Oh, put your moose muskets away. We kid our poutine-snorting upstairs neighbor because we love, no matter how lame their marketing blitzes tend to be. Flip open a travel mag these days and you’ll find Canada’s capital summed up in four photos: a sunset, a flower bed, the Rideau Canal and a frowny royal guardsman who may or may not be asleep.

“Ottawa,” it says. “A little bit London with a dash of Paris.”

I’d fall asleep, too, if I weren’t so nonplussed.

What is with this incessant need for Canadian cities to market themselves as being a little bit like somewhere else?

Montreal and Quebec seem content to refer to themselves as being a little bit of France but closer to home, while Toronto has been referred to as being “New York run by the Swiss.”

It’s so self-denying it hurts, and surely the ad men these cities are paying a lot of money to should have the sense to tell their clients that there’s nothing more off-putting or yawn-inducing to an American than modesty.

Like the ad said, though, Ottawa’s one hour from New York, so I figured I should take them up on their proposal.

It’s done plenty of changing since we were last there (and not just the sad news that the sickly green back is nearly equal to the Canadian dollar these days). Most recognizable are the new and "improved" immigration requirements at the airport—namely, your passport.

Friendly neighborhood Mounties, Canada’s customs agents aren’t. They’ve always skewed more toward the hard-ass side — more so than ours, even. Long before this new passport law went into effect, I was detained for a very stressful hour by Canadian customs in Victoria, British Colombia (it didn’t help that I was driving with my buddy who is not just Sikh, but turban-grade Sikh, who also happened to be homeless at the time, carrying his life’s possessions in black duffle bags, all suspiciously crammed in the backseat of our car.)

This time around, I was ready for it. Sure enough, I was pulled out of line, as was a troupe of five stage actresses from New York, for a little interrogation lite. Five minutes later, we all understood one another. I never did find out the fate of that gaggle of actresses — but a case could be made their incessant yapping about what off-off-off-times-infinity Broadway play they’re starring in is some form of WMD. Gitmo seems fair.

My prize for successfully making it past customs is a Canadian passport stamp (as bland as ours, but still pretty cool if you’re into collecting those kinds of things). Off to the city.

Judging from the drive from the newly renovated MacDonald-Cartier airport to the downtown area, it’s always hard to think of Ottawa as anything other than a hayseed-opolis somewhere on the scale of Ames, Iowa. Sprawling fields, a mountainous skyline in the distance, fenced off farmland, loads of lush vegetation, no sign of life or electricity — it’s all quite beautiful, but unsettlingly rural when you consider that this is supposed to be Canada’s capital.

But then, after a 10 minute drive, you come across the two major universities, the ever-growing condo developments (where the universes of the young and old collide) and $1,000/month 1-bedroom apartments, and bustling, cab-filled streets — Ottawa’s no joke.

I pull up to my hotel, the Fairmont Chateau Laurier. You can’t miss it — it’s a gigantic 429-room castle/National Historic Site that overlooks the Rideau Canal (which turns into the world’s largest natural ice rink when it freezes, FYI). Nearly dwarfing the nearby neo-Gothic architecture and giant clock tower that comprise the mesmeric Parliament Hill, the Laurier’s about as opposite as you can get from Ottawa’s two new-ish design hotels, Arc and Indigo. But attentive service (having been robbed of my deodorant, tooth paste and hair spray by customs for the umpteenth time, I got replacements from the front desk three minutes after I ordered it) beats "boutique" any day of the week.

Next morning, it’s time to check out the environs. The Byward Market area — hemmed in by Sussex Drive and Cumberland street east-to-west, St. Patrick street and Rue Rideau north-to-south — is really where the bulk of Ottawa’s charm lies.

The compact area’s all very trendy and mercantile, kind of like Carmel-by-the-sea, hold the sea: Art galleries, coffee shops, wine bars, book/record shops, designer eyeglasses boutiques, the U.S. Embassy — wait, one of these things is not like the other.

America’s very ominous and fortified embassy looks like someone dry-docked the Death Star right down town. I guess it’s our way of saying: Hey, the plot to "Canadian Bacon" could actually happen if you guys get out of line. No matter. Right down the street from it is Canada’s National Gallery (380 Sussex Dr.). Out front, there’s a 30-foot spider sculpture called Maman, which attracts more camera-armed Japanese tourists than Hideki Matsui and Kei Igawa combined.

Inside, I happen upon the amazing Ron Mueck exhibit. Described as a hyperrealist sculptor, Mueck is way obsessed with body hair, varicose veins, way-too-anatomically-correct old people, and babies fresh from the oven, still placental and umbilically attached (strangely, I skip lunch at the gallery’s cafeteria). Mueck’s "Mother" — a giant pregnant woman laying on a bed — morphs onlookers into fetuses by proportion. Disturbing. Unnerving. Awesome.

My right brain all dazed and confused, I figured I’d keep the buzz going at nearby gallery La Petit Mort ("the little death" — Euro slang for orgasm), at 306 Cumberland. Now most gallery directors you know around New York are probably world class A-holes. Guy Berube, La Petite’s owner, was this close to entering into that world. That is until his mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. So he moved backed to Ottawa to be by her side and opened up shop downtown, showing the work of local artists almost exclusively (he has around 100 members). Every Friday he hosts "One Night Stands", where the work of one local artist is on display, while aesthetes come to look, drink and socialize. He also organizes a summer event -- "oly-hay uck-fay" is the pig latin name for it – to raise money to fight Alzheimer’s. Art with a conscience? Only in Canada.

Looking at my watch, I suddenly realize it’s something o’clock – time to drink. There are only too many places to do so around Byward (all pubs and restaurants are owned by one of four major cartels), but some are definitely better than others. Skip the arrogance of E18theen and Foundation. Having a New York attitude in New York is barely excusable – but in Ottawa? It’s downright treason.

Instead, head for Vineyards, a humble cellar venue beneath the Fish Market Restaurant (54 York St.). It has over 40 scotches, 300 wines and a whole catalog of imported beer, some overachievers even hitting the 10% alcohol mark — the philosophy majors pouring the suds provide for some of the best conversations in the city.

Over at Zaphod Beeblebrox (read up on your "Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy"), a nightclub owned by a "crazy Pakistani," the doorman warns, is where the indie/punk rockers dwell (27 York St.). Amps blasting feedback, bands selling their $3 merch at the door, propaganda posters and stickers railing against a local radio station that’s slighted the scene in someway — this is the refreshing antidote to that tacky Hardrock Cafe right down the street.

For punks who never grew up (anarchism + rogaine + hairdye = 40-year-olds with red mohawks), look for Dominion Tavern — the motorcycles out front give it away (33 York St.). It’s a pool hall and outdoor smoking patio disguised as a respectable place of business (hint: you can buy 24-ozers at the bar). If you’re as big a fan of bar brawls as me, here’s your best chance of finding/participating in one.

Appetite back, I end up at Pier 21 – it’s a good-old-boy’s setting, with a log-cabin-meets-maritime theme, provincial flags on the wall next to the mooseheads (111 Parent Ave.). There’s poker every Wednesday, live music on the weekends, and typical bar fare on the menu: buffalo wings and quesadillas, as well as the atypical, like fresh Atlantic salmon. Then the bartenderess schools me in the joy of adding clam juice in anything alcoholic (manybeer drinkers consider this the eighth deadly sin, so exercise caution).

Occupying a stool next to me is a young blond Avril Levigne look-a-like, just turned 20. She, like many Ottawans, loves to impress New Yorkers. "They film ‘Degrassi High’ here," she excitedly says, before going through a list of other shows I’ve never heard of. It’s flattering. But the more I talk with her, the more I realize something even more interesting: French Canadians and, er, "regular" Canadians (yes, yes, call the P.C. police) have a passion for hating each other — even here in Ontario, outside of Quebec (the National Capital Region now includes the Quebec’s Gatineau/Hull area, across the river).

Slurs on the one side usually attack hygiene: "French Canadians are smelly, dirty and slutty." While the Franco side claims, "An independent Quebec would be much more artistic and intellectual." It’s a little like how Northern and Southern Californians hate each other and fire empty threats of secession back and forth. Personally, I’d love to see a French Canadian war of Independence. It’d be more like Jell-O wrestling than anything bloodier. Whatever the result, plenty fun to watch from the bleacher seats across the border.

As for the "very friendly" reputation French Canadian have around here that Avril Jr. makes reference to – supposedly rivaling that of Parisian girls, mon dieu — I’d have to travel to the seedy underbelly of Gatineau and collect data first hand. But that’s a tale for another time — this is a family newspaper.