Two Centuries

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by joyceholt

by joyceholt

Before going to Norway, I spent years studying the language. Eventually my conversational Norwegian teacher asked me where exactly my ancestors came from. "Inland Telemark? Their dialect is so strong," he told me, "you'll never understand them. But don't worry. Everyone in Norway under age fifty speaks English."

It was true. I used my language skills mainly for reading signs. If I needed to ask for help, English served just fine.

Except for the times I needed to rent a car. In both instances, I had to deal with a gray-haired man who knew no English. With my broken city Norwegian, I managed to make myself understood, although confusion crinkled their eyes.

Going to England would be much easier, wouldn't it? After all, most of my roots, including language, sprang from that country. At a remove of two centuries, it's true. But still, English is English.

I was buying some souvenirs and postcards from a shop in Carlisle when the cashier asked me a friendly question.

I blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Again he said, "Soyooronalladaythen?"

I still didn't get it. Embarrassed, I asked him to repeat a third time.

"Soyooronalladaythen?"

At last it dawned. "Oh yes, I am on holiday."

Okay, so language and pronunciation had changed somewhat over those two centuries. But other cultural elements had stayed the same. Breakfast, for example. Every morning at my bed-and-breakfast, I asked for the works. Eggs and sausage, baked beans and tomatoes, toast, marmalade and orange juice. And I loved the fish and chips and the sausage pasties offered at shops in the towns I explored.

But after two weeks I found myself hankering for a good old American salad. At one fish-and-chip shop, I was delighted when I saw "salad" on the marquee and couldn't wait to get my order. I took the clamshell to a little park nearby, settled down, and opened the lid.

Salad, huh? Sauerkraut and pickled beets. Not what I was expecting. I longed for the cool, fresh, juicy crispness of mixed greens, celery, cucumbers, and a tasty garnish of cheese, sunflower seeds or croutons.

The next day I scoured my map of town for grocery stores in walking distance. This was before the days of GPS and smart phones. One store had a wide selection of tins, bottles, and packaged foods, and a freezer section. No fresh food. I bought a pop-top tin of canned peas. Mushy.

The second store had a smaller variety of goods, but then I discovered the produce section tucked away in one corner. Potatoes-- and carrots.

I have never been so happy to see a vegetable! I bought three large carrots and took them back to my bed-and-breakfast. I scrubbed one well and happily chomped till nothing remained but the stem end, saving the other two for the next couple of days.

From my little adventures abroad, I learned that England is no longer my motherland but rather, perhaps, my grandmotherland. Distant kin. Amazing what two hundred years will do.