Linguistically challenged

When I was 16 I did two weeks’ work experience at the local newspaper, and since my uncle was a journalist there I was entrusted to write a piece on some kindergarten children who’d built a fort out of milk cartons. That was the beginning of my writing career. I later got a part-time job to fit around my school work, and ended up with my very own weekly column, writing articles on issues interesting to young people in small-town Sweden (read: interesting to me).

I knew almost from the start that I didn’t want to be a journalist, it always made me feel uncomfortable to interview people who really didn’t want to be interviewed. But I loved the writing process; coming up with an idea, doing the research, playing around with words... it was a very satisfying process. And it still is, at least to some degree. But as I have complained about before I often feel stuck in no-man's land without a language of my own.

Swedish is in many ways lost to me, at least its nuances; the very details that make a language rich and interesting. And English, well I don't believe I will ever truly grasp it in the way I would like, and I'm the first to admit that perhaps it's because I'm just too lazy. But let's face it, it's not always a very friendly or accommodating language. Take the spelling and subsequent ridiculous pronunciations of many words for instance. I feel like an idiot half the time just opening my mouth.

Take taciturn, I never remember whether the -c- is soft or hard. And what about ergot? Am I supposed to pronounce the -t- at the end or not? Segue anyone? And then there is victual, one of the worst offenders in my book.

OK, so I'm not a native speaker, but I suspect that even those of you whose first language is English must struggle at times. So, I'm going to hand it over to you. Are there words you find yourself avoiding? Or do you have any memories of making a verbal gaff in a particularly embarrassing situation? Or for those of you who are in a similar situation to me, i.e. living in another country, speaking another language; what are your stories?

Liquorice roots

If you have ever been to Sweden you know that we love our candy. There are big shops selling nothing but candy; wall-to-wall pick'n'mix. It’s a candy-lover’s dream-come-true and a dieter’s worst nightmare.

We are particularly fond of liquorice and tastes vary from those who prefer the (in my opinion) inedible pepper-flavoured stuff, to those who like it salty. But whatever your taste buds prefer, most Swedes would find it difficult to turn down a handful or two of the nice and easygoing sweet variety, and it's within this category that my favourites can be found - liquorice boats.

As a child I would only be allowed to spend a portion on my weekly candy allowance on liquorice-flavoured candy, as there were some nasty rumours doing the rounds in the mid 70s warning parents that over-consumption could lead to all sorts of dreadful conditions, the main one being high blood pressure. But once I was in charge of my own finances I gladly put my life on the line and regularly headed to the nearest pick'n'mix emporium to stock up. And my health didn't suffer. If anything, my blood pressure has always been slightly too low, so one could argue that I should eat liquorice boats medicinally.

So for years I happily gorged myself on giant quantities of my favourite nautical-themed treats, and the sessions had a tendency to get particularly debauched once I left Sweden and only had intermittent access.

Unfortunately my ability to digest and metabolise the wheat-heavy little boats has taken a beating over the years, and now I have to be careful not to eat too many or else I’ll feel dreadful. For a long time. Wheat simply doesn't agree with me any more.

But like the smell of lilacs, the taste of liquorice has a powerful hold on me, and whenever I visit Sweden I give in to temptation at least once, and buy slightly too much and then proceed to eat them slightly too fast. But it's usually worth it.

Photo from www.aroma.se

Remembering roots on Von Sandt Straβe

Every summer, from the year I turned 3, my mother and I travelled by train to Bonn in Germany to visit my lovely grandmother, my Oma. It was a magical journey, which I have blogged about here, and it ingrained in me a life-long love of train travel. With roots and connections having become this week's unofficial theme, I started thinking of those weeks spent in Oma’s delightful little flat on Von Sandt Straβe, of the memories I still have from that time; and I wonder if part of me isn’t still rooted there.

Throughout the afternoon my thoughts revisit familiar places... the bakery where we would buy Mohnkuchen (moon cake); the butcher’s shop where I got my first taste of Mortadella (yum). Oh, and the ice cream... mmm, the ice cream, the ice cream. German ice cream was the best, it was more like sorbet… not rich and creamy like everywhere else, and as a child with strange and underdeveloped taste buds, it was perfect. I would eat it in great big coupes on the river boats, as we explored the Rhine valley on countless day trips.

I remember riding up Drachenfels on a stubborn donkey that refused to cooperate; buying freshly baked Brötchen from the Italian grocer around the corner, and eating them with plum jam for breakfast; my Oma pointing at people with her cane when we were out walking, infuriating my mother.

My eyes are filling up with tears and I realise I can’t ignore the fact that although it has been more than 20 years since I was last in Bonn, and my Oma has been gone for even longer, I still have roots there. And I’m wondering if it isn’t time for a visit. Maybe I can go on a trip down the river on the whale-shaped Moby Dick, my favourite of the river boats. Maybe I’ll stop at Drachenfels, although I suspect the donkeys will be off limits to me now. But I'll definitely eat ice cream. Lots of it.

Photo from www.meilleurduchef.com

SPC - barefoot

I once spent an entire summer barefoot. I was 22 and worked as a waitress in a fancy restaurant on south Pender in British Columbia. I lived on north Pender, so in order to reach the restaurant in time to put on shoes, set up and welcome the first guests as they arrived between 5:30 and 6, I would set off, shoe-less, at around 3pm, hitching a ride with whomever I could.

By the end of that summer not only had the skin on the soles of my feet grown tough; my ankles were stronger, my feet broader, my centre of gravity had descended and I felt deeply connected to the ground.

For years now my feet have lived in shoes, and whilst they seem pasty in comparison to the wild woman feet I had that summer on Pender Island, they are still one of my favourite body parts. I like their broad, sturdy appearance and I think they are well suited for growing roots. Maybe it's time to take my shoes off again.

Preoccupied by shallow-growing roots

I long to let my roots grow deep and strong. I long to belong, to feel truly grounded; but I feel lost, and I am left the wonder: where is my true home? In the nearly 20 years that have passed since I left Sweden, I have lived in Toronto; on Vancouver Island; on one of the Gulf Islands; in Haarlem; in Amsterdam and now in Brighton, but I wonder why I’m more reticent now than ever to let my roots become truly... rooted. To allow a place to feel like home.

Despite my weak and shallow-growing roots, Brighton has been my base for nine years, longer than I've lived in any one place before (excluding the house where I grew up). So I started thinking about what keeps me here...

• My god son. Although I don’t see him as often as I used to, he and I have a very special bond, and I feel a responsibility towards him that is impossible to ignore. He roots me here more than anyone or anything else
• The sea. It’s only a few minutes away from my house, and I walk along the shore nearly every day. It never looks the same. It always looks beautiful
• I’m starting a 10 week taster course at the Shiatsu College in Brighton tomorrow, and I’m hoping to like it so much that I will want to enrol in their three-year course starting this autumn
• I can walk to work in less than five minutes
• A selection of drop-in yoga classes are readily available for me to choose from – every day of the week, day and night
• Walking through a bluebell woodland at this time of the year is magical, I can almost believe I live in King Arthur’s England
• Rosie. She depends on me and I doubt I could ever leave Brighton as long as she's still here
  

But there are so many things that prevents me from becoming completely anchored to the British soil: the unsophisticated drinking culture; the chavs; the insanity that doing drugs is considered cool; the fact that cafe's don't stay open past 7pm; the obsession with reality TV shows; the exorbitant housing market; the exorbitant cost of everything...

I suppose for the time being, the pros outweigh the cons. But for how long I wonder?

Photo by Adrian

Sunday scribblings - rooted

Surrounding the garden of our house when I was a child was a lilac hedge. In the south-eastern corner, near the twisted old apple tree, where the lilacs grew especially tall and dense, was my favourite place. At the base between two bushes was a small opening, just large enough for a small child to crawl through; it opened up into a bower of sorts, a little den, which became my secret hiding place.

Surrounded by the intoxicating scent of the lilacs, I would play house; and later, reading whichever book I had on the go, whilst sucking the nectar from each of the tiny flower-ettes.

25 years have passed since my parents sold the house with the lilac hedge, yet every year when they are in bloom, I am transported back in time, their scent ensuring that a part of me remains firmly rooted in that garden. Their roots and mine are tightly intertwined, reminding me of the long, carefree summer days of my childhood.