One of the things I love about being able to speak Icelandic is that it's given me access to the mysterious world of small talk, Iceland style. As you might expect, a lot of it is pretty much the same as it is anywhere else in the world. For example, a few weeks ago I was waiting for the bus and an elderly gentleman ambled up to wait at the same stop. During the few minutes we stood together, we discussed the changes in bus policy and how the mild weather was pleasant and would hopefully last until Christmas (naturally, it didn't). During the subsequent bus ride, I complimented a fellow passenger on her fabulous boots and she returned with an admiration for my red patent-leather pumps. Pretty standard.
It gets more interesting at certain places, like the downtown post office. This isn't the easiest post office to choose, since it requires paying for parking, but one woman behind the counter makes it worth the visit. She's apparently a legend in at Pósturinn according to a friend who works in another branch office, and it's easy to see why. First of all, she must be the fastest stamp-canceler in the West, but she's also perennially cheerful. Last time I was there, I was mailing packages containing Icelandic wool and slabs of suðusúkkulaði to friends in America, and as she weighed and stamped my packages we discussed the contents. I said that this pairing was popular for almost everyone in America, but when I was going to visit my parents, I had to include that classic Icelandic fish jerky, harðfiskur, in the mix since my mom's such a fan. "ahh yes", said she, "those are nammi* number one, two and three in life."
Interactions like this make me think about the reputation that Icelanders sometimes get of being unfriendly on tourist websites and in guidebooks. I've never really felt that way, and the more I can communicate on their level, the less I feel the reputation of unfriendliness is warranted. I always thought small talk and striking up conversations with people you don't really know was a typically American thing, but the more I see of this island, the more I realize that it's just the way humans are. Particularly when you're in these remote areas where people can be few and far between, those small conversations with an unusually charming gas station attendant, or over the merits of harðfiskur add a little sparkle of human connection to life.
*nammi is one of those fabulous Icelandic words that doesn't have an exact direct translation into English. It means candy most often, but also refers to any sort of yummy treat.
Showing posts with label Icelandic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Icelandic. Show all posts
28 November 2011
18 September 2007
one common language
This evening I was taking a cab, and when trying to deal with directions and then again with payment, I realized from the few phrases we exchanged that the driver was not Icelandic. Last week at the bakery, I was served by a woman who was also newly arrived to Iceland, and a few days ago at the Asian grocery store I completed my transaction to the singsong sounds of a Thai-flavored "takk fyrir".
Some people might think that Icelandic is dying, since so small a country speaks the language, but the past week is only a sample of what seems to be happening with increasing frequency here. Reykjavik is turning Manhattan, all Yugoslavian taxi drivers and Philippine shopkeepers. There are Polish people cleaning the office, Thai groceries and restaurants all over town, and tiny populations of other cultures everywhere between. Most seem to be making at least some efforts to speak Icelandic, even if it's the most rudimentary Krua Thai versions of calling out order numbers (no "sixty five" for one person working there, but just "six five").
It's a weird feeling to have two people with our only common language being this obscure tongue, but somehow in the midst of all our other native accents, we're able to find enough common ground to get things done, to pay for the cab, find our way home, ask for a shopping bag, or where the wasabi peas are. Doesn't sound like a dying language to me.
Some people might think that Icelandic is dying, since so small a country speaks the language, but the past week is only a sample of what seems to be happening with increasing frequency here. Reykjavik is turning Manhattan, all Yugoslavian taxi drivers and Philippine shopkeepers. There are Polish people cleaning the office, Thai groceries and restaurants all over town, and tiny populations of other cultures everywhere between. Most seem to be making at least some efforts to speak Icelandic, even if it's the most rudimentary Krua Thai versions of calling out order numbers (no "sixty five" for one person working there, but just "six five").
It's a weird feeling to have two people with our only common language being this obscure tongue, but somehow in the midst of all our other native accents, we're able to find enough common ground to get things done, to pay for the cab, find our way home, ask for a shopping bag, or where the wasabi peas are. Doesn't sound like a dying language to me.
02 February 2007
Kyndilmessa
I have a "science trivia daily" calendar here at work, and today's was about groundhog day. We got to talking about it here, and P suddenly sprouted forth a poem:
Ef í heiði sólin sést
á sjálfa kyndilmessu
snjóa vænta máttu mest
maður upp frá þessu.
It's all very archaic and flowery in phrasing, but translation is approximately, "if you see the sun set on Candlemass, you can surely expect snow". So, the traditions are not all that different, since a sunny day is necessary for the groundhog to see his shadow anyway. If today's weather holds, it means we're gonna have an early summer then, since the clouds are so low they're practically around my ears.
My calendar went further to explain that the US tradition came from German immigrants and their belief that a badger would see his shadow and retreat, thinking it was a predator. Since they had no badgers in Pennsylvania, they swapped in a groundhog, a much less interesting animal.
P dug a little further and found that part of the significance of the day is that it's forty days after Christmas. According to Catholics a while back, women were considered unclean for the forty days* after childbirth. So, if Mary gave birth on the 25th, today's the first day Joseph could enjoy a bit of slap and tickle. Party time!
* and now I am wondering how this relates to another Famous Forty Days. Is there some kind of fertility issue in the story of the flood? Might as well have a flood since the wife's not touchable? I hope there aren't any extremely religious readers who are impossibly offended by this, but I do think it's a really interesting connection.
Ef í heiði sólin sést
á sjálfa kyndilmessu
snjóa vænta máttu mest
maður upp frá þessu.
It's all very archaic and flowery in phrasing, but translation is approximately, "if you see the sun set on Candlemass, you can surely expect snow". So, the traditions are not all that different, since a sunny day is necessary for the groundhog to see his shadow anyway. If today's weather holds, it means we're gonna have an early summer then, since the clouds are so low they're practically around my ears.
My calendar went further to explain that the US tradition came from German immigrants and their belief that a badger would see his shadow and retreat, thinking it was a predator. Since they had no badgers in Pennsylvania, they swapped in a groundhog, a much less interesting animal.
P dug a little further and found that part of the significance of the day is that it's forty days after Christmas. According to Catholics a while back, women were considered unclean for the forty days* after childbirth. So, if Mary gave birth on the 25th, today's the first day Joseph could enjoy a bit of slap and tickle. Party time!
* and now I am wondering how this relates to another Famous Forty Days. Is there some kind of fertility issue in the story of the flood? Might as well have a flood since the wife's not touchable? I hope there aren't any extremely religious readers who are impossibly offended by this, but I do think it's a really interesting connection.
30 January 2007
babel
On an almost-daily basis, I talk to people with five or six different native languages, none of which are English. So, since I don't speak Finnish and German and Spanish and Swedish and Dutch, and my Icelandic is a bit weak, it's usually my native language that we all end up speaking. I've realized that I have altered the way I use my own language- I enunciate more and select different words. Given the mixed influences on my accent already, I hadn't noticed it myself, but it's enough that a sharp-eared friend from my Boston days noted it a few months ago.
One of the things I love about speaking with people who may not have all the words they want to describe things is all the other ways to get the point across, from miming, to using the words in their own language (context and a little linguistic knowledge makes decent guesses often possible) to poetic, and sometimes roundabout ways of describing what they mean. Some of these frills are so lovely that I want to always use them now. For example, wouldn't you rather have a "movement package" when moving flats than just a regular old box? On some occasions, even brand-new words surface.
The ultimate goal of language is to communicate and these people all do so admirably, but the twist of unexpected input has added new flavor to the way I think about the world and the way I use and perceive my own words. Each one of these other languages have their own rules and spelling that spills over into the use of English- v's and w's are exchanged, pre-aspiration floats into words like "not" (this is the little breathy exhale that happens when pronouncing double-consonants in Icelandic and exists in very few languages worldwide), and the Germans and the Icelanders both have the same sprightly way of saying "I think.." Dutch people always sound far too enthusiastic early in the morning with the rising tones at the end of words like "hoiiiii!!" (a Dutchman saying "hi"), and there is definitely something similar about how the pronuciation of Finns and Icelanders appear in English.
This feast of phonemes has been a real treat, showing in real-time just how related the languages are. I studied linguistics in college but it's nothing like actually hearing these words in a way that lays the connections so bare. I'm always scurrying to the dictionary to inspect the roots of an English word, comparing notes with these other languages for where the usages diverged. For example, a few weeks ago I had a very involved discussion about the Icelandic word lóð (pronounced like "loathe"), which means a weight or a building lot. The trail wound through loathe and load and lode and lot and lade, proving unresolved in the end, but left me feeling moreso than ever that we're all not so different after all. Aren't we practically speaking the same language?
One of the things I love about speaking with people who may not have all the words they want to describe things is all the other ways to get the point across, from miming, to using the words in their own language (context and a little linguistic knowledge makes decent guesses often possible) to poetic, and sometimes roundabout ways of describing what they mean. Some of these frills are so lovely that I want to always use them now. For example, wouldn't you rather have a "movement package" when moving flats than just a regular old box? On some occasions, even brand-new words surface.
The ultimate goal of language is to communicate and these people all do so admirably, but the twist of unexpected input has added new flavor to the way I think about the world and the way I use and perceive my own words. Each one of these other languages have their own rules and spelling that spills over into the use of English- v's and w's are exchanged, pre-aspiration floats into words like "not" (this is the little breathy exhale that happens when pronouncing double-consonants in Icelandic and exists in very few languages worldwide), and the Germans and the Icelanders both have the same sprightly way of saying "I think.." Dutch people always sound far too enthusiastic early in the morning with the rising tones at the end of words like "hoiiiii!!" (a Dutchman saying "hi"), and there is definitely something similar about how the pronuciation of Finns and Icelanders appear in English.
This feast of phonemes has been a real treat, showing in real-time just how related the languages are. I studied linguistics in college but it's nothing like actually hearing these words in a way that lays the connections so bare. I'm always scurrying to the dictionary to inspect the roots of an English word, comparing notes with these other languages for where the usages diverged. For example, a few weeks ago I had a very involved discussion about the Icelandic word lóð (pronounced like "loathe"), which means a weight or a building lot. The trail wound through loathe and load and lode and lot and lade, proving unresolved in the end, but left me feeling moreso than ever that we're all not so different after all. Aren't we practically speaking the same language?
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