Natasha Regehr

Category: Inspirational (Page 2 of 3)

Rendez-vous: The Day I Met my Prince

A year and a half ago, with my sights set on Morocco, I trotted to the Peterborough Public Library and went berserk. First, I gave away about fifteen boxes of books, and then, I set about replacing them.

I signed out an armload of language and travel resources, fiction, and DVDs about North Africa, and devoured them all, in between spastic packing fits. But my most precious acquisition was a tiny, one-dollar purchase from the library basement: a slim, winsome copy of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Princeen français, of course, because I fancied the idea of becoming fluent in French during my two years abroad.

img_9764Ha! Well, I exported myself from one continent to the other, and soon discovered that “learning French” is a bigger endeavour than I had expected – and that Le Petit Prince is not so little after all. Continue reading

2016 Gratitude List

I am thankful for the big things: the people who make my world beautiful every day, both here in Morocco and in my other happy home in Canada; for the many places in between that I’ve been able to visit this year (twelve airports, if I’ve counted correctly!); for the rich cultures and histories that intersect my days; for meaningful work; and for the provisions that allow me to keep on living this colourful, promising life.

But every Thanksgiving, I take a few hours to collect all the smaller thanksgivings I’ve recorded throughout the year as well – those things that, at the end of each day, remind me that there is always, always a little goodness to be found, or to create, with a small turn of the mind.

Here, then, is my 2016 Gratitude List, beginning with last year’s Thanksgiving trip to an all-inclusive resort in Southern Morocco, and ending with yesterday’s roast chicken at home. I invite you to walk through my year of thankfulness with me: Continue reading

Find Your Blick: An Alpine Adventure

When your travel buddy deserts you in the middle of a mountain, you have a choice to make: do you follow her to the local spa to be coddled for the rest of the day, or do you carry on without her?

I chose to carry on.

Poor Jennifer. She didn’t really desert me. She just wasn’t feeling well. We had taken the cable car to the top of Mount Jenner, and halfway down again, hoping to do the last 8.5 km on foot. In her bodily distress, she opted to ride all the way down, but I refused: “No way, not me. I did not come to the Bavarian Alps to do a wussy cable-car descent. I came to hike, and hike I will!”

IMG_8801She waved a cheery good-bye and floated away in her glass carriage, and I confess, I gulped a little. Me – find my way across the mountain and down to Lake Königssee, then catch the boat to Kessel, the bus to Berchtesgaden, and the train to Bad Reichenhall – without my GPS? Or Google maps? Without even my phone to look after me if I get lost? No cell service, no wi-fi, no homing pigeons… just me, a pamphlet, and a series of destinations? Me – the wanderer who can barely get from home to work and back again without an unintentional detour? Without a functioning phone? Not even one?

Yes, me. I can do this. I’m an Adventurous Adult. Continue reading

O, Canada!

O, Canada! How do I love you? Let me count the ways.

I love the way your cars travel in placidly parallel lanes, staying obediently between the dotted lines, graciously allowing each and every vehicle its own personal space. I love how I can always tell with reasonable certainty whether it’s safe to enter your blessedly perpendicular intersections;  I love how I can see your traffic lights no matter where I am, and people wave at me to say, “Please, you go first. I’d rather wait.” I love it that I have been here for thirteen days now and I haven’t heard a single honking horn or shrieking whistle. I love how your cyclists get their very own lanes, your signs tell everyone to share the road, and people are happy to take turns. O, Canada, I love your pretty roads. Continue reading

Start, Stop, and the Sounds in Between

Let me tell you the story of a class.

When I met them in September, I was perturbed. I was more than perturbed. I dreaded Thursday mornings, when I knew that they would tumble through my door with raucous disregard for my precious routines and expectations.

You see, I expect my classes to line up quietly outside my door and wait to be invited in. I expect them to walk quietly, single file, to the blue line on my floor, and wait quietly to be invited to sit on the carpet in alphabetical order. I expect them to sit quietly while I read over my class list, study their (very similar) faces, and practice their (very similar) names. I expect them to remain still and silent until I can say every name without looking at my list. This may not sound like a stupendous feat to you, but believe me, it is, when you are new to a foreign school and you have four hundred nearly identical students that you only see for 50 minutes a week.

But back to my story. In September, we had to practice lining up outside my door over and over every single time the students came to class. It took five or six tries to walk to the blue line and get settled at the carpet. And it took an agonizingly long time for me to practice their names, because I couldn’t concentrate with all the hooliganism going on before me. At one point one of the students blurted out insolently, “This isn’t music! This is just names!” And, wearily, I agreed. Perturbed, indeed. Continue reading

Taroudant, Part 2: Entrez!

Last month I met an old man who totally hijacked my vacation.  You can meet him here.  And now, the rest of the story…

We sleep comfortably on the third or fourth floor of the mid-medina palace. It is plain enough on the outside, but on the inside it is equipped with no fewer than five salons, each capable of seating at least twenty friends and relations. Hospitable people, these. The sunshine from the terrace skylight shines down all three grated floors, so even the bowels of this vertical mansion have natural light. And yes, on this penthouse floor, there is a waiting toilet. It only takes a few twists and cranks to figure out how to flush. Easy.

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Taroudant, Part 1: Mangez!

“Ask him if you’ll need your passport,” I suggest smartly. Smartly, because this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask when an 81-year-old Moroccan offers to take you to his village to buy argan oil. Never mind that his village is only an hour away, and you’re just going for the day, and there are no border crossings in sight. Moroccans in uniforms of various sorts like asking for passports. It’s their way.

Haji, our esteemed elder, is holding a red vinyl bag and gesturing towards his argyle cardigan. “Deux,” he says. “Two.” One for today, one for tomorrow.

I guess we are staying overnight then. I’d best get packing. Toothbrush, underwear, just the essentials. Quick. He’s waiting. Tapping his watch. “Vas-y! Vas-y! Go there! Go there!” Yes, sir. I’m going, sir.

We drive for a little while. Twenty minutes, maybe? And then we stop outside these big metal doors in the middle of Moroccan nowhere. Haji starts banging. Bang, bang, bang. Finally the monstrous gate opens and we drive through.

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Seconds

This has been a trying week of red tape, traffic jams, dripping fridges, and medical angst.  But a few weeks ago I actually had a successful day on the town.  Let’s focus on that.

There is something to be said for going to the same place twice. And I am going to say it now.

Today I had an appointment in the city, after which I set off in search of waterproof shoes. I simply must have dry feet this winter, and the rest of the Moroccan populace has transitioned instantly from flip flops to Uggs. Everything is binary here, it seems. Morocco is not about in-betweens.

The lovely lady at the reception desk kindly directed me to a nearby shoe store, which did not have waterproof shoes. But while I was there, I remembered that I had forgotten to pick up my receipt, and so I trotted smartly back to the office I had just left. This was my first second visit of the day.

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Sound-Off!

A sonic environment can be a powerful thing. It can take you places, or leave you places; its presences and absences can be more telling than the most articulate guide.

Notable absences from the sonic environment I have enjoyed without interruption for the past three days: the impoverished bleating of sheep and goats; the mournful mooing of cows; the soulful, yet soulless call to prayer; the sprightly chattering of hundreds of little mischief-makers; the vigilant ringing of schoolbells, cell phones and alarm clocks; the guttural exoticism of the Arabic tongue; the overly-welcoming harassment of preying street vendors and slick Don Juans; in short, the persistently present reminders that this Moroccan mayhem is my life.

And in their place? Zamfir interpretations of Celine Dion hits piped through the poolside surround sound system in the morning, and perky American party playlists in the afternoon; the perpetual, muted gurgling of the heated pool’s water filtration system, and the satisfied splashes of swimmers who are neither hot nor cold; canned ocean waves lapping through the massage room speakers, and real ocean waves wooing one beachward; the dignified German, English and French conversations of fat, white Europeans in speedos and bikinis, or their skinny white counterparts, also in speedos and bikinis (I, incidentally, fall squarely in between the two); the distant clattering of silverware being moved from one place to another by hands that exist to satisfy one’s every gastronomical whim; in short, all that is most certainly not Moroccan.

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2015 Gratitude List

My dear Canadian friends have had to wait a full six weeks longer than usual to read my annual Gratitude List.  Sorry, guys.  I was in the desert while you were being thankful, so I’ve jumped on the American bandwagon and given thanks today instead.

For those of you who are new to this quirky tradition of mine, here’s the scoop: Every night before I go to sleep, I write down a few causes for gratitude.  I try not to repeat myself (keeps the thankfulness muscles limber!) but I’m certain you’ll notice an emerging theme or two.  Each Thanksgiving, I post the list for the world to ponder and puzzle over.  For me, it’s a grounding practice of putting days and years in perspective.  For you, it’s either funny, or inspiring, or TMI.  Whatever.  It’s not about you.

I suspect that no one but my mom actually reads the list from start to finish, but should you wish to try, godspeed!

Beginning in October, 2014, here is my year, chronicled in thanks!

A hearth, a family, a sharing of lives

A new form of freedom

Eschatological laughter

Acceptance and openness

What I have is enough

Decisions made = settledness. There is security in having chosen.

Fiction fabulousness Continue reading

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