Cosmic Prose

Natasha Regehr

Tag: humour (Page 1 of 2)

Venez!

August 28, 2018 / / 4 Comments

A few weeks ago, I posted my very first French blog.  I am re-posting it today, with two critical changes:

  1. For those of you who asked for an English version of the original story, scroll down to the end to find a rather crude translation.
  2. For those of you who are curious to hear my weird Canadian-Moroccan-American-French accent, I have added an audio recording of the story as well.  It will make you laugh, even if it’s not supposed to.  Which it is.

Audio Version:

(with many thanks to my good friend in Vichy, for teaching me how to say “hockey” in French, and for letting me teach her a few Canadianisms as well)  

For those of you who didn’t read the original story and have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s where it all began…

Original Story:

This summer I got to do a little creative writing in my French class! We were asked to write a funny story that exaggerates the stereotypes that foreigners have of our home countries.  My Spanish, Mexican, Brazilian, Korean, American, and Basque classmates shared their stories, and then I offered up this little piece of Canadiana, inspired in part by our beloved Bob and Doug McKenzie.

Warning: This is my very first blog-worthy French composition.  There might be errors.  You might be offended.  Be gentle with me.

Venez! Venez! Venez au Canada! On vous accueille, comme on accueille tout le monde, tout le temps! Venez!

Dès que vous arriverez, on vous mènera à votre igloo, où vous dormirez en tout confort, en portant votre anorak et votre toque!

Le lendemain matin, vous prendrez votre déjeuner (au Canada, nos repas sont tous mélangées): un bonne portion de poutine avec une bonne portion de bière (Molson Canadian, bien sûr).  On vous donnera vos patins pour votre premier match de hockey.

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Holy Cows, Batman

July 3, 2018 / / 0 Comments

I dearly wish that I had had the wherewithal to prendre un photo of the cows that ran me down, but alas, stampedes do not lend themselves to portraiture.

Fortunately, I have words.

Do you remember the days before the touchless car-wash? Do you remember its predecessor? The one with the big, sudsy brushes that advance on you and engulf you, while you sit helplessly in the car and wait for it all to be over?

Wait, let’s back up a bit.  And by “back up,” I mean, reculer, in case you didn’t know.  But of course you did.

My day started with to-die-for jam (peaches and spice) and conversation around the breakfast table at a farm in the Southern French Alps.  I learned that the French drink tea out of rather big bowls, and that parapente is the French word for paragliding.  More on that later.

Scene Two: I am in my rental car, fiddling with the GPS, and then setting off ever-so-slowly down the winding mountain road to my first activity for the day.  I am leaving early, so I have plenty of time to get lost or have some other disaster befall me, both of which, of course, happened.

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This Reader and Her Romance

February 14, 2016 / / 0 Comments

This Reader and Her Romance

Do you hate Valentine’s Day? Well here’s a little gem from back in 2010, when I was academically obliged to analyze a case study of a bunch of Harlequin Romance addicts from the 1970s.  Part of the assignment was to read and respond to a romance novel myself, and compare my experience to that of the readers in Janice Radway’s study.  I confess, I had a little fun…

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Taroudant, Part 2: Entrez!

January 26, 2016 / / 5 Comments

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!

December 30, 2015 / / 2 Comments

“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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Tonique!

November 21, 2015 / / 2 Comments

What do Canadian teachers do when Morocco grants them a Wednesday off to celebrate Independence Day? Why, they go to the spa, of course, to work out all the knots and kinks acquired on Monday and Tuesday.  This knotty exposé (the closest to kinky prose you will ever find on this site) explores one woman’s search for the nonexistent no-man’s-land between “relaxant” (relaxing) and “tonic” (???) massage.  Relax, dear reader, and enjoy the show.

IMG_3582Massage in Canada involves sheets and undergarments.  Not so in Morocco.

I should have been prepared for this.  I discovered at the doctor’s office that those modesty-inducing hospital gowns are nowhere on the Moroccan radar.  I made a similar discovery at the esthetician’s and at the hammam.  Why would I think massage would be any different?

I will not trouble you with an exhaustive narrative of the experience; I will simply provide you with a helpful chart for future reference.  I suggest you print it, laminate it and keep it in your purse; it will be an invaluable aid next time you are considering an afternoon of pampering in Casablanca:

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Magic Carpet

August 31, 2015 / / 6 Comments

Sunday has become my own private Independence Day. It started last week when, rather than waiting for a ride home from church, I bravely embarked on my first solo taxi ride. I was terribly nervous. It turned out to be terribly fun. I chattered (if one can call it that) in French the whole way, and had a good laugh with the driver after declining his spontaneous marriage proposal.

So this week I decided to be doubly brave. Go to French church. Leave the dictionary at home. Understand the first half of the sermon. And then (to prevent a messy brain explosion), slip out and trek, explorer-like, to the city’s old medina.

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Morocco Me: Surf’s Up!

August 13, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I am beginning to think that everyone in this world has an analogue somewhere on another continent. And that a great many of them live in Morocco.

I’m sure you know what I mean: that niggling feeling that someone reminds you of (or perhaps is) someone else. In fact, one of the very first people who greeted me in Casablanca has a vocal cadence much like one of my synchronized swimming buddies in Canada. So, in my head, I call her “Morocco Sharon.” In the confines of this small campus, I have also met Morocco Dave, Morocco Catharine, Morocco Sarah; Morocco Tania, Stephanie, Krystal, Vera, Crystal, Paul, and Darlene; and, most curiously, Morocco Snow White and Morocco Barbie.

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Flight 209

July 31, 2015 / / 0 Comments

“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!

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