It’s not that I don’t appreciate the pilgrims. They were fine. But I wouldn’t have complained if they had chosen to first stop off in Iceland. That wouldn’t have made any sense, but it would have made for an Icelandic Thanksgiving. And that’s what was missing this year. As it turns out, the Pilgrims decided to freeze on Plymouth Rock instead of land on a toasty volcanic island and that means no Thanksgiving for Reykjavik. Although we tried to keep the whole week festive (“festive” here means “actually we just ate at IKEA and then made garlic burgers and then ate more food on Saturday for Friendsgiving and also some more foods with a side of food”) I spent my personal Thanksgiving trying to say thanks. Literally. I just said thanks a lot. Because the only phrase I know in Icelandic is “Takk Fyrir” “Thank You.” And I still can’t actually pronounce that last part.
This language is not coming along easily. I’ve lived here over 3 months now and can still hardly remember what to say when someone asks if I want a receipt. The answer is “Yes.” I do try though, I think it’s important to show I care enough to learn as much of the language as I can. Unfortunately, Iceland doesn’t need me to speak Icelandic. And they know I’m an American. All I have to say is, “Sorry” and any random pedestrian will immediately switch to flawless English.
My obvious accent hadn’t deterred me from trying to learn the language… until one Sunday afternoon while spending time with a three year old in her nursery class. The child I was watching was one of three children in the class. She was obviously chatty, she spoke to her father in complete Icelandic sentences, and she was clearly very bright. I tried to play and communicate using encouraging smiles because I couldn’t do much more with our language barrier. Knowing that it is great to be around young children when trying to learn a language, and knowing three year olds are used to being asked to name colors, shapes, and animals, I began to ask her, “Hvað er þetta?” or “What’s this/that?” while pointing at different numbers on our foam play pad. The baby looked at me, laughed at my ignorant attempt to speak Icelandic, and said “It’s a 7.” The kid is trilingual. And she knew from my poor attempt at Icelandic, just like every adult I’ve tried the language on, to simply respond to me in English.
Once I had shaken off my dual with the toddler I began to be brave. I tired to use only Icelandic words at the grocery store. Eventually I was even able to order an ice-cream (a fantastic rye bread icecream from Cafe Loki, to be specific) completely in Icelandic, and I didn’t cry! I really have worked to up my communication game. Because I like people, and I happen to be one.
But when a language has three different genders for the number “one” things become daunting. So I just say “thanks.” If I’m at a movie I’ll buy my ticket and buy a drink so that I have the excuse to say thank you twice. I shout out “Takk!” after spending 30 seconds in a cookware store. To be fair, that’s in part because I’m trying to be more vocal in Icelandic but it’s also because the store owner has already seen me twice in the week and knows I won’t be buying the pretty copper pots. I say “thanks” when I’m handed something, when someone offers a compliment, when I bump into someone while walking… This Thanksgiving I was thankful for the word “thanks.” Because it is still the only thing I can actually say.
Let the IKEA Thanksgiving tradition begin!
