In the spring of that year, President George W. Bush came to town trying to hawk his War in Iraq. It was Ana’s idea to skip school to protest, and we rode the bus downtown filled with a combination of righteous rage and curiosity. We couldn’t get further than Rockcliffe Park because of the road closures, so we started to walk. Just beyond the prime minister’s residence, we found Sussex Drive cordoned off with yellow wooden police barricades flanked by horse-mounted RCMP officers. A traffic cop was pointing disgruntled commuters back the way they had come.

I began to lose nerve as we neared the barricade, and was going to suggest bailing when Ana gave a jaunty wave to one of the officers on horseback, shouting, “This is our first protest!”

The officer, a stony-faced woman in her fifties, looked down and said, “Hope it’s not your last.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being encouraging or ominous.

For the first several blocks we were alone. All the shops along Sussex were boarded up. Newspapers blew across the boulevard as if in a film noir. Traffic lights diligently carried out their duties for no one. All we could hear was the wind and the distant reverberation of helicopters through the empty canyon of buildings. A city without purpose, without people. As we passed the Foreign Affairs building, I looked up and noticed snipers in black balaclavas and flak jackets on the rooftop. The doors of the National Art Gallery were locked and the lights were off. I imagined all the paintings and sculptures waiting quietly in the darkness for the president of the United States to come and go. There were snipers on the gallery’s roof as well, but somehow I don’t think they were thinking about the art.

As we neared Rideau Street we could hear the distant banging of drums. We reached the intersection and, to our left, saw a wave of bandana-clad protestors flowing towards us with their homemade placards and banners. Held aloft near the front of the crowd was a giant papier-mâché effigy of Bush wearing a leering grin and an Uncle Sam top hat. A thundering behind us made us turn: a line of SWAT police in full riot regalia had shifted into defensive position like giant insects, praying mantises ready to bite heads off. The protestors started charging up the street towards us full tilt, and the SWATs began drumming their batons against their transparent shields while advancing.

“Fuck, we’re right in the middle,” I shouted.

“Cover your face” Ana replied, pulling her bandana up over her nose.