By and large Europe is very kind of English speakers. In the main cities it is easy to find even that the kids working at Burger King have enough of the language to help. However, I still do find that I spend a lot of time simply walking around bewildered by the world around me. Engaging people in conversation is sometimes a dogged task, especially in Scandinavia where people seem to keep themselves a great deal. Especially at night. People in Copenhagen and Oslo don't seem to be real fond of physically imposing men walking up to them at night and speaking a non native tongue. They are polite but nervous. They also have places to go. Some night I just wander and see the city and listen to people talk excitedly in words I can't decipher.
In Copenhagen, on Friday and Saturday night local businesses set up tents in every public square. They set up games, give out literature and food. At least I think that's what goes on. Best I can tell, some of them were farm machine sellers, or phone service, every branch of the Danish armed forces sets up a makeshift recruitment center. One of them came to me wearing a blue beret and speaking quickly. I guess at least if you joined the Danish army, Dick Cheney wouldn't see to it you were off dying on a lie in Iraq... woooho! Rimshot. But enough politics, now that I have taken my potshot. Heh.
It is an odd and disorienting experience to wander through busy streets, see and hear people laughing, but understanding no bit of their conversation. Imagine living without context. It makes one feel like an old widower, wandering to the park, to feed the swans that sail along the canals. It's a relationship you understand, you give the bird bread, the bird eats it, it makes sense. One of the tents had open fires, and long handled cast iron ladles that people were using to make pancakes over open flame. This tent appeared to sell stuffed animals, as in taxidermy. Surreal.
Obviously I have the social powers to break such confusion, but some nights I choose not to. Its oddly thrilling to have absolutely no agenda but to stand where things are happening. To draw your own conclusions with no verbal hints but the tone of voice. To truly watch what people are doing, and what their body language says, it is a completely different way of going about existing in the world.
Last night I stayed on a Botel, as they are called. It was called the M.S. Innivik. It was also a bar, dance hall, and makeshift movie theater that showed DVDs. It sounds like, with all that, this was a large ship. It was not. The Innivik is moored adjacent to the Oslo Opera House, and I thought it would be a nice quiet evening staring out at sea. At 7PM local, when the NFL games were starting I set up my laptop at the end of the bar and set about trying to find a free internet stream to show me the game. It wasn't until the middle of the 2nd quarter I had found one, and to my surprise the bar room of the ship was starting to fill with rough looking men in all denim, and rastafarians. Soon the proceedings were in full swing, they were doing chants and downing their beers. One of them noticed me sitting with my elbows on the bar, chewing my knuckles, with headphones on. I smelled him before I felt him looming, I smelled his breath from the drinks, and the smokes, and the few days at least without brushing. He was peering over my shoulder with a cherubic grin on his face. I liked the mischevious glint in his eyes.
"Uh hey. How's it going?" I asked him.
"What's all this. Amer-ee-can futbol?"
"Hey, that's right. I dunno if you know this but those guys in the purple are fuckers." Here he laughed. One thing Europeans understand implicitly is what it means to hate an opposing team with all the blackness of which your heart is capable.
"So they are bad yah?"
"Absolutely. That guy there..." I pointed at Ray Lewis. "Stabbed somebody and then let his friends take the fall." Which is really only partially true.
"The fall?" He looked confused and I realized I was speaking in slang.
"Blame." I said. "He let his friends take the blame." And now my new friend looked a little offended.
"Eh." He nodded. And for a few minutes I explained to him about my team, the long suffering Bengals. He listened with an offputting intensity, his eyes never ever leaving mine and his brow furrowed like he was angry. Every now and then he would give a single and decisive nod. After I was done he turned away and shouted at his friends in Norweigan and they came over as well. It was clear that he was the leader, he was the shortest and hardest looking of them. Somewhere along the way he told me is name was Ött. By this time the game was winding down, They all groaned when Ray Rice broke his 49 yard touchdown pass.
"Don't worry." I told them. "This is how we do it now. Watch number 9, Carson Palmer is going to be perfect from here on out." These guys were all huddled around me watching my little laptop screen. I pulled my earplugs so they could hear the audio, they really enjoyed the hit on Chad Johnson (I will not call him Ochocinco) by the Villainous Ray Lewis. Then I had to explain to them it was a cheap shot and "Stabbit Ray", as my friends call him, was a punk. They were thoroughly confused by the penalties and what they were for, but I felt they were firmly on my side. I have made girls watch football who were more baffled, at least these fellas liked it when someone took a monster hit.
"Fucka him!" Ött declared. I high fived him, and he laughed.
"Fucka him with a knife." I agreed.
There were probably fifteen people peaking around trying to see at this point. I turned and winked at Ött. I knew we were going to win. When Palmer hit Caldwell for the winning touchdown I jumped out of my stool with my arms in the air and the Sailors and Dreadheads cheered, as if they were cheering me, and maybe in a way they were. In any case they were thoroughly happy for me. They raised glasses and started on of their chants, and when they were done I responded with: "Who dey! Who dey! Who dey think they gonna beat them Bengals....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBODY!" They liked it so well they made me teach it to them. So, if ever in Norway you hear the nonsensical victory chant of the Cincinnati Bengals, it might not be that you are simply homesick. They might just be actually saying it.
It was a late night on the boat in Oslo, and whenever someone said "Who Dey" there was a chorus in response and the clinking of mugs. I remember thinking of the pleasant dichotomy and inimitable feeling of living in a world where you are confused most of the time, and then suddenly have it make total and complete sense as if you were home.
Who Dey indeed.
Fun fun for the whole family.
ReplyDeleteMiss Ya