The Man in the Bookshop

by Maya Kanga (United States of America)

Making a local connection Norway

I can sense the exact moment the bookshop owner begins to catch on. The conversation is moving too fast and my words are beginning to trip over themselves. The fact that my Norwegian isn’t fluent is becoming apparent. It has become a game, seeing how long I can speak in my newly adopted language before my counterpart politely switches us to English. I am four days in to the five I will be spending in Oslo, and Norway’s capitol has welcomed me with open arms. The man can’t be older than 30, his button-up shirt and too-long hair neat but casual, and while he’d smiled as I entered, he’d left me to browse the U of bookshelves hugging three of the shop’s walls. I only meant to look— the small suitcase back at my hostel is already bursting at the seams— but I am in Henrik Ibsen’s homeland and books are my favorite souvenirs. “Har dere 'Et Dukkehjem'?” I ask the proprietor in careful, rehearsed Bokmål— the standardized Oslo dialect. The young man’s easy face lights up as he bounds around the counter, leading me to a row of Ibsen volumes. But “A Doll’s House,” historically one of the world’s most performed stage plays, is absent. The man is apologetic and passes me another option, which I flip through dutifully before returning it to its shelf. It is his following remark that causes me freeze, because I don’t catch it. I have reached the outer edges of my Norwegian comprehension, and repeating the question does nothing to ease my confusion. A knowing look forms in his eyes, and as he opens his mouth again to speak, I hurriedly find my words. Any words to keep the language flowing. “Jeg lærer Norsk,” I say quickly. “Jeg vil øve på å lese.” I am learning Norwegian, I want to practice reading. A look of delighted surprise crosses the man’s features. I am no longer just a casual customer. “Are you in Norway for school?” He asks in Bokmål. “No, just to travel.” “Why Norwegian?” He is not the first person to ask this question. “Because it’s interesting,” I say simply. I do not tell him that I fell in love with Norway through a computer screen. I do not say that a year ago, when I felt so lost in life and needed an escape, a Norwegian web series gave me a temporary refuge from the world and changed my life. How can I explain, in either language, that though I am not Scandinavian, this country and culture have become a part of me? I am here to see it for myself. He asks me why “A Doll’s House,” and I shakily explain that I’ve read it in English and want to try again in its original form. He beckons me to another shelf, running a finger across paper spines until he finds what he is searching for: a thin, paperback volume which he offers to me. It’s a small book, with short chapters, written by one of his favorite Norwegian authors. We laugh at the coincidence of my traveling to Bergen the next day, Norway’s second largest city and the setting of the story in my hands. It could have been so easy for all of this to take place in English, as most Norwegians are fluent. But he doesn’t switch. He speaks clearly and waits for me to find the right words. He is patient and he lets me fail, and for that I am grateful. Of course I buy the book. It is not only a promise of future knowledge, but a reminder of this encounter. In this bookshop, a space both familiar for its setting and uncharted by its location, I am given a glimpse at the pulse of this city. A connection is a connection, whether it lasts a moment or a lifetime. Though I may never see this man again, I am indebted to him for these moments of attentive encouragement. This is how I will remember Oslo, and while travelers may come and go, I hope that somewhere, deep down, it will also remember me.