‘Is this what you Acadians listen to?’
I sit in the back of the cramped car as the most bizarre French song flows from the radio. It sounds like how I imagine a fat, baritone fish singing. Or glugging, over and over. Times four – with all the repetition, it seems like a barbershop quartet. I’m not sure why this image comes to mind. I trade befuddled glances with Shahbaz. He is crammed into the seat next to me, his six-feet-plus tall body far too big for the beat-up car.
‘Rude,’ Mel exclaims from the driver’s seat, ‘I have no idea what this nonsense is.’
‘Well, it is on CIFA,’ Shahbaz says, ‘so you do listen to it.’
‘Let’s see if it can be recognised.’ Chris is in the passenger seat, his phone out. ‘I think I should get a signal at the next clearing.’
‘Or just listen to what the radio says when it’s over,’ Mel says pointedly.
‘Not all of us speak French, Mel.’ Chris is equally pointed.
‘Yeah, you could just lie, and make something up, and then we’d go around forever giving people the wrong information and look stupid. Is that what you want, Mel? Is it?’ Shahbaz chides her.
‘Because this song is such a banger,’ Mel rolls her eyes sarcastically.
‘It’s the principle of things!’ Shahbaz begins to pontificate. I laugh. How I’ll miss these guys.
It’s 2022, and I’m in Nova Scotia. The rural Acadian part, which many people call the French shore. It’s fitting to be in Nova Scotia, in a way. At the end of the summer, I’m moving to Edinburgh. From New Scotland to the original. Leaving behind old friends for new ones. An adventure I’m more than ready for, but it’s never easy to take a road that diverges away from the one that you’ve travelled with your friends for so long.
‘We should listen to P’tit Belliveau again.’ Shahbaz ends his lecture.
‘Oh my god, why did I make you guys listen to that song?’ Mel sighs, ‘I’m tired of hearing you sing in bad French that doesn’t sound anything like French!’
‘Don’t you mean Acadian French?’ I chime in just to bug her. She’s already explained on many occasions that Acadian French is French.
‘Oh mais mais!’ Mel exclaims in her accent, exasperated.
‘Reception!’ Chris interrupts with an update, ‘it looks like the song is called L’Orange.’
‘L’Orange?’ Shahbaz and I once again trade incredulous glances. ‘Never would’ve guessed,’ I said.
‘Well, now that we know the title…’ Shahbaz trails off and begins to make a series of bizarre vocal noises to the tune. Mel joins in. This is their thing that they usually do for their category on trivia night. They affectionately call it 'mouth sounds.'
There’s been a female singer on the track who will occasionally come in with a loud, atonal scream. As she does this once more, Chris joins in, imitating it.
‘Why aren’t you singing?’ Mel catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, catching her breath from too many mouth sounds.
‘Does what you’re doing classify as singing?’ I have no idea what’s going on in this song. And it seems very long.
‘Don’t be all snooty, now that you’re leaving me forever to go to Scotland and will never come back.’
‘I see you’ve been talking to my mother.’
‘I’m serious.’ The song comes to an end, and the announcer says something I don’t understand. Mel continues, ‘you’ll end up being successful and famous and then meeting some fancy guy with an accent who won’t tolerate our silly nonsense and I’ll never see you again and that’s just not gonna work.’
I laugh, ‘I’m glad you have so much faith in me.’
‘Always. But don’t you dare forget our silliness.’
‘Mel, I’d never. And you shouldn’t worry,’ I pause, grinning as I look at each of them, ‘I think this is a pretty good litmus test.’
‘What do you mean?’ Chris asks.
‘Oh, you know – I think anyone who has a chance of being long-term with me would need to be able to take a cramped road trip with us singing dumb songs. And enjoy it. It’s one of the main requirements.’
‘L’Orange is not dumb,’ Shahbaz says in mock outrage.
‘Okay. I agree,’ Mel nods approvingly, ‘I think that’s an excellent way of weeding people out.’
‘So…P’tit Belliveau? Income Tax?’ Shahbaz asks after a moment. 'It never ends!'
Mel lets out a long sigh. ‘Chris, we still have reception?’
Chris is quick to find the song on his phone. Income Tax fills the car, and we all sing along, a cacophony of voices, the majority of which are completely botching the words. But it doesn’t matter; we’re having the best time.
I stare out the window, smiling to myself. No, it’ll never be the same as it is now, but I’ll always be able to find my way back to this road.