Islannin onnellisin maahinen tuli minua vastaan BYKO-nimisessä sisustusliike/rautakaupassa toissapäivänä juuri ennen pimeän tuloa. Olin etsimässä jotain lahjaa lasten opettajille, hypistelin turhautuneena käsinpuhallettuja joulukuusenkoristeita, kun kuulin takanani helisevän äänen. Sillä oli tavallisen kaupunkitakin alla valtameri turkoosinvihreää silkkiä, joku pyrstönkaltainen liehuke, ja harmaa-mustat villasäärystimet. Se ei ollut muistanut meikata, mutta sen iho kuulsi ilmiömäistä valoa. Se tuoksui luksuskylpylälle.
Se ei löytänyt etsimäänsä. Ainakin kaksi kauppa-apulaista tuli sitä auttamaan. Sille haettiin varastosta joitain kumisia vempeleitä ja kärryllinen verkkokasseihin pakattuja halkoja. Jäin seuraamaan ostostapahtumaa hämmentyneenä, sydän pamppaillen. Päädyin jopa ostamaan ne penteleen lasikuulat vain siksi, että halusin jäädä kassajonoon hengailemaan maahisen kanssa.
Maahinen ja minä hymyiltiin toisillemme monta kertaa. Tiedän, että näytin tarpeeksi hörhöltä herättääkseni maahisen huomion, olinhan laittanut päähäni rastapipon, jossa Jamaikan värit - ja vain siksi, etten ollut pystynyt pesemään hiuksiani yli viikkoon suihkun olemattoman vedenpaineen vuoksi. Tukka varmaan lemusi villan läpi. Minussa ei ollut luksuskylpylän tuoksua.
Maahinen tuli vielä taakseni kassajonoon ja katselimme siinä Hus&Hibyli-lehteä, jossa näytti olevan maahisesta pikku juttu (muttei taloesittelyä).
Minusta maahinen oli arkisessa olemuksessaan Violently Happy. Ja se oli sellaista hyvää oloa, joka virtasi muihin, ei ollut keneltäkään pois.
Ensi maanantaina hän antaa ilmaiskonsertin keskellä päivää Pohjolan talolla.
lauantai 20. joulukuuta 2008
maanantai 15. joulukuuta 2008
Confessions about the language
It's a bit funny, but I don't feel like a citizen of another Nordic country while living here in Iceland at all. The only place to get the Nordic vibes is Nordens Hus, the cultural centre designed by Alvar Aalto. In all other places I am someone who speaks loud English, and my identity seems to be circling around the fact of my English-speaking rather than citizenship of another Nordic country.
Of course I never shout out my Finnishness to people. I don't look very Nordic, so I could be from anywhere in Europe. Or even Turkey. It's a kind of freedom, being interpreted as someone English-speaking from any corner of the world. But then, when we finally get to the point of nationalities, I notice Finnishness is something through which one can gain sympathy points. "We are so much alike, always in Nordic meetings, we get along so well with the Finns but not with the others," they always say. Maybe it has something to do with never being understood in your native language. The feeling of being totally marginal, if you speak the language in which you were born and raised. The feeling of not making any sense to anyone. Lack of cultural intelligibility. I wonder if that gives us a sense of being somewhat post-colonial?
I hardly get myself understood in Icelandic at all. I've been trying to speak Danish with some taxi-drivers, and Swedish with people who have a background of immigration in Sweden. The Swedish plot works so much better; I have a feeling my Swedish is clear and well pronounced, I can make myself well understood. But Icelandic: shit happens. I remember when I lived in Denmark 10 years ago and learnt to read and speak fine enough by reading Politiken for a few months - no language course for immigrants required. Here, despite attendance on a migrants' course and my daily dose of Frettabladid, the language competence doesn't grow at all. I am able to ask for a plastic bag in a supermarket, but that's about it. (I was able to buy an underground ticket in Stockholm after 6 years of schooling in Swedish, but that's another story.)
The words simply don't make any sense. Because of the linguistic nationalism, very little loanwords are there in the written everyday language. Teenagers talk in English between themselves in public places to show off, but I can rarely recognize international words in the stream of ordinary Icelandic talk. Listening to it is kind of meditative (especially radio programmes), but no exposure increases understanding.
I think for me the only way to become infected by Icelandic vocabulary and grammar would be to fall in love with an Icelander, but the risks have been truly minimal. Especially in the case of men. Sometimes in the public swimming pools someone starts a conversation in Icelandic, and that's always a moment of deep wonder.
I never came here to talk anyways - I came to clear my head and write. In other tongues, not Icelandic. My kids love to correct my pronunciation. Maybe it gives them a feeling of self-confidence, speaking some language much better than Mom.
Of course I never shout out my Finnishness to people. I don't look very Nordic, so I could be from anywhere in Europe. Or even Turkey. It's a kind of freedom, being interpreted as someone English-speaking from any corner of the world. But then, when we finally get to the point of nationalities, I notice Finnishness is something through which one can gain sympathy points. "We are so much alike, always in Nordic meetings, we get along so well with the Finns but not with the others," they always say. Maybe it has something to do with never being understood in your native language. The feeling of being totally marginal, if you speak the language in which you were born and raised. The feeling of not making any sense to anyone. Lack of cultural intelligibility. I wonder if that gives us a sense of being somewhat post-colonial?
I hardly get myself understood in Icelandic at all. I've been trying to speak Danish with some taxi-drivers, and Swedish with people who have a background of immigration in Sweden. The Swedish plot works so much better; I have a feeling my Swedish is clear and well pronounced, I can make myself well understood. But Icelandic: shit happens. I remember when I lived in Denmark 10 years ago and learnt to read and speak fine enough by reading Politiken for a few months - no language course for immigrants required. Here, despite attendance on a migrants' course and my daily dose of Frettabladid, the language competence doesn't grow at all. I am able to ask for a plastic bag in a supermarket, but that's about it. (I was able to buy an underground ticket in Stockholm after 6 years of schooling in Swedish, but that's another story.)
The words simply don't make any sense. Because of the linguistic nationalism, very little loanwords are there in the written everyday language. Teenagers talk in English between themselves in public places to show off, but I can rarely recognize international words in the stream of ordinary Icelandic talk. Listening to it is kind of meditative (especially radio programmes), but no exposure increases understanding.
I think for me the only way to become infected by Icelandic vocabulary and grammar would be to fall in love with an Icelander, but the risks have been truly minimal. Especially in the case of men. Sometimes in the public swimming pools someone starts a conversation in Icelandic, and that's always a moment of deep wonder.
I never came here to talk anyways - I came to clear my head and write. In other tongues, not Icelandic. My kids love to correct my pronunciation. Maybe it gives them a feeling of self-confidence, speaking some language much better than Mom.
Notes from Café Hljómalind
I have escaped from the blogosphere, trying to create some Real Text maybe. The Icelandic darkness has also been physically the toughest winter experience in my life so far. Sleep has been deep and abundant. Coming to another darkness than the domestic one also takes its toll. At the moment, we only have 5 hours of very low sunlight, and the sunny days can be counted with the fingers of one hand. Today it's gray and slushy up to your knees.Luckily, last Saturday was stunning weather-wise and I had lovely driving friends over from Finland (thanks to P, T and the kids again...). They rented a car and we almost completed the famous Golden Circle. Now as a word of warning, even many of the Icelandic "main roads" are difficult to access with a normal car when there is snow on the ground. We missed road 365 between Thingvellir and Geysir. But finally we got to Geysir before it got dark, and just at that twilight moment the experience was otherworldly (despite the frozen toes).
I am working today at Café Hljómalind, and maybe will have another coffee session at Babalu. These two cafés have been the ultimate joys in Reykjavik urban life. Hljómalind is the meeting point of everyone enjoying spelt in their diets; Babalu is slightly more relaxed, offering larger pieces of cake that I suspect are baked with white sugar (gasp!). What I particularly love about Babalu is that the owner doesn't speak Icelandic at all. Old Norse and I are no longer in speaking terms; we only whisper half-words every now and then.
Last week I almost wrote a poem, and I am continuing that still. It's about climbing up Nönnugata in the old part of the city. I love old monasteries and nunneries, or memories of them, wherever I go. The last similar moment was two years ago in Aalborg, Denmark. This year the saga has been continuing through encounters with Carmelite nuns.
There is no Christmas shopping hysteria in Reykjavik, at least the financial crisis has this positive effect on the culture. There are candles and flowers everywhere, and people take Christmas lights quite seriously. But I don't see people with bulging bags around. Nobody pushing or shoving in the shops. No kids with temper tantrums. How come, oh how come?
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