Slow Mile

Ottawa on a Sunday feels like a city between breaths. The noise has stepped outside. The sky hangs low and undecided, the streets washed clean of urgency. Windows glow but no one hurries toward them. Even the pigeons look like they’re waiting for something to reopen.

You can walk the length of Elgin without breaking pace. The storefronts mirror empty sidewalks; buses pass half full, their reflections chasing themselves in the glass. Somewhere, a patio umbrella opens out of habit. The sound of one spoon in one cup carries farther than it should.

By noon, brunch crowds appear — slow, apologetic, hungover — then vanish again. The city folds back into itself. Buses idle with no one to pick up. A couple walks along the canal without speaking. The locks look frozen even when they’re not. Ottawa, at its quietest, always feels like it’s waiting for permission to start again.

You pass closed doors and chalkboard menus faded from last week’s specials. The sound of cutlery from one open patio travels a whole block. A bike bell, a single laugh, then nothing. The city’s pulse slows to the pace of digestion.

Every Sunday, Ottawa forgets who it’s supposed to impress. The suits are home, the speeches are off, and the restaurants breathe just enough to stay alive. For a few hours, it feels like a small town again — one that remembers what stillness sounds like.