a balmier climate that has superseded the cold winters. We now have longer, warmer summers and shorter, more tolerable winters.

The impact of climate change on winter sports is undeniable. The once long and enjoyable cross-country skiing season has been noticeably shortened. On the other hand, urban walking in winter has improved. With less snow, we can now stroll around town all winter, often with no snow on the ground.

But let me go back to the winter of 1974 when Ottawa’s average January temperature was 12 degrees Fahrenheit. In contrast, Ottawa’s average January temperature in 2024 was 21 degrees Fahrenheit. This is a significant upward move that has been gradual in my memory. The last few years have been mild and quite manageable, wearing light winter jackets.

Another example of the gradual warming is the number of days the Canal has been open for skating over the years. Dubbed the longest skating rink in the world, the Canal opened for skating in 1972 and was open for ninety days; the temperature was so cold that the ice on the Canal was three feet deep, the standard used for safe skating. It was open for twelve days in 2024 and never opened in 2023.

Leaving the dentist’s office, I met my friend, who explained that we have climate change, but he does not believe we have “global warming.” He agreed that climate change is real; this may be the hottest month in Ottawa, with daily temperatures in the nineties. He questions climate science and quotes periods when we have had warming and cooling over the last thousands of years.

He said Wade Davis’s chapter in his just-published book Beneath the Nature of Things provided the best and most balanced description of the climate issue he had ever read. Davis is a Professor of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia. In his essay, he provides a brief history of the climate change movement from its beginning in 1972 at the Copenhagen Conference.

Davis describes the cult-like followers of the climate crisis, including Greta Thunberg. He also mentions Steve Koonin (the science advisor to President Obama) and those who, although agreeing that the planet is in serious trouble embracing the carbon economy, believe technology will help solve the issue. There are also geopolitical issues: the South is asking for reparations; the North has had the time to create the problem while developing its economy and now asks the South to forego development based on the carbon economy. That does not seem fair. 

Davis intersperses his essay with fascinating facts, for example China approving the opening of 180 coal mines yearly and airline companies having 12,000 airplanes on order. These are examples of how these initiatives will increase rather than decrease the carbon economy. Also, 80 % of India has yet to fly, and sooner or later, all these people would want to experience flying, adding to the amount of carbon dioxide in the air.

The answer: Davis believes in setting action plans instead of target reduction plans; to date, the twenty-eight climate conferences have come up with watery plans, sometimes using misleading data, for example when the NATO countries came up with a target of 24% reduction when they had already achieved 12% of it by letting the ex-Soviet satellite countries join NATO.

Reading Davis’s essay made me wonder if I have ever done anything to reduce my carbon footprint. I belong to the group of people who do not feel the urgency of acting on a doomsday scenario that happens in decades. Polls show that although many believe in the danger of global warming, they are unwilling to act on it since it happens in the future.

Our new car is a hybrid EV. Did we get it because it is environmentally better than a carbon-fueled car? No, it was an economic decision: the mileage is much better than in a fully carbon-fueled car. We have not reduceed our travels to visit family and friends by air or automobile. And we have not downsized to save on heating fuel and AC. Should we?

Many factors influence the decisions to reduce our carbon footprint. The first one is to be convinced that the doomsday scenarios are real. But I have not had the experience that would convince me that we are on the threshold of a crisis.

If I travelled in an area with industrial pollution and massive car traffic resulting in hazy weather, I would put higher priority on solving air pollution resulting from the carbon economy. But that is not my recent experience.

Driving from Pittsburgh, PA, to Durham, NC, via West Virginia, we have seen vast expanses of beautiful open space with rolling hills. We have not seen any air pollution. We smelled fresh air. We also flew from Ottawa to Vancouver a few weeks ago and observed the vast lands underneath with no population. There is crowding with car pollution along parts of the East and West coasts, but most of the country in between is empty. So, I am not inclined to believe we have a climate problem based on my experience. I know there has been a gradual warming in the Ottawa area over the last fifty years. Beyond that, I have a minimal understanding of the future.

Traveling on the Boeing 737 Max: A Passenger’s Perspective

July 9, 2024

The travel agent booked us a flight from Ottawa to Vancouver. It was a non-stop flight. That is what I like. However, I discovered the plane was a Boeing 737 Max when I received the itinerary. The infamous one. You remember? That model crashed twice, once in 2018 (Lion Air Indonesian Airline) and once in 2019 (Ethiopian Airlines), where 346 people died. After the crashes, all flying authorities banned the plane; all airlines grounded the 737 Max aircraft, and a whole set of studies began to identify the causes.

All 737 Max’s sat on the ground for almost two years; after substantial changes and modifications to these planes, some authorities and airlines eased up, and the aircraft flew again. The studies indicated that the company rushed the plane’s production to compete with other similarly designed planes and indulged in cost-cutting measures without attention to safety. Subsequently, the company changed its executive suite, the CEO left, and the company paid over $2.5 billion to the victims, to the airlines inconvenienced by the grounding of the planes and a penalty. The 737 Max was back in production and flying again by 2021.

The travel agent assured me that the plane was safe. She said the 737 Max was probably the most studied and safest plane today. She did not mention that a 737 Max lost a panel (a door plug) off the fuselage on an Alaska Airlines flight in January, forcing the plane to an emergency landing.

Did her opinion make me feel good about the safety of the aircraft? I am not sure, but we had tickets on it. At any rate, what options did we have? Should we look for another flight, airline, or route that avoids the 737 Max? Should we cancel our trip?

My thoughts raced around flying on this airplane, including the possibility of crashing. But why worry if all authorities and airlines are comfortable with this plane? In the end, we boarded the plane.

The Boeing 737 Max is a narrow-bodied plane with a three-plus-three-seat configuration. The seats are 18 inches wide, while the aisle is twenty inches wide. Up front, there are sixteen first-class seats in four rows, followed by 159 economy seats, separated by a bulkhead from the premier seats.

The travel agent booked us on an aisle and a window seat behind the bulkhead, explaining that middle seats are the least popular and that we may find additional space between us should the middle seat stay unoccupied. The idea did not work out this time; the plane was packed, and we had a pleasant gentleman watching adventure movies during the flight to Vancouver.

The toilet up front, only five rows ahead from the bulkhead where we sat, was strictly for first-class passengers. Economy-class passengers had toilets in the back of the plane, meaning we had to walk back twenty-five rows. To add insult to injury, the sixteen first-class people had one toilet while we, economy-class people, while 159 economy-class passengers had two.

You can draw any number of conclusions, but most people use a washroom at least once during a five-hour flight. When I visited the toilet, there was a lineup at the back of the plane along the narrow aisle. I thought I would never reserve a seat at the end of this plane.

What was interesting and disturbing was that the two toilets in the back of the airplane were adjacent to the food trucks. I thought this layout would not pass food inspectors in our city. I assume the reason for putting the service area next to the toilets was an efficient and tight layout design.

But wait a minute; I am not finished with the toilets yet. Let me say that while waiting my turn, I noticed some people turning sideways to enter the toilet. The door to the bathroom was narrow. Someone entered the toilet, backing into it, figuring there may not be enough room to turn around inside!

I also intuitively thought there was something unfair about first-class ticket holders receiving quick access to toilets while others, sitting in the back of the bus—sorry, back of the plane—line up for a toilet visit. We are people with similar natural needs, and the waiting time for a toilet should be identical.  

On the other hand, the service was excellent except for the slowdowns when the food trucks had to back up, letting people attend to their toilet needs in the narrow aisle of the economy class. The narrow aisles also made it difficult to pass each other.

I read that the Boeing 737 Max has been a commercial success. Air Canada has forty aircraft, and many more are on order. I wish, though, that the designers rethink the airplane’s layout to provide better access to toilets for all classes of passengers.

I also read today that Boeing admitted to mismanagement, resulting in a couple of crashes to avoid being sued in court (July 8, 2024).