Natasha Regehr
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez faire aujourd’hui?” asked the Artist. What do you want to do?
The two dignified women beside me knew exactly what they wanted to “faire.” Silhouettes. Watercolours. Realistic paintings of realistic people. Crap like that.
“Et vous?” she asked again.
Gulp.
“I’m not a trained artist,” I stammered, “mais j’aime jouer avec les coleurs.”
The three real artists in the room smiled condescendingly, and a little amusedly. Jouer? Play? What nonsense was this?
I woke up later than I’d planned. I’d best get moving if I want to experience artistic ecstasy at the Louvre, and still have time to lose myself in the ultimate flea market, all before 6pm. No time for dawdling. Where’s that market? Oh dang, I accidentally closed that tab. Google search… markets in Paris… oh, here it is. Marché St. Denis. Quick. Find it on the map. Find the Louvre. Find a route between the two. Hmmm. No simple route presents itself. That’s okay. I will ask the informative people at the Louvre. They are designed to be helpful. So one would assume.
And off I went. Metro. Louvre. Artistic ecstasy. Check.
“Excusez-moi? Quelle est la meilleur route au Marché St. Denis?” I asked, pointing to the place I’d circled on my map.
“I speak English,” replied the girl behind the tourist desk. Like I’d asked.
“What’s the best way to get to this market?” I asked again.
“I went there once,” she said, coolly. “I didn’t like it.”
Did I ask what language you speak? Did I ask if you like flea markets? Of course you don’t. You’re a snooty, polished Parisian who works behind the information desk at the snootiest, most aristocratic cultural destination on the planet. Just tell me how to get there, already.
She told me. I went. I was beside myself with anticipation. Continue reading
“Let’s meet under the Eiffel Tower at 10am.”
How’s that for a statement you don’t hear every day? Particularly from your pals in humble Peterborough, 6,000 km from anything remotely Parisian?
It was March, 2016, and I was living in Morocco. I had some medical concerns that I felt weren’t being adequately addressed in Casablanca, and had planned a last-minute consultation with a specialist at the American Hospital in Paris. I was desperate for a conclusive diagnosis and action plan for my increasingly distressing health situation; but what I ended up with was so very much more enlightening than the coveted doctor’s report.
A few weeks ago I had the unprecedented pleasure of spending a spontaneous weekend in Paris. Here is the second in a series of three (very) loosely chronological reflections.
Why the second and not the first, you ask? Well, the first one isn’t ready yet, because I actually wrote it second. Never mind. Just read.
I went to one of the most famous art galleries in the world today. I saw one of the most famous paintings in the world. It moved me not.
It was terribly exciting to get off the metro and follow the signs to the Louvre. It was exciting to walk past the gallery bookstore and approach the gallery information desk. It was exciting to buy my ticket, and stand under the famous pyramid, and plan my route to the Mona Lisa.
It’s not every day that your doctor hands you your fibroid in a jar.
And if that’s too much information for you, then you’d better stop reading right now.
My fibroid and I have just ended a long and pretty-much-pointless relationship. She (shall we call her Effie?) has been living and growing inside me for years, or so I’m told, but for some reason chose the moment of my arrival in Morocco to manifest herself. She then proceeded to wreak havoc with my body in all sorts of ways that I will not get into. Continue reading
As if I promised my mom I’d quit blogging in airports.
Forget that. I am in an airport with two big, empty hours between me and my flight, and I have thoughts in my head. Blog I will.
What sorts of thoughts, you ask? Travelling thoughts, of course. I am thinking about the first time I entered this airport in Casablanca, six months (years? decades?) ago. Ah, the idealism of youth: the naïve vision of a sparkling future ahead, with dreams wide open, waiting to be absorbed into ever brighter, ever-evolving realities…
Well, okay. It was half a year ago, and not entirely sparkly. I stepped off the plane onto the melting tarmac (Tarmac? Seriously? No portable space-age tunnels to beam me from one climate-controlled existence to the next? And what? I have to walk?). I entered a shabby building stuffed with jostling, djellaba-ed strangers. The signs on the walls were incomprehensible. I had no idea where to go. Which “line” do I join? This mob, or that one? Hey, how did all those people get in front of me? It’s hot. I’m dirty. I’m sweaty. Everyone is. Welcome to the new reality.
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…
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.
“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.
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.
© 2024 Cosmic Prose
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
