Natasha Regehr

Tag: reflections (Page 3 of 5)

Home Brew: Vienna in a Cup

Vienna, you very nearly failed me.

I approached you with the same wide-eyed wonder with which I’ve approached the rest of Europe: quivering with anticipation at the thought of having an Authentic Cultural Experience in a city Steeped in History like a well-brewed cup of tea – a classy, temporal tea made of Stately Buildings and the Important People who once inhabited them. Oh, I would imbibe this heady tea, I thought. I would establish a mystical connection with the legendary masters who created the music that has so inspired me all my life. I would enter and inhabit their lofty, artistic world.

Vienna! You tease.

imagesWhat I got instead was a whole lot of kitsch: bewigged men in velvet breeches handing out glossy pamphlets advertising cotton-candy concerts in gaudy palaces; church cantors with nasal voices, leading quartets instead of choirs; museum exhibits with nothing but facsimiles and gift shops; and Strauss. Oh, the Strauss. And not the good kind, either. Waltzen-Strauss. Vienna, you and I both know that there’s more to you than triple time, treble clef trinkets and musical ties. But where to find it?

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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

A Canadian in Paris, Part 1.5: Lessons at the Louvre

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.

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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.

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Homing In

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.

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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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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.

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Chins up!

Things for which to be thankful, upon schmucking your chin with great force upon your classroom floor:

  • Just yesterday you dispatched a child to the office for some boxes of tissue: essential in staunching the blood as you dispatched yourself to the nurse’s office…
  • …which is conveniently located just one floor up from your music room…
  • …which no longer looks like a crime scene, because someone came and mopped up all the little pools and trails of blood.

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Choir: Take Two

This is how you audition for a choir in Casablanca.

First, you hear people talk about it a bit, and you have a brief but friendly Facebook exchange with someone who apologizes for his poor English, even though his English is pretty fantastic.

Then, one day, someone mentions that there are going to be auditions tonight at 7pm, and you go and ask your angel of a French teacher if her driver would mind taking you to the appointed location. You feel you can do this, because you bawled your eyes out in front of her after your last cataclysmic audition, and she gave you her phone number, and said, “Call if you ever need anything. I have a driver.” A driver who speaks neither English nor French, but that’s okay, because your angel of a French teacher hops in the car and goes to the audition with you, even though she’s just worked a ten-hour day. This is what angels are made of.

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