On words I have yet to decide the meaning of

I have invented the following words, but have not yet decided what they should mean. Screw etymology (even though, or perhaps just because, I love it). Suggestions are welcome.



Ksnø (alternative spelling for the less Scandi-inclined: Ksneu. The k is not silent).

Yuips (best uttered when slightly tipsy, so the meaning should probably be related).

Geddlelog.

Pouiyrtre (not to be confused with Poiuytre).

Whhsnosis (thinking this might be something for the medical communtiy?).

Fogbliggerfoullervat (most likely a rather literal translation of something German).




Thank you for your attention.

(For the record, I did not invent these last 23 words. Nor the first 29 of this post.)

On giraffur*

Editor's note: the above picture is historically questionable and must be used for illustrative purposes only.
In reality, there is no affirmative evidence that viking giraffes wore helmets with horns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


*Giraffur is the Faroese language word for giraffe. Faroe, or føroyskt, is a pretty interesting language to me. It's kind of close to my own mother tongue - at least in writing it looks a whole lot like Norwegian words spelled with an extra -ur at the end of most words, and with certain vocabulary differences that nevertheless are so *logical* that I still understand them.

In the Faroe Wikipedia article about giraffes, for instance, it says:

Giraffur (frøðiheiti - Giraffa camelopardalis) er hálslangt afrikanskt jóturdýr. Giraffurin er heimsins hægsta dýr. Girafarnir verða einar 4,5-5,8 m høgir og viga 800 - 1.900 kg. Langi hálsurin ger, at giraffurin røkkur eftir teimum sevjumiklu bløðunum uppi á trøunum. Hann hevur liðiliga tungu, sum hann skræðir bløð og smágreinar av við. Hann hevur smá horn, knavar, langan hala og sítt halatagl. Við halanum kveistrar hann flogkyktini burtur. Hvør einstakur giraffur er sermerkt littur. Giraffar kunnu tvíspora upp í 50 km/t. Teir verða kynsbúgvnir tá teir eru 3 ár. Teir eru uppá vegin í 14-15 ½ mánað og fáa ein unga.

...which to me reads a little something like this:

Giraffur (wordseed: Giraffa cameloparadalis) is longneck Africanish udderanimalur. The giraffur is tallest animalur in homeplaceworld. Giraffurs can get 4,5-5,8 meterur tall and weighur 800-1900 kilos. Longur neckur does so giraffur reaches after something something leaveurs in the treeurs. He has quite the tongueur which he uses to shred leaveurs and littlebranches off with. He has small hornurs, hooves, longur tail and horse-hair-like-tail. By the tail he kwistles flogmartini cage-trip. Every single giraffur has individualish markingur. Giraffur can fast-track up till 50 kilometreurs per hourur. They are propagative when they are 3 yearur old. They are on the road for 14-15 1/2 moons, and then have babyur.

(So, basically, I can understand most of it, but occasionally fail miserably)

On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

On Denmark

I'm prone to speak of one of Norway's neighbours - Sweden. If you have been following this blog for a while, you know all about my love-hate relationship with Norway's "older brother". Or rather, how I pretend to hate Sweden, while in reality I love it (except when it comes to sports. That's the only arena where my Swedenmosity is genuine...).

Our other close "relative", however - Denmark - I haven't spoken much about. Denmark is a little further away. You actually have to cross an ocean (albeit a narrow one). Also, Norway and Norwegians are strangely concerned about Sweden, while Denmark occasionally falls out of our conscience.

Even if we write Danish.

Even if our flag is the Danish flag with a blue cross in it.

Even if we imported our royal family from Denmark.

Even if practically every flight anywhere in the world to/from Norway goes via Denmark.

Even if they ruled us for 400 hundred years.

We forgave that...

I know I've previously mentioned how strange it is that while our union with Denmark was four centuries of absolutist rule, Norwegians are only bitter about the less than a century with Sweden in a much looser constellation where we had our own constitution, Parliament and flag. We like to think of Denmark as our protector, somehow. Perhaps not a brother or sister - more like an uncle, perhaps? The uncle that always is a little tipsy and brings you presents from abroad. That's Denmark to Norway. Slightly less close than Sweden, but infinitely more appreciated. Poor Sweden.

I've grown to appreciate Denmark more recently, though. First of all, some of the very excellent people I met in Tokyo were Danish. I've had Danish friends before - the first one was on a vacation when I was five, and I didn't understand a word she said. Language is a problem with Danes, you see. Despite the fact that our written language (or one of them - yes, we have two. No, they are not all that different. No, don't tell my Neo-Norwegian patriot friends I said that...) basically is a Norwegianified Danish, oral Danish is quite difficult to understand. Norwegians commonly think Danish people sound like they speak with a potato in their throats. Some of my Danish friends agree... With some practice, though, I can usually understand Danish if. They. Speak. Slowly. Slooowly. It cuts through the potato, then.

Written Danish, on the other hand, is not problematic for a Norwegian to read. Thus, it poses no particular challenge when I in my current job have to read a lot of Danish newspapers. In fact, by now I think I prefer reading Danish - it sounds much more poetic and elegant than Norwegian does! Also, the Danish debate I am reading up on is much more "spicy" than anything you'll find in Norway. While we consider the Danes to be mellow people, they certainly have much more zing to their public commentary than what we have. It makes for more interesting reading material, for sure.

They may be bold in their debates, but the Danes are also surprisingly polite. For instance, I was surprised to find myself addressed with "De" and "Dem" in an email in reply to some inquiries I had. We have this polite version in Norwegian too - it compares to the German "Sie" or the French "Vous" - but we never, ever use it anymore (I don't anyone has since the 1960s). I commented on this to my Danish friend, and he replied that it is not very common in Denmark anymore either, but that is is used for "customers, elderly people and Norwegians". Obviously, the latter was a joke, but it says something about the relationship between our two countries. In many ways I think Danes think of Norway as the prodigal son - they fondly awaits that we will come back under their influence once we've tried all this "independence" nonsense... (I might also add that another Danish friend commented that had I been Swedish, I probably wouldn't have gotten a reply at all... That says something about the relationship between those two countries, I suppose...)

Oh, it's all fun and games, of course. Norway, Denmark and Sweden - Scandinavia (and if we include Iceland and Finland we've got the whole Nordic family) - we're good friends. We begrudgingly vote for each other in the Eurovision Song Contest. We occasionally cheer for each others' teams in sports competitions (perhaps that is why we like Denmark better, by the way? We generally don't do the same sports...). We cooperate in politics and economy, we read each others' literature and watch each others' movies. We have similar values and ideas and systems. We get along pretty well, despite our historical differences. And we looooove to make fun of each other. As evidenced below.

On e(if you're gonna say ecards again I will punch you)car... On pictures with funny captions

On... Love?

What is this - love - you're talking about? A grand word. Not often employed where I hail from. Many of us would consider it a floskel (google it). It's even grander, more unattainable in Norwegian: Kjærlighet. Å elske. I remember a song from when I was young(er): "It's easier to say 'I love you' in English," it said, in Norwegian. It's true. "Love ya!" Much more casual than "Jeg elsker deg" or even "Jeg er glad i deg".

Norwegians may be known for their naivety, innocence, peacefulness or good-natured pastorality (I like making up words that end with -ity. Deal with it). But also for a certain skepticism to new things. For being withdrawn, stiff, hard to get to know. Foreigners coming to Norway find themselves surprised at the empty streets after closing hours (and the fact that those closing hours are so darned early). "I'd forgotten that the whole country shuts down after 7pm," said a friend after an extended stay abroad. It's not far from the truth.

I think this is part of the reason that the last week have been particularly inspiring for many of us. Suddenly we're allowed to show your emotions in Norway. The Prime Minister, with tears in his eyes, admitting that he has cried over the recent tragedy. Grown men - tough, poker-faced men, normally - allowed themselves to be moved by the many ceremonies and memorials. Strangers hugging on the street. And all these words. Solidarity, community spirit, togetherness. Love. Even in Norwegian.

The world has been impressed, perhaps, with the Norwegian reaction to the atrocities. However, it is nothing compared to how impressed we are with ourselves. We had almost forgotten we had it in us. The quiet, everyday type of love that's been around the whole time, and the more "special occasion love" that only surfaces in weddings, birthdays and for those who celebrate Valentine's Day - it's all been spectacularly overshadowed by =LOVE=. #OsLove. Rose love. Love for each other, in large, shiny, glamorous letters in the sky.

Maybe these words are empty, floskler. Or maybe they are not. Maybe it doesn't even matter. It seems we needed them, now. I saw a tweet today, that made me nod: "This is the time to forgive benevolent floskler." (Pardon my French, er, English. Translations aren't my strong point, and I've grown fond of the word floskel today.)

I love that.

On wishful thinking

A list of things I wish I could do, but really can’t:

• Play the piano.



• Find a pair of shoes that won’t make my feet hurt.



• Pilot an airplane, no, wait – a hot air balloon! That would be awesome!



• Pull of any shade of red hair.



• Speak French. Or Japanese. Or Russian. Or basically any language that isn’t Norwegian, English, or Fairy-Swedish.



• Time travel.



• Read only one book at the time.



• Sow. Though I am rather fond of the opinion of Kristin Scott Thomas’ character in The English Patient in this respect: "A woman should never learn to sew, and if she can she shouldn't admit to it." ~ Katharine Clifton.



• Ice skate backwards. Really, I have NO idea how they do it!



• Use my Japanese phone to anything besides making and answering calls. What’s the point of having a high-tech phone if you don’t understand how it works?



• Get up early enough in the morning so that I don’t have to run to work.



• Become – and stay – organized in every aspect of my life.



• Lick my elbow. (You had to try, didn’t you?)



• Finish this blog post in a meaningful way.



• Giraffe. 

On Swedish

Due to my recent declaration of love for Sweden, I feel the need to compensate by telling you something bad about Sweden. I am Norwegian, after all.

Thus.

The Swedish term for gift wrapping is "inslagning". Since many Swedes live in Oslo, I have often been asked "Får man slå den in?" [excuse my Swedish if I am spelling things wrong. It sounds much more convincing when I pronounce it...]. The thing is, "slå", "at slaga" means to beat something. Thus, when a Swedish person asks you to gift wrap the book they just bought, they are really asking you to beat the crap out (actually in, directly translated. "Beat in" is the exact wording of the Swedish expression) of it.

If that is how they treat their gifts... Just sayin'...

On إعلان oznámení bekendtgørelse Ankündigung ανακοίνωση anuncio ilmoitus*

I have two announcements to make today. First of all, it is Friday the 17th of September 2010. You probably already knew that. Unless you're reading this late, which means that it can be Saturday the 18th of September 2010, or Sunday the 19th, or even Tuesday the 3rd of March 2065 (but I highly doubt that since by then the apocalypse surely will have wiped out the internet and the human species and probably even this blog). Even if you are reading this late, however, the chances are that you already knew what date this was posted, since it says so right at the top. Boy, what a useless announcement.

The second announcement, however, is slightly more thought-through. I hear there is another post up at Burrowers, Books and Balderdash. The reason I heard is that I wrote it, and then told myself. I can be complicated that way. So, I guess this announcement only serves to gently ask you to head over there and check it out. Or, you know, you can take a nap.

Happy weekend!

* These are all the translations the Free Online Dictionary suggested for "announcement". Not one of them is Norwegian. I am slightly offended.

On HPANA (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the web)

I’ve been holding back… Or, I haven’t deliberately, but there has been one thing I have neglected to tell you. I am a Harry Potter geek. There, I said it. If you want to know what the scar on Dumbledore’s knee looks like, I can tell you. The rules of quidditch? I’m your gal. Ask me how to de-gnome a garden, and I will give you a 20 minutes long lecture. Then again, many of the people reading this regularly wouldn’t be too impressed, because they are Harry Potter geeks as well. See, my internet network (internetwork?) begun with Harry Potter. But the story starts even further back. Prepare for the inside story...

It was the night before Christmas. Actually, it was probably not, even if my mother constantly complains she is late with preparations for the holidays. Anyway, she was out Christmas shopping and she did not know what to get me. This being my pre-workinginabookshop days, she decided to give me a book, which would always be a hit. That she landed on Harry Potter og de vises sten [and the Philospher's Stone] seems fairly coincidental.

I had only barely heard of Harry Potter before this, as it was right after its release in Norway which pegs it right before it became a major international success. It wasn’t even all that known in Britain yet (you know, according to JKR [Joanne Kathleen Rowling, duh!] standards. What I had heard about the book had not actually intrigued me all that much, so chances are I wouldn’t have picked it up had I not received it as a present (though, with the following attention circus I might have done so at a later time – even if I have managed to stay away from Twilight which is the only hype I can think of that is even remotely comparable). Since I had the book in my procession, however, I started reading it, and a whole new world opened up.

What drew me in at first wasn’t the magic or the orphan thing or even the boarding school (applications for which I’ve heard increased rapidly after the Potter-books became popular). No, it was the humour. Right from the start the Harry Potter books offer a comic twist that most likely is a big part of what has convinced millions of adults all over the world (as well as their children) to read the series of seven books. As I chuckled my way through those first few chapters, I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

Once I had finished the first book, I craved for more. The problem was, it hadn’t been published yet. In Norwegian, that is. I was about 14, and I had learned English for three-four years. However, I was not yet at a stage where it came natural to me to speak it, or read it in large quantities. The books I had previously read in English were mostly those I already knew very well in their Norwegian translation, and many of these, even, were put away because I got tired of using the dictionary for every other word.

Having the carrot of getting to read the sequel to a book I loved, however, made all the difference. I quickly dropped the dictionary. What I couldn’t understand from context would have to wait – I understood enough to follow the story, and that was all that mattered. By the end of that book I could read English. I have read all the books in Norwegian translation as well, but always after having read the original (at least once) first, and always with a foul taste in my mouth (I have issues with the translator). Basically, reading the Harry Potter books opened up a whole new world of books to me.

I caught up with the British publication dates around book four (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, or GoF as us geeks know it), my favourite in the series. I read it twice the day (and night) I got my hands on it, and I have read it at least six or seven times after that. After GoF, however, I was stuck in the same pain as other Potter fans around the globe – the endless waiting. It was years between the last few books in the series. Oh, the torture!

Until then it had not occurred to me to share my expectations for the books with anyone. Several of my friends had read them (one is almost as big a fan as I am. But not as big a geek), and we discussed the books occasionally, but we were teenagers. Most of our time was spent discussing boys (and none of them were named Harry). This is where the internet opened up another new world to me. I found several fansites online, and I think I joined a few as well to feed the addiction the Harry Potter books had become. However, I was not very active in any of them until I found The Harry Potter News Aggregator (HPANA).

I don’t know how I came across HPANA, really. According to my member stats I joined the day before the launch of The Half Blood Prince (HBP). At this point I had already read the strictly forbidden, highly protected, don’t-you-dare-to-sell-it-before-the-release-day book as a result of my bookstore employee benefits (*evil laugh*). I was dying to share, but didn’t (something I still credit myself with till this day). But I was ready to join the debates I knew would arise as soon as the rest of the world got to read it as well.

The thing is, when you discuss something you feel so passionate about with people who are passionate about the same thing, it is easy to make new friends. And it is easy to overcome differences such as age, background, religion or political beliefs. Through our mutual love for the Potterverse (oh, come on! The universe of Harry Potter, of course!) I got to “talk” (type, technically. But you know, this is 2010. It’s socially accepted to talk online now. Which you, as a blog reader, probably is aware of. But I am pretending to address this to a sceptical audience, so it would be great if you could flaunt some prejudices…) with people from all over the world. Some of them I gradually came to consider as great friends. Some of them I have met in person (six and counting) over the years, many of them I keep in touch with on a regular basis. When I was going to the US it was one of my old HPANA buddies who tipped me of someone in her neighbourhood who might be interested in a tenant (they were). While I was there I was able to visit two additional HPANA friends. For the past few years I have cooperated with many of them in my writers group. If and when I finally write a book it will be largely thanks to the connections and inspiration I have gained from my acquaintance with Harry Potter in general, and with HPANA in particular.

Assuming my mother had not bought me that present all those years ago, I might never have read these seven great books. I might never have bothered to learn English well enough to be able to use it on a daily basis. Had I not been able to do that, my choice of education (95% of my entire curriculum reading on the university has been in English) would have been difficult. If I had gone to the US at all, it would have been a completely different trip. And chances are I would not have continued to nourish my dream of writing books. I certainly would not be writing this, since I only ventured into the world of blogging because I was already familiar with online forums as means of communication and because several of my friends – HPANA friends – were already bloggers.

To say that Harry Potter has changed my life would be an understatement. Thus I think it is appropriate to express a great, big THANK YOU to both JKR and all her minions. HPANA-buddies – I love you all!

On Sunday the 11th of April

I almost never do a “this is what I did today” blog. Partly because I almost never write my posts on the day I publish them. I usually let them simmer for a while, and I like to get a second or third read-through with fresh eyes which can only be achieved if I write it first, then leave it for a while, and then read it again. This gives me the ability to spot terrible writing, and the strength to cut it like a mad butcher. (Take this paragraph. Absolutely hopeless. I expect to molest it to smithereens before finally being satisfied with it [unless I will keep it the way it currently is to make a point. Oh, dang, now that I said it, I kind of have to, don’t I?].)


The other reason I don’t do “this is what I did today” posts is because I have absolutely no need for this blog to turn into my personal (yet very public) diary. I used to keep diaries (well, one at the time…). When I visited my parents over the Easter break, I found some of my old diaries, and boy am I glad those aren’t public material... Some of it probably should be – if it’s true that laughter is healthy, I should be sentenced for keeping this miracle drug to myself.

Back when I kept a diary I was surprisingly audience-aware (even if I pointed out a number of times that the only audience for whom I was writing was myself). I was concerned with voice, language, structure – all the things I now consider when composing texts were already then tools I actively used (more or less consciously) to make a readable diary.

A third reason I normally avoid “this is what I did today” (if I am going to continue using this term I very soon need to invent an abbreviation for it – TIWIDT?) posts is that my life often isn’t all that exciting on a day-to-day basis. A lot of my blog posts would sound something like this: “I got up between 6 am and 7.30 am (entirely depending on how long I bothered hitting the snooze button before actually leaving bed – usually somewhere between 3 and 50 times. No kidding). Had a shower, took the tram to the university. Sat at my desk for X hours, only interrupted by Y number of breaks. Took the tram back home. Slept.” Boring!

Today, however, has been an out of the ordinary sort of day. So if I ever was to do a TIWIDT post, this would be the time.

Oslo seems to be the kind of city where it’s either awesome or awful to be. It’s never, or at least rarely, “just okay”. Today was one of the awesome days. The sun was shining, and believe you me, after five months of winter and one month of rain (slightly exaggerated on both accounts, but not by a lot) we deserve some sun. When it finally showed up, however, it was so brilliant that it hardly feels like it’s been gone at all. I think my face freckled up after about ten minutes outside (alright – I’m exaggerating again – first of all we had lots of sun yesterday as well, and secondly I spent about 7 hours outside today, so I was expecting spring freckles).

I’m not the only one who feels this way. It takes no more than ten degrees (celcius) and half an hour of sun before Osloensians (we aren’t called that. I don’t really know what we are called. So I made up a name. I do that a lot…) are popping up everywhere, smiling, wearing short sleeves, eating ice cream or drinking beer (utepils – "outdoors beer" – is a common term here). If I had told a foreigner walking around in Oslo two weeks ago that the city has half a million inhabitants he wouldn’t have believed it, because there were no one to be seen. If I had told him today, he might be inclined to think I was making an understatement. Oslo does have half a million inhabitants, and today all of them were outside (or so it seemed).

I too acted like a proper Osloensian (it’s catching on!) today and enjoyed just how lovely this city can be in springtime. My roommate and I walked to a museum I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. The Nobel Peace Center (whose giraffe mascot I wrote a blog post about a while back) has been featuring an exhibit called “From King to Obama”, showing the links between the two Nobel Peace Prize laureates (cleverly summed up in the following quote: “Rosa sat so Martin could walk. Martin walked so Barack could run. Barack ran so our children can fly.”). As the quote perhaps also shows, the exhibit somewhat glorified both King and Obama. However, since the exhibit was focusing on the Nobel Peace Prize aspect of both their journeys I suppose there was little point in emphasizing any controversies.

After the exhibit (and the gift shop. Let’s not forget the gift shop. I almost always prefer the gift show [shop. I might subconsciously have given the answer to why I always prefer the gift shop. Clearly I mistake it for a show!] to the actual museum no matter how interesting the exhibits…) we had lunch – outside, naturally (this is also part of the Oslo spring – every little café will magically conjure up at least one table with a couple of chairs, and voila – people can enjoy their coffee/beer/meal/ice cream at the risk of freezing to death. Very charming). There we also met another friend of mine, before both my friends left me to walk around on my own. I went to the fortress, where I took some very poor pictures (in my defense, I was blinded by the sun), before a friend called up asking if I wanted ice cream. Of course I did.

I had some spare time before the ice cream appointment, so I went to a bookshop (probably the only one in Oslo that is open on a Sunday) to see if I could find a copy of The Secret Garden. This little piece of information has so many digressions tied to it that even I don’t know where to start… Alright, let’s give it a try.

First of all, I always, always read The Secret Garden in spring, and I have for as long as I’ve been able to read. It’s very important that I don’t read it too early (if any more snow falls after I’ve started reading it, spring is ruined), but I can also not read it too late (it’s already late-ish. Anything after April is out of the question). While I recognize that there are books that are better written, more interesting, with better plots and more complex characters; I still considers this as my favourite book. After all, I have read it about 20 times by now.

Seeing as I love it so much, you might wonder why I haven’t purchased it before. Oh, I have! Trust me! I own no less than three copies of this book. The first one is in Norwegian, and this is the copy I have read over and over and over and… And over. I know every little typo (there are plenty) in that copy, and because this is my childhood copy, I must admit I prefer it. For every other book, though, I tend to prefer the original version (that is, if the original version is in a language I can read. So my “original version preference” is pretty much limited to English and Norwegian. And Swedish and Danish, but that is only because they are so similar to Norwegian. It also used to include French, but I haven’t tried reading French for years, so I don’t know how much I’d get out of it now. How stupid was I to let my third language go?!?).

Since I normally prefer the original version, I decided to convert to English for my annual Secret Garden reading a couple of years ago. I bought it in English, and started reading it, but it just wasn’t the same… What I didn’t know, however, was that a good friend of mine (who was at the time living in the US) had bought me another English version, a beautifully illustrated version, even. When she came back with this thoughtful gift for me, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a) I had already bought a copy; and b) I preferred reading it in Norwegian. So I accepted the present. The following spring (last spring, in fact) when I had to pack most of my books away for long-time storage since I was moving, I chose to keep the illustrated English version in the easy access pile, while the two others went into boxes.

Thus, I only had one of my three copies available this spring. I had completely forgotten that I had packed the other two copies when I promised my sister that she could borrow the book from me this spring. Consequently, I lent her my only remaining copy, and was left with nothing… I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have another copy, but I also could not face having spring ruined because I could not read it. So I thought that buying another copy was a reasonable solution (I will never be rich. Not as long as there are bookshops in the world). (Un?)Fortunately, my other sister called just as I was about to make the purchase, and she managed to convince me to check a library before buying it (again). So, I still don’t have the book, but I’m guessing that this time tomorrow I will (if the library at the university doesn’t have it, the bookshop probably will. And what are the odds that my sister phones me twice in two days?).

To finish this digression before returning to the actual topic – as far as I know neither my sister nor my friend are regular readers of this blog, so I feel relatively safe writing about this without making anyone feel too bad about the possible ruination of my spring…

(See, this is another reason why I don’t write TIWIDT posts. With my digressionary tendencies, they end up frightfully long! I shall try to hasten my pace…)

I eventually met up with my friends for ice cream. Again, we insisted on sitting outside, even though it was getting chillier by then. Eating ice cream in Oslo in April in sunshine (am I even allowed to have that many in’s in [haha] one sentence?) can be quite pleasant. Eating ice cream in April in Oslo in shade, however, is c-c-cold. But we survived, and afterwards we strolled around to regain normal body temperatures. Oslo (this post should of course be called “On Oslo” [or quite possibly “On The Secret Garden”], but I have reserved that title [the Oslo-one] for a similar-yet-different post that I have in mind for June[-ish]) – Oslo has a relatively new opera house, and it has become a popular attraction for tourists and Osloensians alike. You can walk around on its white marble exterior, looking out over the fjord. It’s very nice, actually. We went there for something of a photo shoot (don’t ask – I have digressed enough as it is), before I finally decided it was time to call it a day.

I made one last stop on my way home – I picked some flowers that to me more than anything say spring. Hestehov [tussilago farfara, or coltsfoot] isn’t actually all that pretty. It doesn’t smell nice, and it grows in such numbers that by many it is considered a weed. Still, it is the first wild flower that appears each spring, and the yellow little heads look like miniature suns stretching towards the sky. In true spirit of this springful day, then, I picked some and brought home where they are now sunning up our kitchen table (I just googled “sunning” to make sure I wasn’t saying something I didn’t know what meant. The definition “the opposite of mooning – involving front” clearly implies that I did… And yet, I am too tired and amused to change it…).

There. I finished my TIWIDT post. I shall post it as it is (with one quick read-though. Just the one), even if it is as long as a Osloensian winter. Now that I think about it, though, the proper title of this post would have been “On spring”. Oh, well…

[Note: if you have actually read through all of the above you also deserve to know that I really meant to post this last night. Just as I typed up the last paragraph, however, my internet connection died. I probably should have interpreted this as a sign that the Internet gods didn't want me to expose anyone to such a lenghty ramble. Seeing as you are reading this, I evidently am not afraid of the wrath of the Internet gods. If you never hear from me again, chances are I should have been afraid...]

On April Fools

In case you hadn’t noticed, today is April the second. Which means that yesterday was April Fools’ Day. I’m often one to be fooled rather than one to fool (my dad is a real expert), but this year I thought I’d see if I couldn’t utilize the fact that I have a blog where the majority of readers don’t speak my native language. It is in the nature of the April Fools’ Day hoax that it should be somewhat easy to expose (thus the title – "Foolish Norwegian". Also take notice of the labels at the bottom of the post). I am aware that this was the case with my poor attempt. You wouldn’t have to challenge google very much to figure out that the Norwegian word for banana is banan, that our word for popcorn is popkorn, and that Rattus Norvegicus in Norway is known as rotte.


The word gulbøy really does mean “yellow bend”, but it isn’t an actual word. It is the result of an urban legend that travels between Sweden and Norway – the Swedes are taught that this is the Norwegian word for banana, and the Norwegians are taught that it is the Swedish word.

The word sprettmais should be the Norwegian word for popcorn, but in reality it is a word I came up with the other day when realizing that sweet corn [mais] will also bounce when fried. They didn’t pop, though.

Luremus is a (slang) word in Norwegian, but it certainly has nothing to do with rats (at least not in the sense I presented it yesterday). Rather, a luremus is a girl who pretends that she wants to have sex, but then backs out. A tease.

Finally, the octopus/squid. I have heard both translated to the Norwegian word, which indeed is blekksprut. And yes, it absolutely means “ink squirt”. Always include a bit of reality in a hoax in order to increase the credibility…

So, did I fool you?

On Foolish Norwegian (lesson # 4, I think)

WARNING! Below is an April Fools' Day post constructed entirely to check just how gullible my readers are (or how silly they think the Norwegian language is). For details on the actual meaning of the words presented here, check out my explanatory April 2nd post.



Norwegians might be silly, but considering our silly language, it would be sillier if we weren’t silly. (I just spent my entire daily quota of the word silly in one sentence!)


One of the things that make the Norwegian language so silly (this is going out of tomorrow’s allocation!) is our sometimes ridiculous translations of perfectly normal English words. (Well, they aren’t always translations. Some of them were words in Norwegian before we were sophisticated enough to know there was such a thing as an English language. But you know what I mean.) Like the Norwegian word for banana. When the fruit was imported to Norway for the first time in the late 19th century, winds of nationalism were blowing over the soon-to-be independent Norway. Thus, the fruit internationally recognized as “banana” was dubbed with a Norwegian name. Today the banana is still known in Norway as gulbøy [yellow bend].

Similarly, popcorn was first introduced to Norwegian customers in the early 1950s. Embracing the American popular culture, Norwegians were eager to try anything from "the States". Popcorn immediately became popular [pun intended], but it was under a Norwegian name it was to gain most of its followers. Sprettmais [bounce corn] originally was just a brand name, but eventually this became the common word to describe any kind of popcorn in Norway. A 2002 court order prevents any other brands to use the registered name Sprettmais, but it doesn’t prevent ordinary people from calling any kind of popcorn by this name.

You may have met the often unappreciated creature Rattus Norvegicus – the common brown rat. While its Latin name clearly is linked to Norway (Google failed to enlighten me how exactly, though), its Norwegian name does not appreciate this at all. The Norwegian name for rat is luremus, which directly translates to “trick mouse” or perhaps more accurately “fake mouse”. A rat is thus a mouse that is not a mouse.

The weirdest of all the Norwegian sillinesses, however, is to be found under water. In English there are (at least) two words for what we in Norwegian somewhat inaccurately call by only one: The English words “squid” and “octopus” both translates to the Norwegian blekksprut. Inaccurate as this might be, what is truly noticeable about the word blekksprut is its meaning. Directly translated, it means “ink squirt”. Tell me that isn’t funny!

On Tn̂g-ām-lo̍k*

If you had a giraffe
and he stretched another half…
you would have a giraffe and a half
Shel Silverstein

It’s all about stretching another half, isn’t it?



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Tn̂g-ām-lo̍k is the Min Nan (or Bân-lâm-gú) word for giraffe. I bet most of you haven’t heard of the Min Nan language (at least I hadn’t). From what Wikipedia can tell me, it’s actually a family of Chinese languages and dialects spoken in Fujian and neighbouring areas. I didn’t know where that was, but once again Wikipedia was helpful. Fujian is a province on the Southeast coast of China, right across the Taiwan strait from, exactly, Taiwan. Min Nan usually refers to the Hokkien, which is a dialect, and in particular the Amoy and Taiwanese. The language spoken by 70% of Taiwanese population is a dialect of Min Nan. I think…

I find myself writing this, pretending that I understand it, but in reality, the only parts of the above sentences that broke through my dumb shield were the words “China” and “Taiwan”.

The university I went to in Japan prided itself with the word “International” in its name. There really were a lot of international students attending (though mostly from the privileged part of the world, but that is another story). We represented different countries with different cultures and it was fascinating to have such a unique opportunity to hang out with people from around the globe. I loved being able to tell my friends at home that I had just had lunch with a Japanese, a Singaporean, a Mongolian, a German, a Swede and a couple of Americans. That one semester in Japan made me very aware of the opportunities we have, living in a global world. Trade, commerce and business is one thing, but much more interesting to me is cooperation, exchange of ideas and knowledge, respect and admiration for foreign cultures. I took a class about Korea, but I think I learned almost as much from having lunch one day with one of the (South) Korean boys who told me about everyday life in his home country.

Unfortunately, the international stage isn’t all about peace and understanding. Sadly, our own mini-international stage reflected this. While I was there, we had eight Taiwanese girls, and three Chinese students. The Taiwanese girls were all very social, their English was near-perfect (as was their Japanese, I was told), they were friendly and eager to get to know new people. The three Chinese students kept to themselves, they spoke very little English (which is interesting, seeing as English was the language all classes were taught in), and they did not seem all that interested in participating in any social activities.

Two months into the semester, the school festival was scheduled. The entire university was given a polish to present a perfect façade. Among the many decorations put up were flags representing all the international students’ countries. This included the People’s Republic of China’s red flag with the yellow stars, and it included the flag of the Republic of China, Taiwan.

It doesn’t take a historian to know that this is slightly complicated, but in case your Chinese history is a little rusty, let me elaborate. In 1927 there was a civil war in China, fought between Nationalists and Communists. The war was interrupted by the Japanese invasion in 1937, but resumed once World War Two was over. The Communists eventually controlled the entire mainland China, and they established the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949. The PRC considers itself as the successor state to the Republic of China (ROC), but the ROC continues to exist on the island of Taiwan. Seeing as this happened during the Cold War, it was not politically acceptable to the Western nations to recognize PRC. Thus, for a long time ROC remained the China officially recognized by most of the world. The small island even had a permanent place in the United Nations Security Council until 1971. After this PRC (or “Red China” as it is referred to in the sources for my thesis; a term I – wisely, I think – avoid in my actual thesis) gradually was recognized by more and more countries, and it is what we today know as China.

You all probably knew this… Sorry, I had a “historian moment”…

Anyway. China (PRC) still claims Taiwan as part of its territory (and until recently, Taiwan also claimed mainland China as part of their territory, but this seems slightly less realistic, somehow…). The world community is not exactly condoning this, but there aren’t any attempts to solidify Taiwan’s status either. There exists a sort of tacit agreement to unofficially treat Taiwan as an independent state, but very few states have actual diplomatic relations with Taiwan (which is the measuring cup for whether a state is recognized or not, which in turn is what determined whether it is a state. Which in essence is my bachelor degree, slightly simplified).

In our cozy, little university, these world events took a dramatic turn. Because the Chinese students who had been taught their entire life about how Taiwan had been the “bad guy” in the civil war; who only knew Taiwan as a bogus state opposing their own country; who like their country’s official policy did not recognize Taiwan as a state at all – these students were provoked by the Taiwanese flag. I did not witness the incident, but rumours and gossip travels like fire in dry grass in a small community like that. Apparently some harsh words were exchanged, and the Taiwanese flag was ripped down from the wall. The mood was fairly sour for a while, but as far as I know it never came to any further confrontations.

The implication, however, of the fact that international affairs could have such a direct influence over how people treated each other on an individual level, struck me. I am something of an idealist in many ways, and I have always hoped and believed that many wars and conflicts could be avoided if people were given the chance of meeting face to face. That way, I reasoned, they would realize that they were only dealing with people, and not a faceless enemy. Instead, in this case, it was the other way around. Putting these people in a small community only personified the enemy.

Ironically (considering the international climate), the sympathy from the other students mostly went to the Taiwanese students. First of all, they had been the “victims”. Secondly, they were our friends, while we hardly knew the Chinese students. Since this did not become an actual problem, however, no one was forced to take a stand.

Early in this post I mentioned that I learned a lot about Korea from speaking to a Korean boy over lunch one day. What I didn’t mention was what he told me (I was saving it for dramatic effect). We touched upon many subjects, but one of the things we talked about was how he had been taught all life that the North Koreans were monsters. Growing up in South Korea before the “Sunshine Policy” of the 1990s (here I could give you another lecture, but let’s leave it at “google Kim Dae-jung if you’re interested”), this was the harsh reality. “No wonder there is war in the world!” I thought to myself.

He further elaborated, though, that once he grew older he met some real, live North Koreans. Then he discovered that the truth was much more complex. This is what I hoped would happen with the Chinese and Taiwanese students, and perhaps more generally between the Chinese students and the rest of us. Personally, I never got to know them that well. Language problems was an issue, but if there is something my two visits to Japan have taught me, it is that communication does not always depend on the ability of speaking the same language. I admit that I did not go the extra yard to try to get to know the Chinese students. In retrospect, I wish I had. I can only hope they warmed up a little to the other students (and vice versa) after I left.

While the China/Taiwan incident was something of a setback for my idealist philosophy, my Korean encounter was much more promising. I still believe that learning about other cultures, gaining new perspectives and befriending someone you thought was an enemy is the key to peaceful settlement of many conflicts. If anything, the China/Taiwan incident proved this, because they didn’t do any of those things – they were placed together without getting to know one another.

So my faith in cultural exchange and personal relationships as a means of reducing conflict is restored, but with one important restriction: make sure that the conditions are right. (Perhaps you’ll have to stretch another half)

On spelling

Hava yaa avar plaaed tha changa all vawals gama? Ni? Ot’s voro ooso. Jest chenge ell the vewels en e sentence te jest ene – leke e. Ur u. Ir i. Yoy gyt thy ydyy.*


Correct spelling and proper use of language makes reading all the much easier. Don’t get me wrong, I am no expert. Not just because of the second language thing – I make my share of both spelling- and grammar errors in Norwegian too (perhaps more so recently, seeing as all my writing tends to be in English). But at least I try. I purposely avoid simplifications even in text messages or on Facebook – you won’t find me writing “C U 2morrow” anytime soon (is that even what they write? “morrow” looks very long ãnd proper for SMS-lingo…). It takes so little effort to spend those extra seconds typing the whole thing, and it makes reading a lot easier.

I’m not saying that your writing is bad if you do result to short cuts like the above. By all means, I am all for believing that one person can master different styles of writing. For instance, there is a considerable difference between how I write my thesis and how I write my blog (fortunately). Still, I do notice that the two occasionally influence each other. Usually, it’s my thesis influencing my blog and not the other way around (again, fortunately – for instance my rapid use of parentheses and italics in my blog would be absolutely frowned upon academically). If I have spent considerable amounts on time writing serious, depressing, hard-core academic skullduggery (or so it sometimes feel), I can often see that my blog either takes on a more serious tone than usual; or the complete opposite. Sometimes it seems as though my creativity bubbles over from having been constrained for too long.

But I digress (see what I mean – I’m really not cut out to having to stick to one topic at the time…).

Even if there probably are some people who are able to interchange proper spelling and SMS-lingo perfectly, I have no doubt that for most of us this is not the case. Generally, we are too easily influenced. Therefore, I would highly appreciate if people would use complete. Sentences. Even if. They are only. Posting on Facebook. Please?

Ynd yf yyy cyn’t dy thyt, Y wyyld hyghly ypprycyyty yf yyy dydn’t bythyr my wyth yyyr byll shyt…**


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


*Have you ever played the change all vowels game? No? It’s very easy. Just change all the vowels in a sentence to just one – like e. Or u. Or y (*snort*). You get the idea (I hope – if not, this translation was made for your convenience).

**I’ll let you all figure this one out yourselves…

On dugnad and bunad: a lesson in Norwegian(s) # 3

I apologize for my absence yesterday. I think I am trying to slowly ease into a “weekdays only” routine, but I am clearly not very good at it, as today is a Sunday. In my defense, though, it’s one of those Sundays that don’t really act like a Sunday. It definitely acts like a Monday. It’s raining, I have a feeling that I overslept (even though there was nothing I was supposed to get up in time for), and in general the world looks gloomy. I wonder if I’ll do that planned “Sunday walk” as all Norwegians are indoctrinated to do once a week from infancy… Right now, it isn’t very tempting, but as any Norwegian will tell you with an evil wink – det finnes ikke dårlig vær, det finnes bare dårlige klær [there’s no such thing as bad weather, there is only bad clothes].

To make my apology more credible, let me explain why I wasn’t blogging yesterday. I was out walking. Yup, that’s right – tradition breaker – my sister and I went for a Sunday walk on a Saturday! We visited a flea market and a fancy grocery store/café plus we walked for quite a long time (and talked even longer). The grocery store/café was nice and (expensive and) all, but hardly anything to blog home about. I thought I should elaborate on the flea market, though, as it reflects something very Norwegian.

Don’t worry. I know flea markets aren’t Norwegian by design, but there is something about the design of the Norwegian ones that makes me think they are Norwegian in spirit. They are almost exclusively run as a way of raising money to marching bands, sport teams or similar organizations. Basically, the flea markets are run by the parents of children in these teams or bands, voluntarily on a compulsory basis. It’s a dugnad.

Dugnad is one of the words Norwegian school children are taught you can’t find an equivalent of in the English language. According to my good friend, thefreedictionary.com, dugnad is

a Norwegian word for unpaid, voluntary work. It might be like a Barn raising, where friends and family meet to help an individual, or the members of a club meet to build a clubhouse, arrange a flea market and so on.

 Further, there is another word – dugnadsånd [spirit of the dugnad] – which indicates the enthusiasm participation in a dugnad is met with (though frankly – this enthusiasm isn’t actually all that common. Norwegians love to hate dugnads). The idea still lives strongly in this country, though, as it seems to be expected of you, as a Norwegian, to participate in these “voluntary” activities. However, let me emphasize that I don’t believe in the implication some seem to put into the teaching that Norwegian is one of the few languages in the world that has a word for dugnad. We don’t have a monopoly on voluntary activities, and pretending otherwise is just stupid.

Another word that is exclusive for Norwegian has more of a natural explanation. Our national costume is called a bunad. (I wanted to comment on the relative similarity between these two words, but I can’t really think of anything to say. I still needed to say that I wanted to say something, though, before someone else comments... First!) A bunad is a dress-like costume, frequently made partly or entirely of wool, often with elaborate decorations on them. They are made to resemble clothes the rural population of Norway used to wear in the period and areas most cherished in our National Romanticism. With time, a number of designs were developed, usually constructed according to what was believed were traditions in the local area the particular design is from. My own bunad (you may not know it, but assuming you have visited this blog before, you have seen a picture of it several times. Take a look in the right top corner of this page. Ignore the silly facial expression...) is from my mother’s birthplace, Toten, and in its design you find patterns both from the beginning of the 18th and 19th centuries, and replicas of jewellery that was found in a Viking grave.

Not unlike other “cultural reconstructions”, though, there is no definite telling whether the actual results are anything like the original they are supposed to be reconstructed from. There is no doubt that the bunad is an extremely Norwegian cultural phenomenon, but it’s safer to say that it is a phenomenon of today, rather than a (concise) historical one.

Not all Norwegians have bunads, but those that have them (and can still fit in them – frequently, girls are given one for their confirmation at the age of fourteen. Needless to say, this means that a lot of them grow out of their bunads before they are fully grown...) mostly wear them for our constitutional day, at May 17th. Tune back in then for more reports on bunads...

The point of this post, though, was to enlighten any non-Norwegian speaking readers of these two words that are exclusively Norwegian. Learn them, and you’ll have a good starting point for mastering the rest of the language (or at least, understanding its speakers a little better).



Currently listening to: Min allra största kärlek by Richard Wolff (that I bought for 25 kroner at the flea market. Bargain!)

Currently reading: To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee. We finally figured out what book we decided to read for the book circle.

On Paris by night

”Will this do?”


His eyes examined my outfit carefully, while his entire posture gave me the distinct feeling he was merely trying to figure out a way to break the news to me gently. Carl was the nicest boy in the world, but he was still – and in this moment unmistakably so – French.

“No jeans,” he said firmly, though apologetically. “They will only accept customers who are properly dressed up. It’s a fancy place.” We were eighteen, and he was showing us Paris by night. We had to abide by his rules now.

When we finally left home – “home” being the apartment building Carl lived in with his family, where I and two other Norwegian girls resided as house guests for a week, with a fourth girl living in the approximate neighbourhood – Carl had personally approved everyone’s outfits. We were ready to see what Parisians did for fun.

The club was not far away, and the night was perfect for walking in those unusually lazy streets. It was February, or maybe early March, but spring had already come to Paris. The night was warm, and the city sounds were those of excitement stemming from spring romance and end-of-winter parties. Carl walked us through the quartiers of Paris quickly, but never ceasing to fill the role of guide whenever an attraction appeared. "Look at the Eiffel Tower. C’est beau, avec les lumières, n’est-ce pas?" We spoke French and English, having left behind all intentions of correct grammar we even managed to communicate quite easy. "Qu’est-ce que c’est?"
"L’Hôtel des Invalides."

The line outside the club was already long. Even though it was over an hour until the doors would open, we were standing at the end of a queue stretching around two corners of a large building, underneath a couple of pink neon flamingos. There was anticipation among the people waiting in that line. They were young, beautiful, well-dressed (Carl’s advice had been invaluable, after all), and on their way into the hottest of the hot Parisian clubs.

We still felt slightly underdressed, but otherwise well-prepared. We had even stopped at an ATM to withdraw the (to us) large sum of 30 euros each to pay the entrance fee. This had already been a matter of discussion – although we all had been eager to see the Paris nightlife, we were not prepared for the monetary cost. 30 euros was a lot of money for a short time of fun, but we eventually agreed that it would be worth it. After all, how often did we go clubbing in Paris?

When we finally reached the doors of the club, a panzer guard wanted to check our ID. In France they have little or no age-limitations when it comes to buying or drinking alcohol, for instance, but some nightclubs are still restricted to adults over eighteen years of age. And this was the terrible truth that hit us on the way towards the panzer guard. We were all eighteen or older, but some of us had problems proving just that. At home, we normally used our VISA cards as ID. They had pictures and date of birth on them, and if you also could remember your zodiac sign to reply to the test-question on the way through the entrance door, no one would think a VISA card an invalid ID. But even in the Paris nightlife, French bureaucracy is unwavering. Either you show them an authorized, French, identity card, or an international passport, or you leave. No discussion.

Carl didn’t even try to negotiate. No use. Out of the four, only one had left her passport in the apartment building. We could go back, get the passport, and then return, but as this was the last night and we had an early departure in the morning, that was out of the question. After all, this was only ever supposed to be a short introduction to the Parisian nightlife, rather than a full taste, and we didn’t feel much like walking the relatively long distance back to the apartment and then probably be too tired to go out at all.

Instead, we got an introduction to a Parisian “brown” bar – complete with cheap drinks and scribbled toilet walls. I drank Long Island Iced Tea, and wasn’t too disappointed.



Image by Stefano Ruggeri.

On lessons in Norwegian (# 1 – Shock and Awe)

Due to popular demand (I know I’m stretching this, but I never claimed to be the preacher of truth…) today’s post is the first in a series (though probably not a consecutive one) of Norwegian “lessons”. That is, there are some oddities in this native tongue of mine, and some of them are amusing enough to be blogable. I’ve never claimed to be a great pedagogue either, so my tactic is a somewhat unusual one. Instead of starting with simple phrases such as “Mitt navn er…” [My name is…] or “Hallo” [Hello – duh!], and thus easing you into the language, I intend to scare the riff-raff away. Thus, we start with the tricksy stuff.

Ready to be confused? Today’s lesson is one of pronunciation. Specifically, I am targeting one thing that many Norwegians struggle with themselves. We have a number of words starting with an s and a consonant of some kind. The easy ones (st-, sp-, sn-, sm- and sv-) will not be covered in this post (or potentially ever) because they are, well easy. The tricky ones, however…

A clever observer once said to me that she found it interesting that the Norwegian sk- seemed to be pronounced like the English sh-. Following is a slight re-write of my reply:

Sk- doesn't necessarily have to be pronounced sh-. For instance Skandinavia is pronounced with the same sound as the English Scandinavia. However, sj-, skj-, sh- (not common), ski-, sky- and skei- are pronounced like sh-. Skau- is pronounced like sh- in some words (and/or dialects), and like sk- in others. The same goes for skøy-. If the rule had been consistent, this should also have been the case for skai-, but it isn't, because that's always pronounced sk- (again, as in Scandinavia).

Then we also have the similar sound kj- (also the common pronunciation of ki- and ky-, but not always), that English just don't have, and consequently, it's almost impossible for foreigners to pronounce it properly (many Norwegians struggle with it too). Instead, they end up with sh-, because it's easier to say. However, this may completely alter the meaning of the word you're trying to say. Kjede means chain or necklace, but pronounced with a sh-, it becomes skjede, which means vagina...

To further complicate this, there exist a number of varieties in Norwegian dialects where words written exactly alike are pronounced radically different. Some dialects don’t even have the kj- sound, while they may or may not have a tkj- variant (that you don’t find at all in for instance my dialect).

Finally, there are a number of other words also pronounced like sh-, such as the Norwegian word for giraffe, giraff (that can be spelled sjiraff, but if you do I'd have to kill you) and giro [giro - duh # 2]. Gisp [gasp] and giverglede [generosity], however, is pronounced like a Norwegian j (not unlike the sound at the beginning of "young"), while gire [(to) gear] and gissel [hostage] is closer to the English gi- (as in "give").

Now, repeat after me:
Sjåføren kjører skøyteløperen og skiskytteren som kjenner kystvakten opp på skytebanen der kyllingen sier ”kykeliky”. [The chauffeur drives the skater and the biathlonist who knows the coastal guard up to the shooting range where the chicken says “cock a doodle doo”]

Homework for next time: figure out how to pronounce æ, ø and å. That is if your browser can read them *evil cackle*

On unexpected NaNoProblems

Ever since I rather irrationally decided to participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo, I have expected to run into problems. Accurately enough, I have. What surprises me, though, is that they are different problems than what I expected. Below is a list of problems I’ve had, that I did not predict:


1) Language. I was under the impression that my English was pretty good at the moment, but for some reason it seems to have deteriorated quickly after I left the US. It’s like they removed my chip on the border. On the bright side, writing in English on NaNo has a benefit I never really considered. Since the English language, unlike the Norwegian one, does not pile words together, a sentence including the words banana case, coffee table and trash can, is three words longer than it would have been in Norwegian. This certainly helps the word count.

2) Word count. I did predict this being a problem. What I did not predict, however, was that I would be inclined to cheat myself on this accord. Don’t get me wrong – I religiously write down the exact word count I have each day, and I update my NaNoStats at the end of the day (and sometimes several times a day, for no apparent reason). However, when I normally write, I try to leave out spare words (in this sentence I normally would have edited out “try to”, because it is actually accurate that I don’t just try this, I do it). But since NaNo is about quantity, not quality (they said it, not I), and since it also is about not editing as you go, I now have tried to let go of my habit of automatically (try to) improve the quality of my text, even at an early draft, by leaving out excessive words. Instead, I have learned to embrace the wordiness. You’d be surprised how much crap I’ve been able to accumulate this way.

3) Misbehaving characters. I’ve heard of those. I’ve run across one or two. But nothing like this. My main character had existed in some form in my head for a couple of years, actually. But when I started writing (over) the initial scenes of this project, she was NOTHING like I expected her to. Gradually, over the first (current) 14 pages, I have been able to slightly move her into a more acceptable direction. She is still different than what she used to be, but at least different in a good way (I think). I am not entirely sure it’s a good thing that it took a while before I even liked her, while I immediately took to her (supposed to be) annoying friend.

4) Female characters. Being female myself, it took me slightly by surprise that I have a hard time portraying believable female characters. For some reason, I feel more comfortable with male characters. So when I decided to go for a female one, I’m having significant issues making her “right” (see previous point). The male characters flow better.

5) Writer’s block. I knew I was a procrastinator. I did not know I also suffered writer’s block. Normally you don’t find me wasting time staring at a blank document – you find me wasting time on Facebook, or playing Solitaire, or doing laundry, or whatever else there is to avoid working on what I’ supposed to do. Therefore, I was under the impression that if only I could stop the procrastinating, I could write. I was wrong. Even if I don’t make even the slightest attempt to open “School of Wizardry” (which I highly WARN you about if you, like me, are easily distracted), it can take hours before I have the slightest idea what to write. This discovery is somewhat disconcerting.

6) Ability to fight writer’s block. (This isn’t exactly a problem, is it? Oh, well, it certainly was unexpected). This is not so much a new discovery, as a transfer of my previous experiences with procrastination. If I am stuck somewhere, instead of giving up and logging onto Facebook (or, as I have now, stare at a blank document), what I need to do is skip the tricky part and write something else. It works for my thesis, and it works on the novel. And, surprise, surprise, when you go back, you might have unstuck yourself by accident.

7) Crappy writing. This was not exactly a bolt from the blue either, but boy, it stings. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything this blatant, and I’ve never written anything this crude. And by crude I also mean blunt, offensive, tasteless and lacking of tact. I never expected to consider including poop-jokes in a novel, but now I have (considered it. I haven’t yet sunk that deep).

There are other things I also could mention, but let’s face it – I don’t have the time to write long blog posts. Neither do I have the time to proof read them. In fact, I only have the time to scribble something down, not unlike what you might write on a toilet wall…

On English

This post is largely based on my reply to a post at the blog The Blood-Red Pencil written by guest-blogger, Elsa Neal on August 10. The subject was so close to my heart, though, that I wanted to follow up.


Being Norwegian, and spending a considerable amount of time on international online forums, I run across language issues a lot. Since at the moment I live in the US, I also have language issues offline these days.

When I first started frequenting these online forums, my English was very much at a “high school level” – I could write and speak it reasonably well (actually, quite well, as I’ve preferred reading fiction in English for years, and I do watch a lot of American or British TV and movies), but I would constantly see words or phrases in these forums I didn’t know. Also, looking back, I realize my grammar was occasionally far off… (It still is, but I’m better at hiding it…)

After a while, though, especially when I started writing more continuous texts as opposed to just “chatting”, I got more comfortable using English. At the moment I’m writing my thesis in English, I’m speaking it on a daily basis and I’ve recently started dreaming in English (which was rather disturbing, though this was more related to the content of the dream than the fact that the giant slug was speaking in a foreign language…). When I started this blog I also considered writing it in Norwegian, but I figured that my target-audience in Norway would be able to read it in English anyway, and most of my online contacts seems to be in the English-speaking world. The choice was therefore not all that difficult.

However, I should probably worry a little about what will happen to my native language. It’s not likely I’ll forget how to speak Norwegian, but there is the danger of English grammar or an English way of putting things sneaking into my previously unspoiled bokmål. Since there will come a time when I will want to write books in Norwegian, it would be a shame if I had ruined it completely… You can’t have it both, can you?

I’ve been told that my accent is close enough to the real deal that I could pass off as being American. All the more reason to cast me a funny look when I suddenly use completely wrong words. Yesterday I asked if US ambassadors, like Norwegian ones, had the license to marry someone… The obvious answer is “yes, but only one person at the time.” I never did get an answer on whether they have the license to join a couple in marriage… (Don’t ask how the conversation arrived at that subject. It started with The Sound of Music and sidetracked considerably).

However, there is one advantage to writing in a foreign language. Being unfamiliar with certain terms or phrases forces you to carefully consider what you put down on paper. Each word I use is a potential trap, each time I post something there is the possibility that someone out there is secretly snickering because what I’ve written has a completely different meaning than what I intended. Therefore I revise what I write, I try to find the errors before they occur, and as a result – I not only write better English; I write better.

(Of course, my real secret is to invent new words – it worked for Shakespeare, and I try to learn from the best…)