I have been “Outside” three times so far – twice to Marjane, a sort of Moroccan Walmart, to buy dull things like mops and toothpaste, and once to church. St. John the Evangelist Anglican Church, to be exact. Yes – just like the St. John’s back home, only not. Continue reading
Author: Natasha Regehr (Page 10 of 12)
My apartment — Third floor middle balcony
It is my second morning in Morocco.
I was a bit of a recluse yesterday. I barely left my apartment. I indulged in sleep, sleep, and more sleep, and I spent the rest of the day cleaning and unpacking. Three of my suitcases are empty now, and tucked away in my closet until the next big adventure.
It is my first morning in Morocco.
I am swaying on my rainbow hammock, eating my breakfast and taking in the sights, sounds, and sensations particular to this new habitat of mine.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final boarding call for Royal Air Maroc flight 209 to Casablanca. All passengers should now be seated on the plane for take-off.”
What? How did that happen? An hour ago, there was still a whole hour left to wait. I was blogging furiously, trying to get that “in transit” story posted while I was actually still in transit. I heard lots of Air France calls for flights to Paris. Every 30 seconds a smooth voice urged me, in loud, clear, unmistakable English, to head directly to France. I was not a fool. I knew that it was a trick. I was not going to France. Silly airport!
What a whirlwind. How else can I describe the flurry of these last few days? I’ve been spinning in circles from one house to the next, one car to the next, and one suitcase to the next. And now I’m here, sitting at Gate B25, waiting for my boarding call.
Many of you have been kindly emailing, phoning, texting, and dropping by, and the questions are always the same: “Are you excited? Are you nervous? Are you ready?” Continue reading
This is what my life looks like right now:
I am surrounded by people I just met, and I feel completely at ease.
Live sitar and guitar music permeate the ornate living space. My red wine matches the oriental carpet and beaded doorways. There are instruments everywhere. And a very tactile cat.
Adults are cooking. Young people are chatting quietly. A couple boys are giggling at the mishaps of various comical pets on a muted flat-screen TV. A big French guy is barbecuing. “Medium rare,” I say. He calls me “darling.” I guess he just calls people that.
This week I had the bittersweet task of saying good-bye to the wonderful folks at Jack Callaghan Public School. One of the highlights of my time at JCPS was the opportunity to try my hand at teaching science; and as this story illustrates, it wasn’t always pretty!
My practically perfect house is more than perfect. It is flawless. I am sitting in my beautifully staged living room, enjoying the clean, airy feeling of a place that is ready to “show.” And it will be shown, tomorrow, I hope, before my strategically placed flowers begin to wilt.
For those of you who have been kindly offering advice and making inquiries on my behalf, here’s the deal (or lack thereof…), when it comes to my house:
“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.
“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.
“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.
“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”
Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.
“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”
Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.
“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”
I went. The moment the choir started singing, Continue reading