My province recently announced the inauguration of the long-awaited Phase 3 of its reopening plan, after 16 months of pandemic restrictions that stripped us of so many basic human needs: needs for safety, companionship, and freedom of movement; needs for familiarity and novelty, frivolity and meaning; needs for physical contact and emotional connection. These unpopular restrictions have been essential to the ongoing eradication of the cause of all this loss, and therefore had my full support. The threat has not passed; ongoing vigilance is necessary, and will be for some time. But I and those I care about have recently achieved “fully vaccinated” status, just when the powers that be have opened doors that have long been bolted fast.
And so it was that after a lonely year of disconnection and discontent, I found my way back to humanity, in the form of a modest road trip to see people and places from my Pre-Pandemic Past.
Tag: Morocco (Page 1 of 6)
When I moved to Morocco in 2015, every day held a story that I was eager to share with anyone who cared to read. By contrast, returning to Canada in 2019 has left me largely wordless. I had not written a thing since my return, when I came across a “receiving letter” that my thoughtful employers had written for all departing staff before we left. The idea was to prepare us, and the people who care about us, for the “reverse culture shock” that was about to hit us when we returned to a home that no longer felt like home. Here is that letter, and the thoughts it provoked.
So here it is: all that I have left unsaid since the day four months ago when I made my last voyage between the two places that have been home to me for the last four years: one, the place of my upbringing and my roots, the other, the place of my uprooting, and re-rooting, my redefinition of myself as “one who goes forth.”
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What a year.
So many changes. So much growth. Such very different lives.
Here, just a few days late, is my annual Gratitude List. A few items a day, for 365 days, to breathe a little positivity into the last wakeful moments of each evening.
What varied worlds this list represents, and what unexpected appreciations. At the beginning, Devan getting me “Mr. Propre” (Moroccan Mr. Clean) to save me an unpleasant outing to the grocery store on a Monday night; at the end, the sounds of laughter around my mom’s table, with all of the family gathered for our first Thanksgiving together in four years. In between, everything from donkey treats to doodle books.
Intrigued? Walk with me through a year of thankfulness:
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Three years ago I had a disastrous encounter with a maestro who shall not be named. It would not be a stretch to say that there were elements of trauma to that evening. Before you go any further, you should probably read the amusing, but heart-wrenching account of my first audition experience in Casablanca.
Now, three years later, I did the unthinkable thing, and repeated the experience. Same never-ending round-about. Same obscure church entrance. Same ghastly maestro. Same everything. But not the same me. Continue reading
I have been stressing out about French. Have you noticed? Likely not, because you think I’m still obsessing about the Royal Wedding. Forget that. I’m over it.
No, French is my ongoing obsession, more than ever now, as the stakes creep higher in equal proportion to my rising self-doubt.
What if I can’t do it? What if, no matter how much I study and how long I persist, I never pass beyond the blundering idiot phase of language learning? Oh, sure, I’m less of a blundering idiot than I was three years ago, when I couldn’t say, “I want to walk up the hill.” But the subjunctive has its own mode of blunder induction (did you catch that, French-speakers? Its own mode?). The more I learn, the more I blunder.
Now, these rising stakes of which I speak so melodramatically. What are they? Well, you know. Employment. That about sums it up. You see, I miss Canada. Continue reading
I want to talk to you about The Big Life (or La Grande Vie, as I called it in my first work of French pseudo-fiction, which I may or may not share with you at a later date, if you promise not to judge me by my grammar).
The Big Life: what is it? What makes a life small, restricted, or ingrown, and what makes it expansive, possibility-ridden, unencumbered? Is it where you live? Is it the people with whom you surround yourself? Is it finances, or family, or a sense of independence?
I remember doing a family history project with a bunch of six-year-olds a few years ago for social studies. One of the things I asked the students to do was to talk to their parents about their origins. Paper after paper came back to me, saying, “I was born in Lindsay. My parents were born in Lindsay. My grandparents were born in Lindsay.”
Now, Lindsay is not Toronto, or Montreal, or New York, or Paris. Lindsay is a small, rural community in the middle of (pretty much) nowhere. It has its charms, to be sure, but there is nothing particularly distinguishing about it. Even Bobcaygeon, a small rural community even deeper in the middle of nowhere, has a massive shoe store to commend itself to the wider world. But Lindsay? It’s just a little Canadian town, surrounded by lakes, trees, and farmland.
“What small lives these people lead,” I thought to myself, as I imagined generation after generation living, marrying, and dying on one little speck of this great earth. “I don’t want a small life. I want The Big Life. I want to Go.”
Going is a form of enlargement, I’m sure of it. In the last three years, I’ve visited a dozen countries scattered across four continents. I’ve lost track of the cities and airports I’ve passed through, the mountains I’ve climbed, the seas I’ve sailed, the terrain I’ve trekked. And I live now in a foreign land that is about as far removed from little Lindsay, both geographically and culturally, as it could possibly be.
Is this The Big Life? It sure feels like it, when I’m scuba diving in the Mediterranean or camping out in the Sahara. One does not ride camels in Lindsay. One does not barter for one’s daily necessities. One does not wonder how to say “thank-you” in Polish or “please” in Hungarian. One certainly does not climb the Great Wall of China. These are Big Life things. They are things that cannot be done in any alternative form of “elsewhere.” They are unique, defining, unreplicable experiences. That’s what The Big Life is all about, right? It’s about Doing Big Things and posting them on Facebook for all the world to see. Look at me and my gigantic, interesting life!
The Great Wall of China
The Bavarian Alps
The Eiffel Tower
Surfing in Dar Bouazza
Tiananmen Square, under the watchful eye of Chairman Mao
The Greek Acropolis
Berber bridal wear
The Sahara Desert
Camel trekking
Venice, Italy
The Atlas Mountains
Nice, France
Scuba diving in Greece
Buying oranges at the medina
You should know, though, that taking selfies with Chairman Mao is not representative of the real, everyday, Standard-Sized Life that I live in Casablanca. If anything, my Moroccan life has been one of shrinkage and thinning (not in body-size, unfortunately, but that’s another story).
Let me tell you what I mean.
Have you ever received a message like this?
It’s a little surreal. It feels quite final. I’ve made the leap.
I’ve made leaps before. Big leaps. Resigning, house-selling, relocating leaps. Blind leaps, for the most part. Great, optimistic, terrifying leaps into a new unknown. Leaps I’ve later questioned. And here I go again.
As much as I try to think of new things to be thankful for every single day, I can’t help but notice a few themes (read: blatant reiterations) creeping into this year’s Gratitude List. Can you spot them?
Bon courage!
- Efficient meetings
- Not being disregarded
- Comfortable hiking boots
- French is starting!
- Patient housemates
- Errands accomplished
- Surprise sales
- French again!
- Knowing my passport number but not my bank account number
- Yin was just right
- And so were my exercise clothes
- Hatha, oh hatha
- Not going to the mall twice in one day
- Leaving for Italy soon!
I told a fib today. It was easy, because it was in French.
You see, I’ve been seeking a new artistic outlet that will allow me to get out into the community and interact with other people. By “new artistic outlet,” I mean something that fosters self-expression but that will take me away from my 9-5 life of intoning “do-re-mi-fa-sol” on repeat five days a week. By “community,” I mean “outside of my all-consuming place of work.” And by “other people,” I mean “nice strangers who speak French.” Because this is a linguistic undertaking as much as anything else. Continue reading
Expat life is full of comings and goings, and right now I am feeling the goings much more than the comings. I am suffering the loss of some of my favourite people, and I find myself tempted to retreat to my magnificent new bedroom to while away the hours in comfortable solitude instead of mustering the energy to go out and intentionally cultivate new friendships.
Does anyone else out there understand how uncomfortable it is to watch others socialize freely and effortlessly, but to remain on the outside of their banter? Does anyone find the thought of trying to weasel your way into others’ already-established friendships borderline-terrifying? Does anyone find the thought of spending long, unstructured stretches of time with large groups of people absolutely excruciating?
If so, perhaps you can help me to remain accountable to my new Anti-Isolation, Starting-Over, I-Can-Do-This Social Policy – drawn up just this morning, with a mixture of dread and optimism: Continue reading