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.

The Halldór Laxness Hike

The only “must” Icelandic tourist attraction on my list before coming here was Halldór Laxness’ home museum Gljufrásteinn near Mosfellsbaer. I have secretly fantasized about visiting it for weeks, but the way there has seemed too complicated without a car.

Today the weather was sunny and less windy, the new snow and bright lights was a tempting combination for an outing in the wild nature, so we took bus 15 to Mosfellsbaer (a small township north on the way to Akureyri). This community is basically enclosed by mountains and fells, and it has a true small town spirit. Mosfellsbaer seemed less affluent than the other satellite towns to Reykjavík – it’s easy to detect the income level by looking at the supermarkets. They had only Bónus and Krónan – the screaming yellow thrift stores. Funnily enough, the landmark building in the community seemed to be the brand new KFC restaurant, where we also strayed. (It was my second visit to KFC ever, the first one happened in the summer on Kingston campus on Jamaica. I still am not convinced.)

From Mosfellsbaer there was another bus to Laxnes (even the place has been named after the famous author) but it only drove four times a day on Saturdays. We had to wait three hours for the next one. First it didn’t seem like a worthwhile wait, but then I decided to go for it, as it didn’t seem likely that we’d bother all the way up again during this trip. In three hours, we did KFC, Kronan and a video store café, which had a true tacky arctic small town stickiness to it. The tables were covered with strawberry-patterned wax tablecloths, the waitress was wearing a tracksuit and the only reading available was Seytt og heyrt (Seen and Heard). I was also wearing tracksuit bottoms, because I had run out of all other wearable trousers. I have also started practicing my Icelandic through trashy mags, so I had already purchased the number and keep it happily on the kitchen table. It’s funny how Icelandic celebrities also look like pigs when drunk. However, if compared to the assembly line of KFC, the video store café was in its own way a truly unique experience. Whole families were having lunch there, and the atmosphere was yet quite un-globalized.

We only got to Gljufrásteinn fifteen minutes before closing time. I tried to ask humbly, and the woman working at the desk was sympathetic because of our honest efforts to get there, so we were still allowed a tour in the house, though not a full one with the audiotapes.

It was the second home museum I visited this year. The first one was Bob Marley’s in Kingston in the summer. Both men’s wives are still alive, and the families are somehow involved in the running of the businesses. The entry to the Laxness museum was however about ten times cheaper than to the Marley one. So the similarities almost end there. But Bob’s house did have the same kind of feeling of carefree living as did Halldór’s. In neither of the places one had a feeling of stepping in a museum, and both places had very modest kitchens. Halldór had a bit more bling bling in the house than Bob: there was a very fancy swimming pool in the garden overlooking the mountains, creating the same kind of “edgeless” experience as the boutique hotels are nowadays offering in more tropical destinations than Iceland.

Halldór’s house was filled with expensive statues from around the world, and most of the furniture seemed to be designed by Arne Poulsen. The views to the mountains were breathtaking to the extent that I was not sure if I could have taken it as a daily working environment. Too much beauty can also dull the senses. He used to write standing up with a pencil, all the time while writing he would walk around in the study. It was fantastic to see the working space, as an example of how one can arrange a day devoted to writing.

Although the visit to the house was short (yet the poor woman had to stay there overtime because of us), I left the building with a sense of fulfillment. We stayed on the premises for a while, walking on Halldór’s paths, crossing streams, sitting on stones risking “pee disease”, looking for trolls and elves. The neighbour’s dog accompanied us. All the cats and dogs in Iceland are allowed to roam free. Our packed dinner from Krónan was however too frozen to be enjoyed outdoors. We could only think of having the Kókómjölk.

The visit ended with an adventurous Halldór Laxness Hike. As the next bus to Mosfellsbaer was due in two and half hours and Laxnes was not exactly a village but a remote concentration of perhaps ten private houses, it was impossible to stay there waiting for transportation. I also decided not to take a taxi this time. So we decided to walk back. We estimated the distance to be five-six kilometers. The views were definitely worth the effort, as long as there was still some light. There were many horse stables on the way back, so the kids were enjoying themselves, shooting photos of each horse they saw. There was a proper asphalt path for pedestrians, but at times it was dangerously icy. The ice slowed down the hike remarkably. It took us two hours to walk the way that without the ice might have taken only an hour.

Although in Finland one is totally used to walking on ice at least four months in a year, the Icelandic ice seems different. Or the roads are constructed differently. The pavements are bumpier and one feels like a senior citizen or a lame duck out there. They don’t bring any sand on the ice, or at least haven’t done so far. So walking is definitely at your own risk. Yesterday the two of us fell down three times. No bones were broken, but there were some tears. I am now thinking of investing in bus cards. But there’s a chance that the snow will still melt.

Kosketan maata

on nobelisti Hjaldór Laxnessin (1902-1998) matkakirja 1900-luvun alkupuolen myrskyistä sekä keskuksen että periferian näkökulmasta.

En edes tiennyt, että Laxness oli islantilainen - nimi ei pääty tyypilliseen -soniin, siksi olisin arvannut häntä norjalaiseksi. Kosketan maata-kokoelma alkaa mahtipontisesti luterilaisen maailmankatsomuksen kieltämisellä. Laxness kääntyi jo nuorena miehenä roomalaiskatoliseksi ja flirttaili aikansa manner-Euroopan luostarien syväuskovaisten merkkihenkilöiden kanssa.

Salka Valka on tuttu kirjan nimi jostain, mutta enemmän minua kiinnostaa hänen nuoruudenromaaninsa Kashmirin kutoja (jota ei ilmeisesti ole käännetty suomeksi lainkaan). Pidän erityisesti hänen samalla suorasukaisesta ja koukeroisesta kielestään - kohteliaisuus ja töykeys muodostavat hänen teksteissään mielenkiintoisen paradoksin, joka ei jätä lukijaa koskaan itsetyytyväiseen mielenrauhaan.

Laxness kävi syvällisiä keskusteluja Bertolt Brechtin kanssa melkein tämän kuolinvuoteella ja tämä näkyy sekä tyylillisesti että aiheiden valinnassa. Hän ei päästä lukijaansa helpolla, vaan antaa kaikille mahdollisuuden kirjoittaa samaa historiaa toisin.

Laxnessin Eurooppa on kosmopoliitti, dekadentti ja aina mätä jostain nurkasta. Keski-ikää lähestyvän tuhlaajapojan "äiti lähetä lisää rahaa"-kirjeet eivät myöskään anna vaikutelmaa kypsästä poliittisesta kommentaattorista, vaan paikoitellen Laxness kirjoittaa kuin pahin nulikka.

Nulikkamaisuudesta saa aina lisää pointseja, sillä kuka jaksaisi aikuista kypsää kaunokirjallisuutta?