Back to the Lessons

I took a break from my Norwegian language lessons a few weeks before Elliot arrived, so it's been a while since I've had any formal training.

Husband is fluent* and really wants Elliot to have at least the beginnings of the language, as do I.

So we've been working on it.

And by "we" I mean Elliot and me.

Especially now, as we figure out where we will be for the next few years, I think it's really important to work on our Norwegian language skills.

If we're going to continue to be here, I need to up my game from the basic I know now.

If we're going to be head off to parts unknown, then I need to have a little bit more so Husband and I can have a "secret" language in public situations.**

And there are all sorts of theories about language and infant brains, so it can only be good.

We have been working on it together, with Husband's guidance.

Husband speaks to Elliot in Norwegian on a regular basis and we all read books together.***

In Leksikon for de aller minste (Lexicon for the smallest), we've been learning word order, vocabulary and the the seasons.

Snow

In the winter, it snows.

The snow is cold and white.

Robin****thinks it's fun with snow.

In Æsj! Det er Ekkelt, Bert (Ugh! It's Disgusting, Bert) we've been learning about appropriate behavior.

If Bert saw that the cat tee-tee'd in the flower-bed, Bert also tee-tee'd in the flower-bed.

Then all cried: Ugh! It's Disgusting, Bert!

In Min Store Dyrebok, (My Big Animal Book), we've been working on our animals.*****

You can guess the animals, but the non-animal words are:

On the farm.

I love to eat and mess. Who am I?

I say kykeliky! Who am I?

But just to get some extra practice, we stopped by the local library and perused the children's books.

There were the usual English translations of familiar classics, which are helpful to compare the English to the Norwegian copies. In most of them even the cadence is the same, which must be a challenge for the translator.

Then there are the ones that are a bit service-y******..."Thomas Goes to the Doctor," which is exactly as you might imagine it is.

And even a bit more service-y..."A Mother and Father to Gabriel," which explains how adopted children come to Norway, specifically a little boy named Gabriel.

Then I saw one that takes service-y to an even higher level, called When Momma and Pappa Drink. I picked it up out of a bit of morbid curiosity, but also thinking there would be good words. And really, as I flipped through the pictures, I just wanted to know what happened. Surely there must be a bit of redemption somewhere in it.

So I went home and Husband read it to me, and I will tell it to you....

There are two children, Mette and Mads. Their mom works in a bakery and their dad is a mechanic. Sometimes the family comes home and he is passed out on the sofa.
Or they have to go pick him up at the bar.
The kids often don't do well in school because they are tired.
In the summer they go to their cabin.
Their dad's buddies come over with coolers of booze and the adults stay up late and are loud.

The kids try to think of nice things, but really they'd like to go back to school.
The end.

I'm not sure the little man is ready for that one quite yet.

_________________________________________________

*He would say he's not, but that is only because he's modest and may have a little bit of a hard time reading classic novels. But he can conduct business and fool servers in restaurants. Then I blow his cover.

**And by "public", I mean places like the mall and family dinners. In either case, sometimes it is unavoidably necessary to comment on the situation at hand, though often I would prefer the conversation to stay between Husband and me. Also, we would never be overt about it. Not only would that be exclusive and rude, you never know who may understand.

***By read together, I mean Husband reads to us. Elliot and I listen.

****Robin is the fox. He's the star of the book.

*****When Husband reads, I make the animal sounds. It's big fun.

******This is not to say there are not other kinds of children's book in Norway. There are. This post is not about those kinds of books.

In Which I Explain the Price of Beauty in Norway

I've written about how much I love and miss mani/pedis (scroll down to Number 6), but also how they are mega expensive here, so they only happen for me when we go back to the states.

But, for my very first Mother's Day, Husband and Elliot went to the only place in town, Bare Clinic, and got me a gift certificate for the kind of mani/pedi I love, which means nothing too fancy, just the good, soaking, rubbing, scraping and painting.

First, my hands...the cuticles were trimmed and shaped, then my nails were clipped and filed and then painted.

Next I sat in a comfy chair, which reminded me of the ones in dentist offices, but without the bright lights, tray full of scary shiny instruments and an anticipation of imminent pain.  My feet soaked in a pan of hot soapy water and the polish was whisked off.  The sweet technician rubbed my feet and got every bit of calloused skin off.  Then she polished them properly, which is much more challenging than it looks.

And if it sounds like the sweet, sweet mani/pedi that I used to love...the one that can be had in every major American (and most non-major as well as non-American) city...the one that costs in the range of $17-50 depending on how swanky the venue...

That would be because it is the same.  

The process is similar and even the polish is OPI.  

The difference is that this mani/pedi cost 1490 kroner.* 

And, depending on the day and the exchange rate, that is about $231.  

I say this, not to necessarily share the cost of the present, but to illustrate a bit of the way things work here.

The pricing of these kinds of services are based on the time it takes to perform them.  

The manicure was the 60 minute mani which cost 700NOK ($108ish).  Husband could have chosen the 15 minute one, which is a polish change, or the 45 minute which is in between.  

It is the same with the pedicure. The lower end one is just a polish and the higher end one, which is what I had, takes 80 minutes and costs 790NOK ($122ish).

In comparison, check the price list for the waxing,* which is really when a skilled person smoothes hot wax over chosen and/or various hirsute body parts, covers the wax with linen strips and rips.  

It's pretty quick, or at least, if you're the one having it done, you hope it is.  

So the prices are pretty comparable to the US prices.

Also, the time it took for the mani/pedi (140 minutes) is approximately the same amount of time as it takes to cut and color my hair.  It is also about the same price.

The root of it all, in vastly oversimplified terms, is that everyone is paid a "living wage." Which also means that while a manicurist may not make the same wage as a CEO, proportionally, there is not the same massive difference that there is in the US.  

In related news, one also does not tip. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*Don't judge or think I'm spoiled.  I'm not, or if I am, it's only a little bit.  I was my very first Mother's Day, so my boys got me my very favorite thing.  It was the best present ever and I appreciated it like crazy.

*Go to XE, if you'd like to convert for yourself.

Unnskyld (Or Sorry Little Girl, but I Blame Your Mom)

About two weeks before we got married and about a month before we moved to Stavanger, Husband and I came over to Stavanger for a week. 

Husband was starting his job.  I needed to get a little bit familiar with the town and most importantly we needed to find a place to live. 

As part of the moving package, there were some "perks" included to help me get acclimated, one of which was a woman named Tune ("Tooooooooooon-NAH). 

Tune was a sweet, tiny Norwegian woman who I assumed was about my mom's age.*  She dressed all in black, talked about how she was still a little winded from her three hour "training" which started at 5am. 

I smiled through most of the "training" talk because I had no idea what she was talking about and assumed that I would pick it up in context eventually.  

When I did, both of us were horrified.  

I was shocked that a person would want to"train" (AKA "work-out") for three hours and she was shocked that I though gym time was a necessary evil best done in highly concentrated spurts. 

Tune's job was to threefold:

1) Show me around town and the area, which included introducing me to shopkeepers and showing me where to buy things.  

I also suspect she was getting kickbacks from everyone because she would be totally overt about who I was, "This is ELIZABETH DUREL.  She is moving here in a few weeks and she's from AMERICA.  She's one of MY PEOPLE.  You know, I'm HELPING HER GET SETTLED."

(I also suspect that she was paid fat cash by the hour.  She wanted to hang out ALOT and this town is relatively small.  Finally, I had to feign tiredness and talk about how "I just don't learn well unless I do it myself. Thanks so much, I'll call you.")  

2) Help me look at apartments and houses with the realtor (AKA "Bergen Blondie"), so I could decide what was worth taking Husband back to see. 

This was a minor disaster.  

Our requirements were that our new home needed to fit three firm requirements:

--within walking distance to town

--must take both dogs

---have more than about 1000 sq. feet (approx. 100 sq.meters). 

So, on two mornings, Tune and I hopped into the realtor's car.  I was armed with a notepad and measuring tape and was heartened by their promises of the "perfect places" we were going to see. 

House One: A giant 6-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere. 

"Look at all the space," said Bergen Blondie.  "Look at all the cows," I replied. 

House Two: An apartment in a high-rise that only took one dog. 

"You could probably hide one of the hunds," said Tune. "Remember? Lillie is 60lbs. Milo is 100lbs. I'm not sure either will tuck into my purse," I replied.   

House Three: A small house with a kitchen from a 1950's dorm room along one wall. 

"You are newlyweds, you will want to be close all the time," they both agreed. "Yes, but not ALL the time and also, we have to eat," I replied.

Overall, the entire experience made me doubt my own skills in the art of English'ing.  

As they dropped me back off at the hotel, the pair went for the international routine of Good Cop/Bad Cop fortified with a dash of tough love, which culminated in "Housing is very tight here, you may not get all you want."  

After standing firm, I thanked them and said, "Well, I guess we'll just live in a hotel, until we find what we need." 

PS---Husband found our house for us on the last day. It's not perfect, but fit all three of the requirements.  Tough on you, Bergen Blondie, that would have been a fat commission.  And probably a cut for you, too, Tune.

3) Acclimate me to the local customs, just a bit.  

Early on, I noticed that Tune would get a giant grin every time I talked.  I thought it may have been my Southern accent or the fact that occasionally I string words together in a somewhat creative fashion or maybe just that I am American.  

In any case, I was okay with it and just ignored it for the first day.  

Finally about halfway through the second day, she put her tiny hand on mine and said, "You know, we Norwegians are just not as polite as you are."

And it's true.  

I have the habit of saying "Unnskyld" ("Excuse me", pronounced "OOOOOHN-shuuuud") when I need to pass or to get someone's attention.  And I often get shocked looks.

The closest translation for "please" is "Vær så snil" ("Vah soh SNIL" or "You are so nice"), but it's highly uncommon.  I've heard it said once, and that was uttered by my friend Erin, who is an American from Washington State. Husband thinks he's probably heard it twice in the four years total he's lived here. 

Thank you is "Takk" (Tahk), which is fairly common.

Then there's "Tusen Takk" (TOOO-sen Tahk) which mean "a thousand thanks."  That's for the really big deals...As Husband explains it, " It's if you're lost and totally frustrated and someone helps you. It's not if someone hands you a bag of sausages at the meat store.  

And it's not that Norwegians are rude or thoughtless, it's just the way things are...

Which brings me to our Saturday at IKEA.

Husband and I needed a new rug for the kitchen.  I wanted a few candles and we needed a present for one of our favorite one-year olds.  

When we drove into the parking lot, it was PACKED, mobbed with quite possibly the vast majority of people within a 30 mile radius.  

And though I lived 10 happy years in New York City and I am a fan of people, I just don't tend to like them all standing within a close proximity. 

And by close, I really just mean I don't like crowds.  I've found they always include touching people I don't know and usually a fair amount of jostling and shoving (not by me, but by other people.)**  

As Husband, drove through the parking lot, I was busy calculating...

Need for objects 

X 

Need for Soft Ice Cream

X 

Time We'll Spend in Line

X 

Lack of Things to Do on a Rainy Stavanger Saturday

/

Number of People Packed Inside

And it all equaled a shrug...

So we went inside.  

And eventually, we left with our three objects...But I also left with an ice cream cone as well as several small face sized bruises on the back of my upper thigh. 

How did I get the bruises you wonder?

When mothers shoved past me, they seemed to forget that they were holding their small children by the hand.  And as they sneaked quickly past, their little people would get banged into the back of me.  

Poor little people.  

------------------------------

*As it turned out Tune was only about ten or so years older than I am and about ten or so years younger than the Big D.  And right now, I am not totally willing to confirm what it may mean about the three of us, I can say with realize certainty that I'm pretty sure it means that one of us looks OLD. 

**Walking on a crowded sidewalk in New York is like dancing. Most people, especially natives, knows the steps and you never touch actually come into full body contact unless you mean to or are a tourist. Trust me on this.

Companion Certificate in Expat Pregnancy

As you might remember, early on, I started thinking about devising a Masters in Expat Housewifery Program. 

It's been on the back burner for a while, but the past few months have convinced me it is necessary.  And not only is it necessary, but also that there should be an attached, or perhaps sub-program, in Expat Pregnancy.

It would include classes such as, but not limited to...

Medical mindset 101: 

Norwegian's do it differently. That is all. Get with the program or don't be shamed for how you want it handled.

Worries 101:

What happens, happens.  Come see us at about 20 weeks.

Do the Math 206:

They like babies so much, they'll pay you to have them.

and most importantly for my purposes here:

Cravings 301:

If you think you'll want it, save yourself some hassle and get it yourself --- from home

On Friday night, I spent part of the evening talking to C., a Norwegian friend who is about 32 weeks pregnant.  She and I have similar thoughts that pregnancy is a whole lot of "meh" but that the end result is worth it.  

When I asked her if she had any big cravings, she said no, that other than apples, she was just eating whatever.  Nothing cravings-wise has driven her nuts, which shocked me, but then we went on to something else...

But Sunday afternoon, I was lamenting the distance between me and the nearest* Whole Foods, which for those you who may not know, is one of the greatest places in quite possibly the entire United States.  

And by greatest, I am not talking about the "whole" part, I absolutely mean the "food" part. 

Whole Foods is a giant organic grocery store, but organic in a cool way, not in a "chokes you with the smell of pachouli and feet" way. 

Most importantly, it has miles and miles of prepared food and encourages sampling, so you don't have to commit** to a selection until you are absolutely sure.

And on this Sunday, I would have strongly considered selling my first born***  for just ten minutes in Whole Foods.  I would speed sample the soup bar selections and choose the best chunky soup, then head over to the hot counter for a mess of collard greens and a container of the best macaroni and cheese. ever. 

Then with the remaining seven or so minutes, I would just taste all the things I have been missing.  

I explained all of this to Husband, who just listened a bit and handed me a tissue when I got teary, because not only could I not have ANY of it, but all the grocery stores are closed on Sunday, so we couldn't even try to approximate it.   

(I also wanted a mani/pedi, but that is another post altogether.) 

It made me start thinking about how C. said she never had any major cravings in the way I described.  One possibility is that she just didn't. Every pregnancy is different, so that could just be that. 

Another (and this is the one that I'm going with...) is that a pregnant woman craves what is familiar and comforting.  

Even if you explain in scientifically (ie. a craving is your body needing to fulfill a need for a particular mineral or vitamin...) it only makes sense that you crave what you know.  

And if she craved, say for instance, Norwegian staples like salmon or reindeer meat or a sheep's skull or caviar in a tube, she could get it and quickly.  

But me, I'm hosed.  

There's no Thai food, at least not what I am used to eating.  The tomatoes are not from my Nana's garden.  Vanilla/Chocolate combo milkshake? Bwahahaha. Though there's a rumor that collard greens can be had with the right connections, I haven't seen them yet. Pudding had to be shipped from 7,000 miles away. I am even having a hard time find a good crunchy tart pickle. And there is no such thing as pickled okra.

But to be fair, the hosing is not complete...as I sat on the sofa sniffing, Husband,  who had just been listening patiently, got up, headed to the kitchen and started pulling all sorts of things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.  

He spread out things on the counter and chopped them all up...

And made a pot of soup-y goodness...

And cooked until it got even better...

And then served it up...

And it was about as close, to a Whole Foods soup I would have chosen, as it could be...

So that's something...

*564 miles---it turns out there are a few in London, still not helpful on a Sunday afternoon in Stavanger.  Also, it's approximately 5249 miles to the one in our neighborhood in Atlanta, also not helpful in the least to my predicament. 

**This also is a big selling point to me in all things.

**I kid, I kid.  No one can have Pickle, not for any price. Though if I know you, you can hold it or change a diaper, especially the yuck ones, whenever you'd like, free of charge. 

Poor, Poor Hassan

A few weeks before we got married, Husband and I visited Stavanger.

Really, it was for me to check out the town, for him to work and for us to find a home.

While he went to the office, I was escorted by a woman named Tune (Tooooo-NAH) who had been hired to show me around and start the process of acclimation.

Along with driving me about and helping me learn, she also gave me this book.



I flipped through the pages and read about doctors and shopping and setting up house. Then I came to this page and gasped...



There was no way, I was going to get severe culture shock. I am not a textbook person and am certainly not irritable and hostile.

I am cheery and flexible and up for anything. Plus, I am not one to get in funks often and when I do, they tend to be low level funks. (I have a pretty high funk-tolerence, so even when things are their most tragic, it's really not all that bad...)

All this to say, I was slightly wrong. I've been in a bit of a funk lately. And that funk has been coupled with slight irritability.

Also, while, I refuse to say I've been hostile, perhaps I have been a little bit edgy.



And there is no one reason, but a charming combination of, but not limited to, the following:

1) Time zones
I keep missing all the windows of time to talk to my peeps because they live in highly inconvenient places like Georgia and Hawaii and California and Colorado. They also have jobs and kids, so the windows are even shorter.

2) I hate Car.
Every dang time I want to do anything, no matter how mundane, I have to make a major plan involving rush hour, hills and timing.

3) No one can read my mind.
This poses a major challenge for sweet Husband. Lillie could offer pointers because she usually knows exactly what I need:

A vist


A shake right


A shake left



A little footsie


4) I cannot work.
We got a letter a few weeks ago saying that my application has been put into the pile and that they expect an answer within the next 8-10 months. This is a multi-multi-faceted issue, which goes even further to even if I did have the permits, then what would I do? So there we have isolation and identity all piled into the mix.

5) My pants feel snug.
I haven't been eating and drinking more, perhaps I am just hormonal today or maybe my pants hate me.

5) Language
I have been studying for weeks and am not fluent yet.

All of which are semi-ridiculous on a variety of levels and I am usually not one to indulge these kinds of thoughts, at least not seriously but I have been lately (or at least in the past week or so...).

But today is when I realized that I have lost my mind and need to buck up.

Janice Soprano came over for our regular Wednesday morning lesson.

We're working in a book called "Ny i Norge" ("New to Norway").

And as we were making our way through Leksjon 5, we flipped to "Hassan sender en e-post"



Hassan is one of the recurring characters in my textbook. (Among others, we have Tor, the Norsk teacher and his wife Liv. John, who is from USA who moved to Norway to be with his wife Anne. Urai from Thailand and Larissa, the au pair from Latvia and her young charges Ingrid and Gunnar.)

Hassan, we learned today, was sitting and thinking about his friend Ali in Iran.



Ali is in school in Teheran. Hassan is a refugee and lives in Nordby.



So Hassan goes to the library to write Ali an email to say hello and to tell all about the traveling he has been doing. When he's finished emailing and looking up news about Iran, he leaves the library.

He eats a banana and is a little bit sad. It is a long way from Norway to Iran.



But then he runs into Larissa and Ingrid. Hassan carries her grocery bags while they talk. Then he heads off.

He cycles home. Hassan is not so sad now. He goes to the movies and watches a French film about love.



I am reading this out loud and translating and my voice breaks a bit. Janice, misreading my cues, says "It's a little bit silly, but good vocabulary and lessons."

I say "It's the saddest thing I have ever read. Poor Hassan, he must be so lonely for his friends."

She stares at me for a long minute and says "Ahhhh I know these signs. You are feeling a little bit isolated. We have only been having lessons here at this table. We will fix this. You need to practice with more people. I will help you."

So from now on, we're going to have lessons at the coffee shop.

"Jeg snakker litle norsk."

I haven't worn my rain boots for more than a week, which must be some kind of record, even though I can't find any weather reports to say so.

The sky has been blue and lovely and the days have been sunny.

And for all of the rain and grey days, Stavanger becomes greener more quickly than I ever would have imagined. Just a few days of sun and warmth have made the city bloom. The flower beds in towns are packed with tulips and color. The trees are blossoming and lush.

But our flower boxes were dismal and depressing, filled with the remmants of last years' greenery. So, especially since we were having guests over, that needed to change.



I had been avoiding it for just a bit because the best place to buy plants is in the middle of town. It's where the area farmers come and sell their fresh eggs and flowers, but many of them are older Norwegians who are from rural areas. This often means their English is pretty much on the same level as my Norwegian.

And I don't mean anything negative by that, at least not directed towards them. I'm in Norway, so I should speak to them in their own language. And I do try, but I've only been here a few months. It's pretty difficult and thus far, I've only had about six lessons.

But I needed flowers, so I got out my textbooks and armed with the following information:

--Numbers: I can count to one hundred. Also, the written numbers are the same.
--Colors: Rod (the o has the slash in it, but I don't know how to type it) is red, which is my favorite color.
--Polite phrases: Takk = thank you
--Indications of my skill level: "Jeg snakker litle norsk." (I only speak a little Norwegian.)
--General sign language.

I decided to see if I could do it.

The woman manning the flower tables was somewhere between 60 and 100, which is a pretty fair age range when you consider that in America, it's pretty difficult to tell any one's age given the propensity of nips and tucks and shots. Really, I am not sure what any age "actually" looks like.

In Norway, the woman spend so much of their time outdoors, sans makeup. Plastic surgery is not nearly as prevelant, so I suspect that the woman look much closer to their natural ages. But I have no idea what that could even be and there is really no way to do the math either.

She didn't speak English at all, but she slowed down her speech and used much more simple language with me. I used the words I knew (and I suspect badly, but it worked), brought out my calculator when I couldn't understand the numbers and did an awful lots of pointing, smiling and shrugging, along with my usual other funny faces.

This is what she sold me.



I was so proud of myself, that I wanted to take her photo to put here, but she smiled and refused.

She said she would break my camera, which wouldn't have been true because she was smily and lovely, but said I could take a photo from far away. So look closely and you'll see her stand and her back, covered with a white tee shirt.



Then I took my flowers home and this is how our front door looks now.



Later on that afternoon, when the pack and I walked by, she waved and I walked over and showed her the photos of what I had done with her pretty flowers.

I'm not sure what she said, but she clapped her hands, so I think it was good.

Husband Knows Stuff #2: The Alphabet

Right now, Husband is almost there.

While he is getting ready to strap on his board and whiz down the mountain, I am going to practice my Norwegian.

He left me with this helpful study aid*.





*And yes, contrary to his last comment, he said it was okay to post.

Jeg heter Elizabeth

I started Norwegian lessons this morning.

Tiziana, my teacher is fantastic.

She's been talking to Husband, who she'll be teaching as well, all weekend about our different skill levels and to schedule our meetings.

I suspected that she would be a little bit energetic from the conversations she and Husband had touched on subjects including, but not limited to:
Couples taking language classes together: "Very bad. Never works out for the couple."
Americans taking language classes from her: "May I be so bold as to ask your ages? I hate to teach old Americans."
Canceling our first meeting (which happened to fall on a sunny day: "Hack Hack Hack, I am so sick."

I figured that either I would love her or would hate her immediately. There would be no in between.

So this morning, I get a call from Husband. Tiziana is running late because she needed to stop and get petrol, so a few minutes later, the dogs barked and I leaned out the window to say hello and that I would be right down. And who is standing on the walkway?



Yep, Tiziana is Janice Soprano, if Janice Soprano was a Norwegian teacher born in the Netherlands who probably does not have sociopathic tendencies.

So Tiziana comes in breathless and a bit harried. I introduce myself, take her coat, then am immediately horrified when Milo sticks his nose up her skirt. She matter of factly tells me that it's okay. Dogs do that to her all the time. She's allergic though and would like to wash her hands. Then she teeters up the stairs in her little skirt and tank top and tells me she will take some tea.

(When we trade phone numbers, I saw that her screen saver is a picture of herself all dolled up with a total come-hither look on her face. So odd, or maybe it's just Norwegian...)

She pulls out a scrunchy and pulls up half of her hair into a perky ponytail and we begin with gossip smattered with Norwegian phrases. She doesn't like to tutor Chinese because it's always tick tick tick. The company that handles this for her is a pain because they have her buy the books and then they don't pay for two months. The neighborhood where we live was once on the edge of the water, but was recently dammed for construction, so there would be more land. (When you ask? In the 50s.) I have pretty eyes. She doesn't like Norwegian haircutters because they take a razor and go chop chop chop chop. We have the same hair, but she has more waves. My husband is nice and sounds like he's from the midwest. She has a contract with NATO until summer break, so we'll have to be flexible on time until June 18th. My nice husband says I don't like to get up early.

And that was the first three to five minutes.

Then she propped her boobs on the table and we went to work on basic sentence construction, articles, question words and the like.

Hvor er du fra?
Jeg er fra USA.

Hva heter du?
Jeg heter Elizabeth

Ja, vi har 2 hunder.
Jeg har en bulldog og en husky.

Apparently I am a great parrot and after a bit, I don't even sound American.

I can't wait for the next lesson...

Norwegian lesson #1: Forbudt and "ha det"

Norwegian is a Germanic based language and can be challenging to learn, especially for someone like me whose language experience is limited to English, a smattering of Romance-based languages and a working knowledge of Pig Latin.

The vast majority of Norwegians know English and will use it when asked, so I am not completely stuck.

Husband is fairly fluent, so he's always fine and I can rely on him to help with communication issues when he's around.

We have Norwegian friends who are kind enough to speak English in front of me. But, I don't want to rely on all of their kindnesses because we're going to be living here for at least two years, if not longer. Plus, often a native speaker will slip back into Norwegian and I'm left in the dark and miss great bits of what seem to be really good stories. (Though some words are almost identical, in a few days I will tell the Kangaroo Body Parts story...)

In any case, I am an American living here. So, as a resident, I want to learn to speak and at least comprehend much of what goes on around me for a variety of reasons, the least of which is that I just think it's the polite and right thing to do.

So in my quest towards fluency, I am using several methods.

Immersion:
During the day, I often go to places alone where people are not quite as fluent, like the wine store. I use the bits I know and muddle through the rest with combinations of "Tusen takk" (Tooo-sen tock) which means "thanks so much" and pointing.

Osmosis:
Most morning I keep the Television tuned into the channels that only use Norwegian in the hopes that it will sink into my subconscious.

Tutoring:
Tomorrow, I will officially begin my lessons with an instructor and Husband has been coaching me through lots of lessons.

Self-study:
By using Husband's old language books and workbooks, I've figured out some conjugations, vocabulary and structure.

Going to the grocery store:
Much like reading a children's book (which is another method I will soon employ once I get a library card), the grocery store is full of items that I can identify by sight, so then I memorize the appropriate word, (red pepper=paprika, cheese=ost, milk=melk).

Word association:
There are just some connections that seem appropriate to me.

For example: "Forbudt" means "Forbidden"



Don't park here unless you meet certain conditions

And for some reason, "Forbudt" (Fuhrr-booodt) connects with "Forgetaboutit" (Fuhrr-get-ta-booot-it) in my head.

If you are over 18, let Donnie Brasco explain it to you



If you are under 18, learn about it through Mad TV
>

(To reiterate, the Norwegians mean "don't do it.")

Then there is a "ha det" (ha-da), which is a commonly used salutation, which is an informal way to say "good-bye, see you later." The inflection uses a higher pitch and emphasis on the first syllable.

Say it quickly and t may remind you of "Holla," which is also a commonly used American salutation, which means "See you later on, give me a call."

If you are over 18, the Ghetto Boys will help me explain what I mean...