At the cusp of Thanksgiving weekend, the stress of holiday prep hanging over us like some huge wet sack of cement, Catherine and I head off to Ottawa for a few days of rest. We've booked three days at an Inn & Spa in Ottawa, the Nation's Capital. Five hair-raising hours away by car.

The 400 series of highways in Ontario is always a pleasure to drive, and the day we left for Ottawa was no different. Hoards of transport trucks, those great land freighters, like massive whales of industry barreling down the highway, hell-bent on making the next delivery before their drivers implode from sheer exhaustion. One on our right, one on our left, and another closing in fast from behind. Holding our own at 120 kmph, we're suddenly frozen in midair as the trucks roar past, their enormous wheels howling, their towed trailers moaning in the blast.

With bleary eyes and rattled nerves we pull into a highway "Service Station" near Kingston, Ontario. A great temple to the open road and those who worship it: aisle upon aisle of self-service gasoline happily glugging away, while vats of high-octane coffee brew endlessly and sweaty burgers move-on down the line. The great piss n' fill one-stop shop: deposit and withdrawal for the whole family in less than 10 minutes!

We finally arrive in Ottawa. We find the Inn and it is very lovely. We are once again charmed by the city, that seems all together in another time and place. We have a wonderful time.

Forty-eight hours later, we're on the road back to Toronto. Mashed in amongst the haggard holiday traffic, death-wish drivers cutting in front, flashing us "the finger" as they go... a gesture I'm only too happy to return in kind. Later on, a disapproving motorist roars up behind us at a red light, shaking his heads at us. A comment, I'm assuming, on a dicey merge I was forced to do some 20 kilometers back. Our eyes become strained, ever watchful of the idiot drivers ahead and behind.

The coloured leaves of autumn pass by in a multicoloured swirl as the highway cuts a black ribbon through crimson reds and golden yellows. The rolling hills of the Eastern Townships, the maple, oak and sumach are set ablaze in an autumn show. Vivid colours, so beautiful, lush and...

"THAT *#%* JUST CUT ME OFF!!!"

Shaken back into reality, hands tighten on the steering wheel, the caravan continues. Trapped in a line of daredevil drivers, some in a terrible hurry to get nowhere, as they pass four even five cars at a time. A light rain begins to fall.

We finally arrive home. Five and one half hours of nasty wet driving. Our relaxing time in Ottawa seeming like a distant, foggy memory. The calm, quiet house never looked so good! Into the garage the car is put to bed and the bags are brought in the house. As the front door closes, the warmth of the house welcoming, the cat rubbing my leg, Catherine turns to me and says, "you know, my parents will be here in less than 24 hours!"

Andrew Duff lives and breathes in Toronto, Canada.