Soma is the sort of bottle that looks like it’s about to behave itself, and then gently does not. I bought this wine when it was first released and it’s been sitting in my cellar waiting for the right moment to help celebrate life.
Made by Revel Cider in Ontario, the 2018 Soma is a Pétillant-Naturel apple wine, which is a polite way of saying it was allowed to do its own thing. Nothing added, nothing taken away. The apples were cryoconcentrated by winter itself, left to freeze so the good bits could huddle together and become more interesting. Wild yeasts were invited in. Fermentation finished in the bottle. Bubbles happened naturally. Order was optional.
In the glass, Soma arrives lightly coloured, with a fine, energetic sparkle. There is sediment, because of course there is, and it’s best treated like a houseguest who means well. Pour gently if you prefer clarity. Embrace it if you enjoy a little texture and mystery. Either approach is correct.
On the nose, this is all orchard and apple skin, with a hint of cider cellar and fresh bread dough drifting in from the fermentation. It flirts briefly with funk, then thinks better of it. The result is fresh, restrained, and quietly confident rather than loud or performative.
The palate is dry, crisp, and surprisingly serious beneath its playful fizz. The cryoconcentration gives the cider some backbone, adding depth and structure without tipping into sweetness. Apple flavours are precise and grown-up: more skin and flesh than juice. The bubbles keep things lively, lifting the acidity and carrying everything neatly through to a clean, savoury finish that knows when to leave.
At around 11.5 percent alcohol, Soma is very much a sit-down cider, not a lawnmower cider. It behaves more like a natural wine that happens to be made from apples, and it rewards being served cold, upright, and with a bit of attention. It’s excellent on its own and even better with food, particularly cheese or anything roasted and comforting.
The 2018 Soma manages the neat trick of being thoughtful without being smug. It’s playful without being silly, natural without being preachy, and serious enough to keep your interest while still feeling like it’s having fun. A bottle that sparkles, literally and otherwise.
Why Ottawa’s LRT Crisis Is a Public-Private Partnership Problem Ottawa’s Confederation Line is often discussed as a story of bad trains, harsh winters, or unfortunate teething problems. That framing is convenient. It is also wrong.
What Line One actually represents is a textbook failure of the public-private partnership model when applied to complex, safety-critical urban transit. The current crisis, in which roughly 70 percent of Line One’s rail cars have been removed from service due to wheel bearing failures, does not reflect a single engineering defect. It reflects a governance structure designed to diffuse responsibility precisely when responsibility matters most.
P3s and the Illusion of Risk Transfer Public-private partnerships are sold on a simple promise. Risk is transferred to the private sector. Expertise is imported. Costs are controlled. The public gets infrastructure without bearing the full burden of delivery.
In reality, Line One demonstrates the opposite. Risk was not transferred. It was obscured.
The City of Ottawa owns the system. A private consortium designed and built it. Operations and maintenance are contracted. Vehicles were selected through procurement frameworks optimized for bid compliance rather than long-term resilience. Oversight is fragmented across contractual boundaries. When failures emerge, every actor can point to a clause, a scope limit, or a shared responsibility.
The result is not efficiency. It is paralysis.
The Bearing Crisis as a Structural Warning Wheel bearing assemblies are not peripheral components. They are foundational safety elements, designed to endure hundreds of thousands of kilometres under predictable load envelopes. That Ottawa was forced to pull all cars exceeding approximately 100,000 kilometres of service is not routine maintenance. It is an admission that the system’s assumptions about wear, inspection, and lifecycle management were flawed.
Under a traditional public delivery model, this would trigger a clear chain of accountability. The owner would interrogate the design, mandate modifications, and absorb the political cost of service reductions during remediation.
Under the P3 model, the response is slower and narrower. Each intervention must be negotiated within contractual constraints. Remedies are evaluated not only on technical merit, but on liability exposure. Decisions that should be engineering-led become legalistic.
This is not a bug in the P3 model. It is the model working as designed.
Why Transit Is a Bad Fit for P3s Urban rail systems are not highways or buildings. They are complex, adaptive systems operating in real time, under variable conditions, with zero tolerance for cascading failure. They require continuous learning, rapid feedback loops, and the ability to redesign assumptions as reality intrudes.
P3 structures actively inhibit these qualities.
They separate design from operations. They treat maintenance as a cost center rather than a safety function. They rely on performance metrics that reward availability on paper rather than robustness in practice. Most importantly, they fracture institutional memory. Lessons learned are not retained by the public owner. They are buried in proprietary reports and contractual disputes.
Line One’s repeated failures, from derailments to overhead wire damage to bearing degradation, are not independent events. They are symptoms of a system that cannot self-correct because no single entity is empowered to do so.
The Expansion Paradox Ottawa is now extending Line One east and west while the core remains unstable. This is often framed as momentum. In policy terms, it is escalation.
Every kilometre of new track increases operational complexity and maintenance load. Every new station deepens public dependence on a system whose reliability has not been structurally resolved. Under a P3 framework, expansion also multiplies contractual interfaces, compounding the very governance problems that caused the original failures.
This is how cities become locked into underperforming infrastructure. Not through malice or incompetence, but through institutional inertia reinforced by sunk costs.
A Policy Alternative Rejecting P3s is not a call to nostalgia. It is a recognition that certain assets must be governed, not merely managed.
Urban rail requires: • Unified ownership of design, operations, and maintenance. • Independent technical authority answerable to the public, not contractors. • Lifecycle funding models that prioritize durability over lowest-bid compliance. • The ability to redesign systems midstream without renegotiating blame.
None of these are compatible with the current P3 framework.
Cities that have learned this lesson have moved back toward public delivery models with strong in-house engineering capacity and transparent accountability. Ottawa should do the same, not after the next failure, but now.
The Real Cost of P3 Optimism The cost of Line One is no longer measured only in dollars. It is measured in lost confidence, constrained mobility, and the quiet normalization of failure in essential infrastructure.
Public-private partnerships promise that no one pays the full price. Ottawa’s experience shows the opposite. When everyone shares the risk, the public absorbs the consequences.
Line One does not need better messaging or tighter performance bonuses. It needs a governance reset. Until that happens, every bearing replaced is merely another patch on a system designed to forget its own mistakes.
Sources CityNews Ottawa. “OC Transpo forced to remove trains from Line 1 due to wheel bearing issue.” January 2026. https://ottawa.citynews.ca Yahoo News Canada. “70% of Ottawa’s Line 1 trains out of service amid bearing problems.” January 2026. https://ca.news.yahoo.com Transportation Safety Board of Canada. “Rail transportation safety investigation reports related to Ottawa LRT derailments.” 2022–2024. https://www.tsb.gc.ca OC Transpo. “O-Train Line 1 service updates and maintenance notices.” https://www.octranspo.com
Ottawa’s Confederation Line was meant to be the spine of a growing capital. Instead, it has become a case study in how complex systems fail slowly, publicly, and expensively when accountability is diluted and warning signs are treated as inconveniences rather than alarms.
The most recent episode is stark even by Line One standards. Roughly 70 percent of the train car fleet has been removed from service due to wheel bearing failures, leaving the system operating with dramatically reduced capacity. This is not a cosmetic defect or a comfort issue. Wheel bearing assemblies are fundamental safety components. When they degrade, trains are pulled not because service standards slip, but because continued operation becomes unsafe.
That distinction matters.
A Fleet Designed at the Margins The Alstom Citadis Spirit trains operating on Line One were marketed as adaptable to Ottawa’s climate and operational demands. In practice, they appear to have been designed and procured with little margin for error. Investigations following earlier derailments already identified problems with wheel, axle, and bearing interactions under real-world conditions. The current bearing crisis suggests those lessons were not fully integrated into either design revisions or maintenance regimes.
OC Transpo’s decision to remove all cars that have exceeded approximately 100,000 kilometres of service is telling. That threshold is not a natural lifecycle limit for modern rail equipment. It is an emergency line drawn after degradation was discovered, not a planned overhaul interval. When preventive maintenance becomes reactive withdrawal, the system is already in trouble.
When Reliability Becomes Optional What riders experience as “unreliability” is, at the system level, something more troubling: normalized failure.
Short trains. Crowded platforms. Sudden slow orders. Unplanned single tracking. Bus bridges that appear with little notice. Each disruption is explained in isolation, yet they form a continuous pattern. The city has become accustomed to managing failure rather than preventing it.
This matters because transit is not a luxury service. It is civic infrastructure. When reliability drops below a certain threshold, riders do not simply complain. They adapt by abandoning the system where they can, which in turn undermines fare revenue, political support, and long-term mode shift goals. The system enters a feedback loop where declining confidence justifies lowered expectations.
Governance Without Ownership One of Line One’s enduring problems is that responsibility is everywhere and nowhere at once. The public owner is the City of Ottawa. Operations are contracted. Vehicles were procured through a public-private partnership. Maintenance responsibilities are split. Oversight relies heavily on assurances rather than adversarial verification.
When failures occur, no single actor clearly owns the outcome. This is efficient for risk transfer on paper, but disastrous for learning. Complex systems improve when failures are interrogated deeply and uncomfortably. Ottawa’s LRT has instead produced a culture of incremental fixes and carefully worded briefings.
The wheel bearing crisis did not appear overnight. It emerged from cumulative stress, design assumptions, and operational realities interacting over time. That is precisely the kind of problem P3 governance structures are worst at confronting.
The Broader System Cost The immediate impact is crowding and inconvenience. The deeper cost is strategic.
Ottawa is expanding Line One east and west while the core remains fragile. New track and stations extend a system whose reliability is still unresolved at its heart. Each extension increases operational complexity and maintenance demand, yet the base fleet is already struggling to meet existing service levels.
This is not an argument against rail. It is an argument against pretending that infrastructure can compensate for unresolved engineering and governance failures.
What Recovery Would Actually Require Recovery will not come from communications plans or incremental tuning. It requires three uncomfortable shifts.
First, independent technical authority with the power to halt service, mandate redesigns, and override contractual niceties. Not advisory panels. Authority.
Second, transparent lifecycle accounting. Riders and taxpayers should know what these vehicles were expected to deliver, what they are delivering, and what it will cost to bring reality back into alignment with promises.
Third, political honesty. Reliability will not improve without sustained investment, possible fleet redesign, and service compromises during remediation. The public can handle bad news. What it cannot handle indefinitely is spin.
A Spine, or a Lesson Ottawa’s Line One still has the potential to be what it was meant to be. The alignment is sound. The ridership demand exists. The city needs it.
But infrastructure does not fail because of a single bad component. It fails when systems tolerate weakness until weakness becomes normal. The wheel bearing crisis is not an anomaly. It is a signal.
The question now is whether Ottawa treats it as another incident to manage, or as the moment to finally confront the deeper architecture of failure that has defined Line One since its opening.
Sources:
CityNews Ottawa. “OC Transpo forced to remove trains from Line 1 due to wheel bearing issue.” January 2026. https://ottawa.citynews.ca Yahoo News Canada. “70% of Ottawa’s Line 1 trains out of service amid bearing problems.” January 2026. https://ca.news.yahoo.com Transportation Safety Board of Canada. “Rail transportation safety investigation reports related to Ottawa LRT derailments.” 2022–2024. https://www.tsb.gc.ca OC Transpo. “O-Train Line 1 service updates and maintenance notices.” https://www.octranspo.com
For more than four decades, Ontario’s archaeological system has rested on a quiet but essential bargain. Cultural heritage, once disturbed, cannot be reassembled. In exchange for allowing land to be developed, altered, and intensively used, the province embedded a requirement that trained professionals, operating at arm’s length from political power, would determine what lay beneath the surface and how it should be treated. This arrangement did not make archaeology anti-development. It made development accountable to history.
The recent amendments to the Ontario Heritage Act under Bill 5 weaken that bargain. They replace a system grounded in professional judgment and transparent process with one increasingly shaped by political discretion. The shift is not merely administrative. It strikes at the epistemological foundation of heritage protection by moving decisions about archaeological value away from evidence-based assessment and toward executive authority exercised behind closed doors.
Archaeology functions differently from most heritage disciplines because its subject matter is frequently unknown until it is destroyed. Unlike a heritage building or a designated landscape, an archaeological site often announces its existence only when machinery is already at work. The pre-Bill 5 framework recognized this reality by requiring assessment in areas of archaeological potential before development proceeded. That precautionary logic treated uncertainty as a reason for care, not as a justification for exemption. Bill 5 inverts that logic by allowing unknown sites to be bypassed if they are not already identified, a circular standard that guarantees loss precisely where knowledge is thinnest.
The damage here is cumulative rather than dramatic. Each unassessed site removed from the record narrows the historical archive permanently. Archaeology does not merely recover objects. It reconstructs patterns of land use, migration, trade, conflict, and environmental adaptation across thousands of years. When sites are destroyed without study, those patterns become fragmented, distorted, or irretrievable. Over time, this produces a thinner, more selective account of Ontario’s past, one shaped less by evidence than by what happened to survive political timelines.
The implications for Indigenous heritage are particularly severe. Many archaeological sites represent ancestral places that remain culturally and spiritually significant, regardless of whether they are formally registered or visible on the landscape. A system that allows cabinet or ministerial exemptions without robust, mandatory Indigenous consultation risks repeating older colonial patterns, where Indigenous history is treated as an obstacle to progress rather than a foundational layer of the land itself. When decisions are centralized and expedited, relationships grounded in consent, stewardship, and shared authority are the first casualties.
There is also an institutional cost. Professional archaeology in Ontario has long operated as a regulated field with ethical obligations, peer accountability, and methodological standards. When political actors gain the ability to override or pre-empt that process, expertise becomes advisory rather than determinative. Over time, this erodes the authority of professional judgment and encourages a culture where heritage protection is viewed as discretionary, negotiable, or expendable in the face of economic pressure.
Transparency suffers as well. Archaeological assessments, reports, and registers create a public record. They allow decisions to be scrutinized, challenged, and improved. Executive exemptions, by contrast, concentrate power while reducing visibility. Even when exercised legally, such authority diminishes public trust by removing heritage decisions from open processes and situating them within cabinet deliberations that are structurally insulated from external review.
The broader cultural consequence is a subtle recalibration of values. Heritage protection becomes framed not as a public good but as a regulatory burden to be managed or avoided. The past is no longer something held in trust for future generations, but something weighed against short-term policy objectives. That framing does not abolish archaeology outright. It renders it fragile, contingent, and politically vulnerable.
Ontario’s archaeological record is finite. Every exemption that allows development to proceed without assessment trades long-term knowledge for short-term convenience. Once made, that trade cannot be reversed. Bill 5 thus does not merely streamline process. It alters the moral economy of heritage protection by shifting authority away from evidence, expertise, and public accountability toward discretion exercised in the name of urgency.
History rarely announces its loss in the moment it occurs. The damage becomes visible only later, when questions can no longer be answered, when gaps appear where continuity should exist, and when future scholars inherit a record shaped less by what once was than by what was allowed to disappear.
For generations, the Wolfe Island ferry was a quiet, functional piece of public infrastructure. It was not glamorous, and it did not promise innovation. It simply worked often enough that island life could organize itself around its rhythms. That unspoken reliability ended not with a single breakdown, but with a cascade of decisions that treated a critical transportation link as a technology showcase rather than a lifeline.
The roots of the current crisis reach back to the decision to replace the Wolfe Islander III, a vessel launched in 1976 that, despite its age, delivered consistent service. In 2017, the Ontario Ministry of Transportation committed to a new, larger hybrid-electric ferry, the Wolfe Islander IV, built overseas and marketed as a modern, higher-capacity, lower-emissions solution. On paper, it was progress. In practice, it was a project that outran its own ecosystem.
The new vessel arrived in Ontario in 2021, years before the docks, charging infrastructure, and staffing capacity required to operate it were fully in place. This mismatch created an immediate limbo. A ferry designed to function as part of an integrated electric system instead sat idle while shore-side systems lagged behind. Training shortages and labour constraints compounded the delay, turning what should have been a transitional period into a prolonged absence from service.
When the Wolfe Islander IV finally entered full-time operation in August 2024, expectations were high and patience already thin. Those expectations were quickly tested. Within months, the vessel suffered a grounding incident that damaged its hull and propulsion components. What was initially described as minor damage resulted in the ferry being removed from service for an extended period and sent to a Hamilton shipyard for repairs. The older Wolfe Islander III was pressed back into duty, once again carrying the weight of continuity.
The mechanical troubles did not end with that incident. The hybrid-electric design depended on shore-based charging infrastructure that was still incomplete, forcing the vessel to rely heavily on onboard diesel generators. Those generators, never intended for sustained primary operation, became a point of failure. By mid-2025, generator problems again sidelined the ferry. Brief returns to service were followed by further outages, including power system failures that left residents relying on temporary passenger shuttles and improvised arrangements.
These technical failures had predictable human consequences. The Wolfe Islander IV operates on a longer round-trip schedule than its predecessor, reducing the number of daily crossings. For island residents, this change reshaped daily life. Commutes grew longer and less predictable. Medical appointments, school schedules, supply deliveries, and emergency response planning all became more fragile. What had once been an inconvenience during rare outages became a chronic uncertainty.
Concerns around emergency access have been particularly acute. Wolfe Island relies on ferry access for ambulance transport to mainland hospitals. Longer crossing times and unreliable service are not abstract inconveniences in that context. They are measurable risks. Community petitions and advocacy groups emerged not out of nostalgia for the old ferry, but out of a clear understanding that transportation reliability is a public safety issue, not merely a service quality metric.
The deeper problem is not that a new ferry experienced teething issues. Complex infrastructure projects often do. The problem lies in the sequencing of decisions. The vessel was delivered before its supporting systems were ready. Operational assumptions were made about staffing and training capacity that did not hold. A technology-forward design was deployed into an environment that could not yet support it. Each of these choices transferred risk from the project plan onto the community it was meant to serve.
What has unfolded at Wolfe Island is a familiar Canadian infrastructure story. Ambition was not matched by coordination. Procurement timelines were allowed to drift out of alignment with construction and commissioning realities. Accountability became diffuse as responsibility spread across contractors, ministries, and timelines. Meanwhile, residents were left to absorb the consequences of decisions made far from the dock.
The Wolfe Island ferry saga is not primarily about electric propulsion or shipbuilding quality. It is about governance. It is about whether essential public services are designed around the lived realities of the communities that depend on them, or around abstract models of innovation and efficiency. Reliability, once lost, is difficult to regain. Trust follows the same rule.
Until the ferry system is treated first as critical infrastructure and only second as a demonstration project, Wolfe Island will continue to pay the price for a transition that was promised as an improvement and delivered as a disruption. The lesson is not that modernization is a mistake. The lesson is that modernization without readiness is not progress at all.
For years, Canada’s ambitious dream of linking its greatest cities with true high-speed rail has hovered in the realm of feasibility studies and future pipe dreams. Now, in the closing weeks of 2025, that dream has shifted decidedly toward reality; not because steel is yet being laid, but because the Alto high-speed rail initiative has crossed a crucial threshold from concept to concerted preparation and public engagement.
At its core, Alto is a transformative infrastructure vision: a 1,000-kilometre electrified passenger rail network connecting Toronto to Québec City with trains capable of 300 km/h speeds, slicing travel times compared to what today’s intercity rail offers and binding half the nation’s population into a single, rapid mobility corridor. The design phase, backed by a multi-billion-dollar co-development agreement with the Cadence consortium, is well underway, and the federal government has signaled its intent to see this project delivered as one of the largest infrastructure investments in decades.
The most noteworthy milestone in recent weeks has been a strategic decision about where Alto will begin to take physical shape. On December 12, officials announced that the Ottawa–Montreal segment – roughly 200 km – will be the first portion of the network to advance toward construction, with work slated to begin in 2029. This choice reflects a practical staging strategy: by starting with a shorter, clearly defined corridor that spans two provinces, engineering and construction teams can mobilize simultaneously in Ontario and Québec and begin delivering economic and skills-development benefits sooner rather than later.
This announcement isn’t just about geography; it marks a shift in Alto’s progression from broad planning to community-level engagement. Beginning in January 2026, Alto will launch a comprehensive three-month consultation process that includes open houses, virtual sessions, and online feedback opportunities for Canadians along the corridor. These sessions will inform critical decisions about alignment, station locations, and mitigation of environmental and community impacts. Indigenous communities, municipalities, and public institutions will be active participants in these discussions as part of Alto’s ongoing commitment to consultation and reconciliation, a recognition that this project’s success hinges not only on engineering prowess, but on thoughtful, inclusive planning.
Beyond route planning, Alto and Cadence are also turning to Canada’s industrial capacity, particularly the steel sector, to gauge the domestic supply chain’s readiness for what will undeniably be a massive procurement exercise. With thousands of kilometres of rail and related infrastructure components needed, early outreach to the steel industry is intended not just to assess production capacity, but to maximize Canadian content and economic benefit from the outset.
Yet not every question has a definitive answer. Strategic discussions continue over the optimal location for Alto’s eventual Toronto station, with the CEO publicly acknowledging that a direct connection to Union Station may not be guaranteed; a decision that could shape ridership patterns and integration with existing transit networks across the Greater Toronto Area.
As the calendar turns toward 2026, the Alto project sits at an inflection point: one foot firmly planted in detailed design and consultation, the other inching closer to the realm of shovels and steel rails. Political support appears robust, and fiscal planning, including major project acceleration initiatives and supportive legislation, has built momentum. Yet, as any transportation planner will tell you, the distance between planning and construction is long, often winding, and frequently subject to political, economic, and community pressures.
Still, for advocates and observers alike, the significance of the latest developments cannot be overstated. Alto has graduated from “what if?” to “when and how,” and that alone marks a major step forward in Canada’s transportation evolution.
At the moment, I don’t feel I know enough about this developing issue to take a position, so I plan on monitoring the situation and perhaps look at the bigger picture.
Four years ago, Ottawa city council voted to expand the urban boundary into lands southeast of the city to create a massive new suburban community called Tewin. The project, a partnership between the Algonquins of Ontario (AOO) and Taggart Group, envisions housing for up to 45,000 people on 445 hectares of land. This expansion was one of the most controversial planning decisions of the last decade, both for its symbolic weight and its long-term implications. Today, councillor Theresa Kavanagh has re-opened the debate, proposing that Tewin be stripped from Ottawa’s Official Plan. Her efforts highlight the difficult choices cities face between growth, climate goals, and Indigenous reconciliation.
The Promise of Tewin Supporters of Tewin present it as a once-in-a-generation opportunity. For the Algonquins of Ontario, the project represents an unprecedented role in shaping Ottawa’s future. After centuries of dispossession, Tewin offers not only revenue streams and jobs but also visibility in the city’s urban fabric. This symbolic dimension, land not merely ceded or lost, but built upon in partnership, is difficult to dismiss.
Developers and some councillors also argue that Ottawa must accommodate population growth. With Canada’s immigration targets rising, pressure on housing supply is intense. Tewin promises tens of thousands of new homes, potentially designed with modern sustainability standards. Proponents emphasize that large master-planned communities can integrate parks, schools, and infrastructure in ways that piecemeal infill cannot. In this vision, Tewin is not sprawl, but a carefully designed city-within-a-city.
The Cost of Sprawl Yet the critiques are no less powerful. City staff initially ranked the Tewin lands poorly during their 2020 evaluations, citing soil unsuitability, distance from infrastructure, and limited transit access. Servicing the site: extending water, sewers, and roads will cost nearly $600 million, much of it beyond the city’s 2046 planning horizon. These are funds that could otherwise reinforce existing communities, transit networks, and climate-resilient infrastructure.
Urban sprawl carries environmental and social costs. Tewin sits far from rail lines and job centres, ensuring that most residents will be dependent on cars. This contradicts Ottawa’s stated climate action commitments, which emphasize compact growth and reduced vehicle emissions. Critics also note that adding a massive suburb undermines efforts to intensify existing neighbourhoods, where transit and services are already in place.
Indigenous Voices, Indigenous Divisions The Indigenous dimension of Tewin complicates the debate. On the one hand, the Algonquins of Ontario have secured a rare position as development partners, advancing reconciliation through economic participation. On the other hand, not all Algonquin communities recognize AOO’s legitimacy, and some argue that consultation has been narrow and exclusionary. The project thus embodies both progress and tension in the city’s relationship with Indigenous peoples. To reject Tewin outright risks appearing to dismiss Indigenous economic aspirations; to proceed with it risks deepening divisions and ignoring long-standing calls for more inclusive engagement.
A City at the Crossroads Councillor Kavanagh’s push to remove Tewin from the Official Plan is more than a single motion. It reopens a philosophical question: what kind of city does Ottawa wish to become? If it seeks to embody climate leadership, resilient infrastructure, and walkable communities, Tewin appears to be a step backward. If it seeks to honour Indigenous partnership and ensure abundant housing supply, the project has undeniable appeal.
Ultimately, Tewin forces Ottawa to confront a contradiction at the heart of Canadian urbanism. We are a country that has promised climate action, but remains tethered to car-dependent suburbs. We are a nation that aspires to reconciliation, but often struggles to reconcile competing Indigenous voices. To move forward, Ottawa must do more than weigh costs and benefits; it must articulate a vision of growth that is both just and sustainable.
In this sense, Tewin is not merely a development proposal. It is a mirror held up to the city itself, reflecting both its aspirations and its unfinished work.
Sources: • CTV News Ottawa. “Tewin development project passes latest hurdle but some say it still doesn’t belong.” August 2024. Link • Ontario Construction News. “Ottawa councillor sparks renewed debate over controversial Tewin development.” April 2025. Link • CTV News Ottawa. “Councillor withdraws motion to remove 15,000-home development from Ottawa’s Official Plan until after byelection.” April 2025. Link • Horizon Ottawa. “Stop the Tewin Development.” Accessed October 2025. Link
As I write in my Ottawa living room, and although my sympathies stretch eastward into Quebec and the Martimes, I am watching Alberta events on the evening news as if viewing a distant cousin gone rogue. From here, in Central Canada, we’ve built our identity on a tapestry of industrial dynamism, social progressiveness, and an uneasy, yet genuine, devotion to national unity. So when Alberta thunders about “owning” its oil sands, rails under federal pipeline delays, and threatens separatism with a bravado more suited to Texas than to the spirit of Confederation, it feels less like a debate among equals, and more like a family spat escalating into road rage.
The Great Divide Central Canada’s frustration begins with a simple question: Why can’t Alberta appreciate that its prosperity rides on Canada’s backbone? We know well the clang of steel from Lake Ontario factories, the laboratories of McGill and U of T, the commuter trains of the GTA carrying workers into offices that fuel innovation, culture, and trade. We see our tax dollars flow westward into infrastructure grants and environmental clean‑ups, yet all we hear back is how Ottawa is strangling Alberta’s lifeblood. In boardrooms and bistros alike, we exchange incredulous glances. “Is that really how they see us?”
In Ontario’s legislature or Quebec City’s cafés, the lament is the same. Alberta’s insistence on unfettered resource development, against carbon pricing, against pipeline regulations, against the minimal environmental guardrails that we accept as part of modern governance, strikes us as not only shortsighted, but tone‑deaf. After all, we’re the ones negotiating trade deals abroad, keeping Canada’s credit rating intact, and answering to the world for our climate commitments. When Alberta rips up its federal‑provincial agreements, and paints itself as a victim, it risks making the rest of us look like oppressors.
When Conservatives Moved the Needle It wasn’t a personal chemistry with any one leader that mattered so much as policy alignment. Under Conservative governments, particularly during the years following 2006, Ottawa embraced free‑market principles that resonated deeply in Alberta: lower corporate taxes, streamlined approvals, and a lighter regulatory touch on energy projects. This wasn’t about nostalgia for a single prime minister, but about a political philosophy that saw energy as an engine of growth, not a problem to be managed.
From Alberta’s perspective, deregulated markets and balanced budgets felt like recognition of its core economic values. In Central Canada, we may have questioned some of those choices, but we accepted that a spectrum of economic approaches made Canada stronger. The result was a pragmatic détente: pipelines moved forward, investment flowed, and while we debated environmental trade‑offs, there was at least mutual respect for each region’s priorities.
When Regionalism Becomes Roadblock Today, the rhetoric out west often sounds like, “Build the pipeline, or we’ll build our own exit ramp.” Yet Central Canada knows unequivocally that there is no exit ramp. Our factories, hospitals, and schools depend on the interprovincial movement of people, goods, and capital. The same pipelines Alberta demands are the conduits that keep our cars running, and our manufacturing humming. When Alberta complains that Ottawa’s carbon tax is an “Ottawa cash grab,” it ignores that those funds have helped pay for the recent transit expansions in Edmonton and Calgary, along with the wastewater infrastructure upgrades in Lethbridge.
Even more galling is the separatist thunder: poll after poll invites alarm with one in three Albertans saying they might consider leaving Canada under a Liberal government, feels like a hostage‑negotiation tactic, rather than a legitimate policy platform. Central Canada hears the echoes of Texas secession talk, fireworks and flags, bravado and bluster, but we see the policy vacuum behind the spectacle. We wonder: can they name a single agreement on the global stage that would willingly recognize a 4.4 million‑person “Republic of Alberta”? Or do they really believe they can simply flip a switch and declare independence?
Progressive Values Under Siege For all our differences, Central Canada prides itself on progressive values: public healthcare that is universal, environmental targets that align with global science, and social policies that aim to reduce inequality. We do not see these as luxuries, but as imperatives for a 21st century nation. So when Alberta snarls at any shift toward renewable energy or regulatory tightening, we perceive a rejection, not only of policy, but of shared national values. It’s as if Alberta believes that “progressive” is a dirty word, an urban‑elitist dictate, rather than a democratic choice.
The result is a mutual distrust. We view Alberta as obstinate, and uncooperative; they view us as meddlesome and judgmental. And somewhere in the commotion, Canada the country begins to feel less like “one nation” and more like warring fiefdoms.
Pathways to Reconciliation Even as Central Canadians exhale in frustration, we still cling to the idea that this can be repaired. We remember that the Constitution, our shared contract, grants Alberta ownership of its resources (Section 92A), but also vests Ottawa with authority over interprovincial trade, environmental standards, and national unity. Those overlapping jurisdictions are not battlegrounds to be won; they are negotiation tables to be inhabited with respect.
Here’s what we in the centre would propose: 1. Joint Stewardship Councils Permanent federal‑provincial bodies—one on energy and one on climate—co‑chaired by ministers from Ottawa and Edmonton, with rotating seats for other provinces. Their mandate: to align pipelines, carbon policy, and regional development in a single coherent plan. 2. Mutual Accountability Reporting Instead of one‑way complaints, require quarterly reports on how federal actions affect provincial economies and vice versa, published publicly so Albertans and Ontarians alike can see the trade‑offs. 3. Shared Diversification Funds A federally matched investment fund for Alberta to channel resource revenues into hydrogen, critical minerals, and technology hubs—mirroring grants Ontario and Quebec receive for their own diversification. 4. Cultural Exchange Programs Scholarships and internships pairing Alberta students with agencies in Ottawa, and Central Canadians with energy‑sector positions in Calgary and Fort McMurray, because trust grows when people move across the lines, not when walls go up.
Towards a True Confederation As I look east from Ontario or west from Quebec, I still see Alberta as part of Canada’s grand promise, a province of immense resources, entrepreneurial spirit, and resilient people. But a promise requires reciprocity. If Alberta wants the benefits of the Canadian federation, it must share responsibility for national projects, ideals, and compromises. And if Central Canada wants Alberta to feel at home in Confederation, we must speak not with condescension, but with open hands and honest trade‑offs.
In the end, Texas doesn’t have to be our model, and neither does Paris or Beijing. We can be distinctly Canadian: united not in uniformity, but in a federalism that accepts our regional flavors and binds them together in mutual respect. Only then will Alberta’s roar feel like a proud Canadian voice, rather than an echo of someone shouting from outside our walls.
The feedback I have been getting is that readers have been enjoying my serialised essays exploring subject matter to greater depth. This series of posts is for my friends on both sides of the Atlantic who love to debate this topic, often over European old growth wine and Alberta beef steaks.
Living in North America since the early 1990s as a European, I’m constantly struck by the quirks, surprises, and sometimes baffling differences between the continents. Over the next few weeks, I’ll explore ten key contrasts: spanning work, cities, food, and politics, and share what these differences mean in everyday life.
The Ten Differences
1. Social Safety Nets
In Europe, healthcare, pensions, and social support are expected parts of life. In North America, it’s more “your responsibility,” with benefits often tied to your job. It’s a mindset shift—comfort versus risk, security versus self-reliance, and it shapes so much of daily life.
2. Urban Planning and Transport
European cities invite walking, biking, and public transit. North American life often demands a car for everything. That difference affects how people socialize, shop, and spend their days. Suddenly, running errands isn’t quick, it’s a logistical decision.
3. Work-Life Balance
Europeans enjoy generous vacations and shorter workweeks. North Americans often work longer hours with less guaranteed downtime. Life here can feel like a constant race, while in Europe, there’s a stronger sense of living, not just working.
4. Cultural Formality and Etiquette
Europeans prize subtlety, traditions, and social cues. North Americans are casual, direct, and friendly—but sometimes painfully blunt. Adjusting between the two takes awareness: what feels warm here might feel sloppy there, and what feels polite there can seem distant here.
5. Business Practices
European companies lean toward consensus, careful planning, and stability. North American firms move fast, take risks, and chase growth. The difference shows up in meetings, negotiations, and career paths; you quickly learn when to push and when to wait.
6. Education Systems
Europe often offers low-cost or free higher education and emphasizes broad learning. North America favors expensive, specialized programs. The gap affects opportunities, student debt, and the way people approach learning for life versus learning for a career.
7. Food Culture
In Europe, meals are rituals – slow, social, and seasonal. Here, convenience and speed often rule, and portions are huge. That doesn’t just shape diets; it changes how people connect over meals and how they experience daily life.
8. Political Culture
European politics embrace multiple parties, coalitions, and compromise. North America leans on two parties and polarized debates. This difference affects trust, civic engagement, and how people view the government’s role in society.
9. History and Architecture
Europeans live among centuries of history in their streets, buildings, and laws. North America feels newer, faster, and more forward-looking. The environment subtly teaches what matters: continuity versus reinvention, roots versus growth.
10. Attitudes Toward Environment
Europe integrates sustainability into daily life: cycling, recycling, and urban planning. North American approaches vary, often prioritizing convenience or growth over ecology. Cultural attitudes toward responsibility shape everything from transportation to policy priorities.
These ten contrasts are just a glimpse of life across the Atlantic. In the weeks ahead, I’ll dive deeper into each, sharing stories, observations, and reflections. The goal isn’t just comparison, it’s understanding how culture shapes choices, habits, and even identity. Stay tuned for the journey.
Diplomacy, as the textbooks remind us, is supposed to be the fine art of saying nothing offensive in as many words as possible while drinking bad coffee in conference rooms. But nobody seems to have given that manual to Pete Hoekstra, the newly minted U.S. Ambassador to Canada, who has decided to trade in understatement for a megaphone. In the span of a few short months, Hoekstra has managed to scold Canadians for not being sufficiently pro-American, accuse us of harboring “anti-American” slogans, and downplay Canada’s concerns about border overreach. If he’s aiming for “charm offensive,” he has nailed the second half of the phrase.
This is, of course, not the first time Canada and the U.S. have had words. We’ve bickered over softwood lumber, dairy tariffs, steel quotas, pipelines, and, once upon a time, acid rain. But usually ambassadors play the role of polite go-between, smoothing over disputes while the real political firestorms rage between ministers and presidents. Hoekstra seems to have missed the memo: his preferred strategy is less smooth diplomacy, more bull in a China shop – minus the bull’s natural grace.
His latest theme? Canadians just aren’t playing nice. We apparently spend too much time with “elbows up,” as if the entire country were auditioning for beer league hockey. He’s miffed that Canada has dared to issue travel advisories about U.S. border searches, insisting those reports are “isolated events.” Never mind that Canadian travelers actually experienced them. It’s a bit like telling someone who just got splashed by a passing truck that rain isn’t real.
Nowhere is this attitude more obvious than in the discussions around U.S. preclearance, the system where American border officers operate inside Canadian airports, inspecting passengers before they even board a plane to the United States. For travelers, preclearance is handy: you arrive stateside as a domestic passenger, skip long immigration lines, and make your connections. For the U.S., it’s even better: it lets them enforce their rules on foreign soil, keeping anyone they don’t like from ever boarding. For Canada, it’s…..complicated. Preclearance represents cooperation, yes, but also a certain loss of sovereignty. Not surprisingly, Ottawa sometimes drags its heels on expansion.
To Hoekstra, though, Canada’s reluctance to roll out the red carpet for more American officers in our airports amounts to ingratitude. The U.S. gives us this wonderful gift, he implies, and we respond with suspicion. It’s the diplomatic equivalent of scolding a dinner guest for not raving loudly enough about the casserole. The irony is rich: when Canada recently announced its first landpreclearance operation in the U.S., with Canadian officers screening travelers at a New York border crossing, nobody in Ottawa suggested that Americans were being unfriendly. Apparently only Canadians can be accused of bad manners.
And then there’s NEXUS, the trusted traveler program that makes cross-border trips bearable for frequent fliers. Here, too, Canada and the U.S. cooperate closely, with Canadians now able to use Global Entry kiosks thanks to their NEXUS membership. But you wouldn’t know it from the ambassador’s rhetoric. He talks as if the U.S. is single-handedly shouldering the burden of efficiency while Canada stubbornly blocks progress. The reality is that both sides benefit and both sides foot the bill. Preclearance doesn’t spring fully formed from Washington; Canadian airports build the facilities, Canadian taxpayers share the costs, and Canadian sovereignty bends to make it possible.
So why the sharp elbows from Hoekstra? Partly it’s style, he has never been known as a shrinking violet. But partly it reflects a broader U.S. strategy of leaning harder on Canada. The two countries are already sparring at the World Trade Organization over tariffs that Ottawa calls “unjustified.” Washington wants more Canadian concessions on energy, environment, and defense spending. Ambassadors don’t freelance in these circumstances; they set the tone their bosses in the White House prefer. If that tone is loud, impatient, and dismissive of Canadian sensitivities, then Hoekstra is performing to spec.
Still, it’s worth noting how Canadians are responding. While most don’t object to preclearance itself, after all, we enjoy shorter lines at airports, there is resistance to being lectured about it. Canadians pride themselves on being cooperative partners, not subordinate provinces. When the ambassador claims Canada isn’t “playing nice,” many hear it as “you’re not agreeing quickly enough with U.S. demands.” The fact that Canada has invested in NEXUS expansions, shared intelligence, and even put its own officers on U.S. soil underlines the absurdity of the accusation.
In the end, Hoekstra’s style may generate headlines, but it risks eroding goodwill. Diplomacy works best when it feels like a partnership of equals, not a schoolteacher scolding a roomful of students. Canadians are famously polite, but we’re also famously stubborn when pushed. If the ambassador thinks a little tough talk will get Canada to open every airport door to U.S. preclearance, he may be in for a long wait.
Until then, travelers will keep swiping their NEXUS cards, lining up at preclearance facilities, and quietly rolling their eyes at the spectacle. After all, Canadians know that living next to the United States is a bit like living next to an elephant. When it shifts, you feel it. When it trumpets, you really feel it. And when the ambassador starts lecturing you about your manners, sometimes the most diplomatic response is the Canadian classic: a polite smile, a quiet mutter, and an elbow gently nudged back into his ribs.
The Rowanwood Chronicles 