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A true mob is terrible to witness, much less get stuck in. Something happens when humans are pressed together in fear and anger: a feral scent is emitted, an emboldening and anxious spirit. Once unleashed, it crashes over and draws down all in its wake.

If I told you two things about my weekend — that I was on Parliament Hill, and that I experienced such a mob — what would you conclude? Well, I did witness a mob, but it wasn’t on Parliament Hill.

On Parliament Hill, I saw hundreds of Canadian flags and an incredibly diverse cross-section of Canadians. Imagine guys wearing hunting camo and an odd group of white Boomers trying to drum. Throw in some Sikhs, a lot of little kids all wrapped up in snowsuits and an enormous crowd of Quebecers. Imagine them standing around in delight and bemusement, looking at each other and saying, “Hello? Do I know you? Is that you, Canada?”

For the record, I did not see one Confederate flag or swastika. Middle-aged ladies were draped in Trump 2024 regalia, but they were one fewer than the three counter-protestors holding #FLUTRUCKKLAN signs. Both groups seemed to be looking for friends but hadn’t found them.

There were lots of trucks. And honking that went late into Saturday night, which, if you know Ottawa, you will understand meant it tapered off about 9:30 p.m.

We overheard conversations. One Quebecer, behind us in a vast stream waiting to join the Wellington Street crowds, said, “I never imagined I would ever feel so united to ‘les Anglos’; it is a symbiosis.”

We saw lots of signs. One teenage girl’s said: “I lost my graduation; I lost my prom; Trudeau, you lost nothing.” The police, while we wandered around, did not seem concerned or on guard. I read this morning not one arrest was made.