Ice #8
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Iceland #8 : Lost In Translation
Disa lives downtown in Reykjavik, owns an apartment
on the third floor of a building on Grettisgata. From her
back balcony, I can see the city´s main street, a stream
of cars moving slowly, window-shopping. This street of
shops, galleries and bistros is called Laugavegur, which
translates as "water road." Before residents had water
piped into their homes, Laugavegur was where women
did the laundry, scrubbing clothes against stones, then
rinsing them in the geothermal streams along the water
road. Laugavegur has come a long way since then,
and so have the women of Iceland. Believe me.
It is Saturday morning and I am having a second cup
of this rich coffee, strong and black, listening to a cool
record by Bjork Gudmundsdottir, made in 1990, years
before we knew her internationally as, simply, Bjork.
She is singing jazz on here with a trio led by one of her
native land's more beloved jazz pianists. The recording
is called Gling-Glo, and I'm bringing it home to Canada to
play on the radio show. This is Bjork as I´ve never heard
her before, singing in Icelandic, so playful, unique, fabulous!
http://albums.bjorkish.net/gling-glo/audio.html for clips.
Last night we went to see Lost In Translation with the
Icelandic subtitles, so I was one step ahead of the crowd with
my guffaws at times. I have always found Bill Murray good for
a laugh, and while this wasn't really a comedy, he was worth
the price of admission in this Tokyo-based flick. What fun to
be in a movie house in Reykjavik! The one thing they do here
that´s odd and rather tacky is they cut into the movie at the
halfway point to allow smokers a smoke-break...well, and to
prompt more business for the concessions, too.
On the walk home after, we saw something in a window that
made us laugh until we cried. With both of our birthdays just
days away - mine April 23rd and Disa´s the 24th - what we
saw in a shop window was a pair of women´s underwear big
enough for about three butts, stretched wide and pinned to
a slab of cork. On the back in bold print was the message,
"Happy Birthday!" If the store was open, we may have had
to buy them and try them on later, a leghole apiece.
Because prideful and rebellious Iceland has kept its original
language and symbols, which travel across centuries so
that even Disa has to look up some of the older words,
it can be frustrating for a newcomer to follow the native
tongue when it is spoken. It is a little difficult to speak it
well because of the sounds I never have made in English.
They do unusual, gymnastic things with their tongues here
in making sounds alien to my own language. All words have
the accent on the first syllable.
Here, then, is a quick lesson in some of the words I am
learning during my stay in Iceland, minus the unique
symbols and accents that they use...
Takk is thank you.
Bless is good-bye, but really means blessings to you.
Often on parting, people will say this many times together,
in rapid fashion, i.e. "Bless, bless, bless."
Velkominn is welcome.
Pabbi is father.
Modir is mother.
Ristill is colon. :-)
Godan daginn is good day.
Kornbrennivin is a local moonshine, very good day.
Altekinn means to be so drunk with joy that everybody
looks like they are your kin.
Slast nakin i snjonum is wrestling naked in the snow.
Ryrnun is shrinkage, though there is also horfa undan,
which means "the dog shrinks from the whip." Ouch.
Sæti is sweet.
Unglingur med hor is as close as I can get to "snot-nosed
teenager"...it means "teen dripping with green."
Logfrædingur is lawyer, because they ding you so much.
Blatt klukkublom loosely means a flower child with severe
bladder problems who clucks like a chicken.
Prins is prince.
Hampur is Icelandic for marijuana.
If you smoke it, I suppose that makes you hampured.
If you are a Canadian trying to speak Icelandic, and
you smoke marijuana, you are severely hampured.
Kaffi is coffee.
Utvarpsstjarna is radio star, which video killed.
Goda nott is good night.
Allow me a moment to remove my tongue from my
cheek. There. That ought to be enough for now.
Disa´s been massaging my axlarstykki as I write this,
and we have to fit in some slast nakin i snjonum
before we head out to Disa´s parents for a big family
dinner this evening, stopping by en route to see her
brother-in-law´s beautiful ponies.
Bless, bless, and goda nott, sæti prins, goda nott!
Love from Iceland,
DL
Iceland #8 : Lost In Translation
Disa lives downtown in Reykjavik, owns an apartment
on the third floor of a building on Grettisgata. From her
back balcony, I can see the city´s main street, a stream
of cars moving slowly, window-shopping. This street of
shops, galleries and bistros is called Laugavegur, which
translates as "water road." Before residents had water
piped into their homes, Laugavegur was where women
did the laundry, scrubbing clothes against stones, then
rinsing them in the geothermal streams along the water
road. Laugavegur has come a long way since then,
and so have the women of Iceland. Believe me.
It is Saturday morning and I am having a second cup
of this rich coffee, strong and black, listening to a cool
record by Bjork Gudmundsdottir, made in 1990, years
before we knew her internationally as, simply, Bjork.
She is singing jazz on here with a trio led by one of her
native land's more beloved jazz pianists. The recording
is called Gling-Glo, and I'm bringing it home to Canada to
play on the radio show. This is Bjork as I´ve never heard
her before, singing in Icelandic, so playful, unique, fabulous!
http://albums.bjorkish.net/gling-glo/audio.html for clips.
Last night we went to see Lost In Translation with the
Icelandic subtitles, so I was one step ahead of the crowd with
my guffaws at times. I have always found Bill Murray good for
a laugh, and while this wasn't really a comedy, he was worth
the price of admission in this Tokyo-based flick. What fun to
be in a movie house in Reykjavik! The one thing they do here
that´s odd and rather tacky is they cut into the movie at the
halfway point to allow smokers a smoke-break...well, and to
prompt more business for the concessions, too.
On the walk home after, we saw something in a window that
made us laugh until we cried. With both of our birthdays just
days away - mine April 23rd and Disa´s the 24th - what we
saw in a shop window was a pair of women´s underwear big
enough for about three butts, stretched wide and pinned to
a slab of cork. On the back in bold print was the message,
"Happy Birthday!" If the store was open, we may have had
to buy them and try them on later, a leghole apiece.
Because prideful and rebellious Iceland has kept its original
language and symbols, which travel across centuries so
that even Disa has to look up some of the older words,
it can be frustrating for a newcomer to follow the native
tongue when it is spoken. It is a little difficult to speak it
well because of the sounds I never have made in English.
They do unusual, gymnastic things with their tongues here
in making sounds alien to my own language. All words have
the accent on the first syllable.
Here, then, is a quick lesson in some of the words I am
learning during my stay in Iceland, minus the unique
symbols and accents that they use...
Takk is thank you.
Bless is good-bye, but really means blessings to you.
Often on parting, people will say this many times together,
in rapid fashion, i.e. "Bless, bless, bless."
Velkominn is welcome.
Pabbi is father.
Modir is mother.
Ristill is colon. :-)
Godan daginn is good day.
Kornbrennivin is a local moonshine, very good day.
Altekinn means to be so drunk with joy that everybody
looks like they are your kin.
Slast nakin i snjonum is wrestling naked in the snow.
Ryrnun is shrinkage, though there is also horfa undan,
which means "the dog shrinks from the whip." Ouch.
Sæti is sweet.
Unglingur med hor is as close as I can get to "snot-nosed
teenager"...it means "teen dripping with green."
Logfrædingur is lawyer, because they ding you so much.
Blatt klukkublom loosely means a flower child with severe
bladder problems who clucks like a chicken.
Prins is prince.
Hampur is Icelandic for marijuana.
If you smoke it, I suppose that makes you hampured.
If you are a Canadian trying to speak Icelandic, and
you smoke marijuana, you are severely hampured.
Kaffi is coffee.
Utvarpsstjarna is radio star, which video killed.
Goda nott is good night.
Allow me a moment to remove my tongue from my
cheek. There. That ought to be enough for now.
Disa´s been massaging my axlarstykki as I write this,
and we have to fit in some slast nakin i snjonum
before we head out to Disa´s parents for a big family
dinner this evening, stopping by en route to see her
brother-in-law´s beautiful ponies.
Bless, bless, and goda nott, sæti prins, goda nott!
Love from Iceland,
DL
posted by doug lang | 15:59
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