Sopp

We went mushrooming this morning. Petter Andreas took Ben and me out to the woods in some direction, neither of us paying much attention, and for several hours we hunted brown chanterelles, foresopp ("sheep" mushrooms), porcini, regular yellow chanterelles (a small bright crop that Ben scooped up), and some others whose names I've lost. I lose names for things all day long, here. Funny what sticks: ikke (not, isn't), skilpadde (turtle; literally, shell toad), hytte (cabin). The mushrooming was wet and archaic in the best way. I'll admit my whole life I've been a little fearful of amateur mushrooming, because I am a paranoid, but today it just felt like the most natural thing in the world--why would you not eat mushrooms from the woods? Same as poaching fruit from your neighbor. Long as you know what you're doing. Amanitas=bad.

It started to rain late in the morning, and we came home with several kilos in our baskets and very wet feet. Petter had a very small haul, because he'd spent the entire morning saying "Susie! Over here," pointing mushrooms out to me, and walking on. "Ben!" he'd say a minute later. "Over here!"

Petter's generosity is wonderful and far-reaching. I've never moved somewhere before and had someone spend so much energy making sure I'm okay--more than okay; that I know how to tell a porcini from an angel of death. It's lovely and very kind, and I think sometimes I feel overwhelmed because I don't know how to repay such kindness. Not that Petter and his family seem too worried about us repaying their kindness. They have said on several occasions that we are their family here for the year, with all that goes with that. Which means, I guess--well, lots of things. Your family is your life blood and your burden. This one has been providing a lot of sustenance, both physical and emotional. I feel very grateful.

Introspective today.

I was a little low earlier. Last night the guy upstairs threw a rager party. I mean, a serious rager, a dance party so loud that I could make out lyrics to the songs he was playing and the bass line even through earplugs and a pillow over my head. It was so loud that a bit after midnight Ben went upstairs to ask him to turn it down. "It's Saturday," the guy said. "I know, but it's after midnight, and really loud," Ben said. "Well maybe I'll turn down the bass a little," the guy told him, and shut the door. I'm not sure he ever did. The racket went on until 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning, dance party rave, drunk Norwegians yelling, me going in and out of sleep, and of course we both woke up feeling unrested and angry and confused on a gray Sunday. The whole thing made me feel old, too, but that's another story.

Oh: I was immediately guilty after I wrote, last time, that the Norwegians have terrible vegetables. Isn't that funny? Thor and I were talking about nationalism the other day, and I said I wasn't very nationalistic. He said he tends to be. I am the first to say something critical of the U.S. But I felt remiss for not mentioning the great potatoes we'd eaten from Thor's and Petter's gardens, and the greenhouses where people grow basil and cucumbers and tomatoes, and the mushrooms in Norway...which makes me wonder if I feel comfortable being critical of the places I know best, but not the ones I know least. I'm sure this will change. And Norway's vegetable situation can be less than ideal.

Oh boy. There I go again.

We just got back from a Fulbright potluck. I had fun. I was interested to learn what other people are doing here. Not so much what they're studying, but what they're doing for fun--playing rugby, joining choruses, going to bars, hanging out at movie premieres. I might join the chorus, too. Ruminate on it for a day or so.

Gotta run. Besos y abrazos. Can't wait to get some pictures up here.

S.