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Two girls in a tree

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Two old friends climb a tree in an Oslo wood. They’re only 8 years old but these girls are fierce; in their minds anything is possible.

They haven’t seen each since two years ago, when we moved away from Norway to Italy. My girl has moulded herself into a new life and a new language. She has mostly forgotten how to speak Norwegian but she remembers her life here and her best friend from the nature kindergarten that got them out in the woods (and up trees) several times a week, all year round.

They have often talked about each other during the two years, which is a long time at this age: “Mummy when are we going back to Oslo and when can I see her and overnight and watch films on their big screen in the basement?”

And on this visit, (only our second since we left), they’ll see each other. The two mums have made a plan to spend a few hours out in the woods around Oslo, a huge element of Norwegian life that our whole family has missed.

It’s October and the sky is clear but also crisp, so we remember to bring hats and scarves but we don’t need boots. There are big grins and hugs as they see each other in person – a little taller, two years of school behind them but otherwise they’re no different.

We drive a short distance. The car doors open and like a pair of retrievers they jump out and bound off into the woods, just as they were trained to do. Within two minutes, when the rest of us get out, we’ve lost them.

We find them again, yapping away in some language between Norwegian and English. They’ve found part of a swinging rope dangling off a tree at the lake edge. My Norwegian-mother-mode kicks in, overriding my Irish-mother-mode (and well past the nervous Italian-mode that never really took hold) and I stop myself from telling them to “be careful!… forskitig!” They’ve done this more than I have, they’ll know what to do.

Moving countries and travelling with children, I’ve seen many times how children can settle quickly into a mode of play even when they can’t speak to each other.

This Norwegian friend has been learning some English – from travelling with her parents and from school – and it’s fun for her to have a friend she can speak it with.

And my girl? Who lived here from birth until six, who spoke Norwegian every day and yet is today puzzled when I use regular family words like barnehage (kindergarten) or even pølse (hotdog)?

I know her Norwegian is lodged deep inside that powerful little brain – the powers of communication, the memories and associations and feelings that come with speaking certain words, phrasing things in a particular way. When she does say something she remembers – like the phrasebook-like question she pulled out of thin air to impress the passport officer at the airport yesterday, hvem spiser brød? (who eats bread?) – even then, she says it with that perfect pronunciation I never managed after seven years living in this country.

Here up in the tree, she responds to her friend with any scraps of Norwegian that come out – some fundamental phrases like se her (look here) or nei, ikke sånn (no, not like that). But she’s also using English words, and she’s actually doing something I’ve never seen before, something remarkable. She’s speaking English to her really slowly and carefully, like an older person might use with a little child who they think understands no English. “Can… we… go… over… there…and… try… that?” and “This…bit…here…look”.

Where did she get this from? I don’t think she’s ever seen me speak like that to someone on our travels. Did her teachers in Italy speak to her like that after we had just moved there, in a way to help her clearly hear the words? I think not, as they were fast talkers.

By slowing down her English speech, it’s as if a part of her subconscious has kicked in to rationalise and slow down her words, to watch carefully her friend’s face and make sure her point gets across, when the Norwegian words have failed her.

The swing no longer provides amusement – they can’t agree on who does what – and we move on to a treehouse a local kindergarten has made in another part of the forest. Within another hour it’s starting to get darker and colder and we have to say goodbye. But just that small amount of time, and inventive communication, has been sufficient to add a little more glue to this long-distance friendship. That’s good enough for now.

 

 

 

 

Learning on the Land

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I published a story about my daughter’s Montessori school in the woods in this month’s edition of the Florentine, the English-language newspaper of Florence. It’s always nice to hold in your hands a printed copy and the story is now also online.

You can read the story on the Florentine here. The school is called Elementari nel Bosco and you can also visit the Facebook page of the school which has lots more photos and information (in Italian).

Here are some extra photos to give a fuller sense of the school.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 




 

Wisteria Hysteria

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Purple against green in the Tuscan countryside. I wasn’t prepared for this! I am in no way a flower or garden person, and unlikely to ever become one. But living in this paradise I’ve been constantly amazed.

Since Christmas we’ve been surprised by roses, nameless white flowers, daffodils. And of course an amazing spectrum of fruit blossoms – cherry, pear, apple, and (who knew) walnut, almond and others we still haven’t figured out. Then at the end of last week, right on the 1st of April, my visiting mother-in-law and I noticed this purple everywhere. Ah, Wisteria, she sighed.

It’s draped most beautifully over ancient high stone walls, along the sides of car repair shops or over the shaded areas of a supermarket car park. I’ve taken a few photos, but none can get close to conveying its gorgeousness. Wisteria is now my new favourite thing.

As I’ve grown older, spring has taken on a significant role every year – I notice it more every year and how it differs in each place I have lived. Growing up in suburban Dublin I vaguely noticed daffodils and crocuses, which always seemed to “come very early this year”. Moving to New York I thought I knew all about cherry blossoms, based on the 10 or so along my parents’ road. But then I discovered the pleasures of a real cherry blossom festival at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, which happened to be around the corner from our rent-controlled apartment and where we spent many Saturday mornings (free admission and a safe courting spot for the many young Orthodox Jewish couples). I also discovered the glories of the magnolia tree in that lovely space. Living through my one spring in Vancouver was a fuller experience, I marked the smell of lushness everywhere, as nature wanted to reclaim this modern built-up space. And then I lived almost 15 years in cold cities – Toronto, eastern Canada and Oslo – where spring still takes on immense meaning, echoed the last few years through desperate images posted on social media by friends in these places.

Blossoms in springtime – so vivid, so energising, and so short-lived. I was curious to learn so much and I’ve learned that Wisteria – actually a 19th century import to Europe from China and Japan – blooms spectacularly only for a few days but it can really take over, strangle other plants, and it’s poisonous all year round! Something to pay attention to in this country where things can appear lovely on the outside but may need further attention on the inside.

I’ve  learned that it’s called Glicine in Italian – pronounced in Tuscany with a lovely soft middle “c” like a “shhh”. A smooth, comforting word which actually belies the complexity of this plant. We recently took a trip away and stayed in a tiny movie-set of a town deep in the Maremma in southern Tuscany. We had to meet someone to give us the key to our Airbnb apartment-in-a-castle and she gave us directions to park by the bar and walk up. Which bar? I asked. Why, there’s only one bar! Bar il Glicine. We found it, one of those non-pretty, functional, very local, useful and friendly spots you want to find in an Italian town. Other spots in the town feebly indicated their status as a bar, but apparently this one won out – like its namesake it has the strongest hold on the locals’ imagination and isn’t going away.

How lucky I am to now be experiencing the refresh of nature in an old and stunning small town outside Florence. Living here 20 years ago as a student, it seems (upon recollection) that I paid attention to very little beyond museums and bars and the limited number of streets I reached on my old black 3-speed bicycle. I definitely did not notice the arrival of spring. This year we are living with a garden for the first time ever, a particularly lovely one which we have already harvested for its olives and where we can finally plant some seeds with the kids. So I guess I’m making up for it now.

(Originally posted April 2016)