You could be in any capital city anywhere in the world and there are similarities, from the old quarters of the original city drawing hordes of tourists from near and afar, to the chaos of traffic and the sounds that a large city is known for in its discharge of an amalgam of peoples coming together under the flag of a single nation comprised of those who have migrated over the centuries to forge a social alliance.

Not quite as evident in the East as it is in the West, the observant eye is confronted with visible differences in the makeup of populations, yet everyone in that pluralism of humanity engaged in similar occupations, since all of humanity has a share in whatever drives existence, from the common mundane to the culture-specific.

Our drive along the Eastern Parkway was, as usual, pleasant and calming. The wide grass boulevards and the specimen trees coming into spring foliage, people bicycling along pathways or walking with dogs, or enjoying family outings, the mighty Ottawa River, the wide ribbon of dark, ruffled blue winding on its trajectory, bridges connecting Ontario to Quebec in the distance.

It was a heavily overcast day, the threat of rain imminent, though it had held off thoughtfully for us, giving us the opportunity for a leisurely ramble through the wooded ravine alongside our home neighbourhood. Rain had actually descended in a lethargic fashion as soon as we had arrived home from our walk. But then it stopped as we pulled out of our driveway and prepared for a little trip to downtown Ottawa.

Driving along Wellington Street, there is hoarding everywhere in the Parliamentary Precinct. From the Parliament buildings themselves, to the old Ottawa Train Station now the national Conference Centre, and the National Cenotaph, to any number of buildings in the process of upgrading to safety standards and aesthetic refurbishing. And the loud, pervasive sounds of traffic typical of large cities permeates the atmosphere, along with the piercing sound of first-responder vehicles responding to emergency calls, ambulances, police cars, firetrucks.

At Elgin Street, I remained behind in the vehicle with our two little black rascals, Jack and Jill, while my husband, furled umbrella in hand, set off after parking to a magazine shop nearby. As though on signal, I watched him unfurl the umbrella as he strode off, matching the sudden eruption of heavy rainfall which soon engulfed everyone, those scrambling by on the sidewalks, with and without umbrellas, seeking shelter beside or inside shops.

Later, under a dewy-light drizzle, we all disembarked at Byward Market to enter a few cheese specialty shops for delectable cheeses unavailable at supermarkets, and meandered along the outdoor stalls colourful with flowers, plants, new-crop vegetables, maple syrup and timely with freshly-harvested wild garlic, called 'ramps'; illegal to pick in nearby Gatineau Park, but irresistible to those local entrepreneurs looking to make a short season of selling them in elastic-banded little clumps.

These seasonal delicacies erupt from the forest floor in mid-spring, growing characteristically around the trunks of trees in the woods. In years past, when we would come across them in spring walks with our family, we would gently pluck one or two, shake the dirt from the bulbs, and munch them. That is, my husband and I would appreciate them, our children always grinned and waved off offers to share them.

A bunch larger than my husband's nostalgic appetite for them sit now on our kitchen counter, their aroma, certainly not to be mistaken for a delightful 'fragrance', heavy on the air.