Lunch Monday was the first in a series of strange Scandinavian suppers with Kristin’s sister and brother-in-law (Yens) who were visiting from 
It’s not so simple in this house. As I shoveled soup into my mouth, I was unsure what language should come out of my mouth next. Kristin’s sister yakked away in French with Kristin responding in Spanish and every so often, they’d mutter a few Norwegian or Swedish words to Yens, who was sitting there completely silent. And even though no one admitted it, I had a feeling they could all speak perfect English too. It was my first full day in the house and I was so confused I couldn’t wait to be excused.
Our next meal together was much better. They were so enthusiastic about teaching me things that I hardly had to say a word. By the end of dinner I was an expert on the variety of Scandinavian berries, the evolution of the (something like 11) dialects of the Norwegian language, the challenges of learning Finnish, and rail road tracks.
Despite the awkward beginning, I was sad to see them go on Wednesday. In the end it turned out they did speak English. 
I’m not sure if they were experts in any of they languages I heard them speak or on any of the subjects they taught me about but they knew enough of everything to make an impression on me. Now, I know how to make a toast in Norwegian; I know that if I ever go to northern Sweden I must try a cloudberry; I know to be careful with the Norwegian words for “him” and “her” because they’re interchangeable from one valley to another; and I know I shouldn’t let people intimidate me (even if they speak enough languages that they might as well rebuilt the Tower of Babel too!)
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