[{"content":"I think, it is good that we rented for the first three days an apartment in the outskirts of Las Vegas. There it was calm, empty of people, and there was a possibility to get a little used, to acclimatise. We were to move in three days to the centre of the city, to the hotel Venetia.\nI write frankly, I do not feel joy living in a hotel. Autonomous living in an apartment room suits me better. But my Norwegian husband holds to his rules when travelling, and that is — booking a hotel room, obligatory breakfast only in the hotel, lunch in a restaurant. Of course, he always, before ordering a hotel or any tickets, «consults» with me, but does not stress prices and does not talk about money or coming expenses. He proposes — I choose.\nThe main thing for me on all trips is the pool. And only swimming and no more. I do not recognise any other gadgets — services. For me the most important is my inner comfort, which I create for myself. But how to cope with the rebuilding to local time?! And with the air conditioners, and with the curtained windows in the room?! The time difference with Oslo is 9 hours, i.e. when in Oslo it is 9 in the morning, in Las Vegas it is midnight.\nI started wanting to sleep at 5 in the evening and so as not to torment myself I went to bed at 6 in the evening with the air conditioner on (I myself «switched off» at once) and slept soundly until 3 at night. At 3 at night I boiled water, drank coffee, switched off the air conditioner, sat on the sofa and knitted a cardigan and watched on the iPad what is happening in the world. So I sat until 8 o’clock, then went to the pool.\nThe husband in that time had scouted the nearest little shop at the petrol station. There he could buy drinking water, coffee in a pack, ground (I like to brew) and yoghurt, butter and bread. On Google he found the nearest supermarket 800 m from our dwelling. And in the daytime we went there to buy products for lunch. I decided to cook myself.\nThe supermarket turned out to be wholesale, huge, the main products from China, and also Ukrainian sweets, Polish pickled cucumbers. For myself I found packaged beef cut into pieces, onion, potatoes, oranges, biscuits. I cooked for lunch. The potatoes turned out very tasteless.\nWe decided to go to a supermarket in the city by UBER taxi — the most popular kind of transport in Las Vegas and inexpensive. There is in the English language such a word great, which means grandiose, great, big. In America everything is great. And the Supermarket too. We planned to buy a couple of bottles of wine, cheese and meat, to cook, and I also took a pack of spaghetti (I decided not to test potatoes any more). In this great variety I had to look for ordinary table salt and black pepper. It turned out a great quest even! but one dark-skinned customer recommended taking a ready seasoning instead of salt. I had to believe him — I took it (only two days remained to hold on with my own food).\nInteresting moments I experienced at the till: the cashier — a young guy, started talking with Ivan (like, where are you from, ah, from Norway, and how did you get here and so on). And I at that time stand at the exit from the till and am ready to receive into my bag the goods which he has already registered. I look, and he puts each item into a thin grey cellophane bag, and all the bags hang on a spinning «carousel». I.e. I was ready to put the goods into my tote, and he puts each purchase into an opaque bag and a heap of identical bags formed on the «carousel». The first thing I thought was why use so much plastic if the goods are already packaged? We in Norway are used to «fighting» plastic and trying to use it minimally, so as not to pollute the environment. Well all right, I put this heap into my bag.\nI wanted to get out of this great supermarket as soon as possible. We went out NOT into fresh air — there is nothing to breathe, in a word — desert climate. The husband proposes that I go back in, where the air conditioners are on, and wait 10 min for the UBER taxi. Aha. And there it is cold. And here it is hot. (note, this I only write, and there I did not caprice, but staunchly bore all the hardships of Las Vegas life. They too have their c’est la vie there. 😀 (they walk on foot, but rarely) The car is the means of getting about.\nI waited for the taxi\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20260308-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI think, it is good that we rented for the first three days an apartment in the outskirts of Las Vegas. There it was calm, empty of people, and there was a possibility to get a little used, to acclimatise. We were to move in three days to the centre of the city, to the hotel Venetia.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI write frankly, I do not feel joy living in a hotel. Autonomous living in an apartment room suits me better. But my Norwegian husband holds to his rules when travelling, and that is — booking a hotel room, obligatory breakfast only in the hotel, lunch in a restaurant. Of course, he always, before ordering a hotel or any tickets, «consults» with me, but does not stress prices and does not talk about money or coming expenses. He proposes — I choose.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"« America, America …» Part 5"},{"content":"We got out of town by taxi quickly, in about 20 minutes. They drove us right to the gates, which were closed. They opened for us automatically, after we said that the places were booked. The girl at reception kindly explained on which side our room-apartment was, but did not accompany us. We went out into the darkness, but found it quickly. Identical two-storey buildings, in each building 4 apartments.\nThe conditions are good, powerful air conditioners work, in the kitchen all the necessary utensils. In the morning we woke hungry; the husband has the habit of a solid breakfast — a normal habit; I …. I can both drink coffee and eat a dry biscuit, if there is nothing. The husband switched on Google and started looking for the nearest restaurant or café with European food.\nI will list what enters our notion of European food: scrambled eggs with bacon, bread, butter, jam, hard cheese, a portion of yoghurt, honey, black tea (he does not drink coffee) and this is his food for breakfast. Nothing special, it seems, but this has to be obtained somewhere. When we travel around Western Europe, everywhere in hotels they lay breakfasts, but in this American one — no.\nAt last the husband found the nearest eating place — an Irish bar 600 m from our resort. We left the house at 8.30. It was baking — 30 degrees. We walked through the green zone of our resort and came out onto a «naked», six-lane highway, on which hangs a speed-limit sign of 90 miles/hour. We need to cross to the opposite side, but the pedestrian crossing with a button is 100 m away.\nI can describe my mood in a few decent words — «I was ready to lie down and die». There was no strength even to walk 100 m. And suddenly the traffic on the road became not intensive. It turns out their traffic lights «on demand» are placed at certain distances and, when green light for pedestrians switches on there, on the remaining stretches of the highway the traffic «slows» and you can calmly cross where you happen to be at the given moment. Well, thank God! We crossed to the other side.\nAnd there the pavement is poorly equipped — sand mixed with little stones. I have trainers on and I overcame this obstacle; we walked 600 m, along the way some technical objects were placed. Our Irish pub is not to be seen. I say to my husband: this is if you fly by helicopter, then 600 m, and since we are walking, going around technical obstacles, let’s look at the map on the phone.»\nAt last we arrived — a grey concrete building, some windows boarded with plywood, in the parking lot — one car — an old pickup. We find the door — the entrance, we go in: two visitors sit — two old cowboys in hats, they smoke. I quietly say to my husband «probably we will breakfast outside, there I saw tables standing …»\nWe approach the counter; behind the counter a white woman barwoman (a barmaid 😃). Ivan asks whether they cook Irish breakfast here. The answer: «Yes.», and the barmaid asks: «And will your girlfriend also breakfast?» … Vanya, I think, did not quite understand what a girlfriend is, although he speaks English perfectly 😃, and I quietly so in Norwegian say to him «Van, Van, girlfriend — that is me, your wife.» And to the barmaid I nodded «yes, yes, I too will have Irish breakfast».\nAnd I decided to look for a little place without a smoke screen. And yes! I found it! Next to it was a hall with air conditioning. Visitors — none, and even a not-badly furnished room with a sofa. And\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20260308/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWe got out of town by taxi quickly, in about 20 minutes. They drove us right to the gates, which were closed. They opened for us automatically, after we said that the places were booked. The girl at reception kindly explained on which side our room-apartment was, but did not accompany us. We went out into the darkness, but found it quickly. Identical two-storey buildings, in each building 4 apartments.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«America, America …» Part 4"},{"content":"After the Irish breakfast (I ate only the scrambled eggs, a little piece of bread and butter, and the sausages fried to blackness and a piece of black pudding I gave to my husband). We returned to our hotel-apartment and I decided to go to the pool.\nIf I get into a pool, I swim and try to swim at least some distance possible for my strength, i.e. I do not sit in the pool — I swam — I got out. Well then I swam and got out, I stand over the pool and think: «Well you, Ira, of course, are quite a piece of work»! An adventuress! Such pools in Europe are like puddles after a downpour! You had to fly by 3 planes, and back still 4 await the return, in order to swim in a pool.\nI do not even know what to call this out-of-town refuge. They have the name «resort» — a fenced territory with a large parking lot. Americans come only in their own cars for rest. We rented for four days a room with a separate entrance. But what strained me was that on the territory there was no eating place; you had to think yourselves about daily bread and about drinking water too. I boiled water for myself, and the Norwegian husband does not drink boiled water; he had to go for water to the nearest shop — a petrol station.\nWith transport there were no problems. We used Uber taxi. We had tickets to a David Copperfield show, and also a visit to the Grandiose modern computer building called the SPHERE.\nNow I have reread what I wrote and I think: «well and primitively you write! Ira! You once dreamed of getting to America! You studied English. Why did you study it? To talk. With whom? With people. With what people? People, au!\nPeople are not to be seen. Such buildings, everything seems civilised — identical 4-apartment houses, standing in two rows, next to them a parking lot for cars. Everything convenient, thought through. From early morning the scorching sun burns (this is a desert after all! 🌵) In the apartment there is everything (except food; food must be obtained). On the refrigerator door hangs information that food can be ordered and they will bring ready dishes, I think something Eastern, and I am a primitive woman, I recognise only my own cooked food. So, boil water for yourself and drink! There are a couple of packets of coffee, tea in the kitchen.\nAt some moment the husband tried to use this advertisement from the refrigerator and order food — it did not work. They did not answer. Then I guessed. To this «resort» Americans come to rest in their cars for weekend days, with their own products and a stock of drinks for several days. And here you have the system of American family rest. They arrived, parked, unloaded with products and things, went into the apartment with curtained windows and an air conditioner working without interruption and … that’s it. That is how they rest — they exhale. They «do not walk». If you need to go — they went out, sat in the car, drove. 🙄 Sometimes they sit in the pool, they do not swim. Children splash. I swam alone… (nothing to be done, a habit.)\nThe first morning in the outskirts of Las Vegas\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20250803/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAfter the Irish breakfast (I ate only the scrambled eggs, a little piece of bread and butter, and the sausages fried to blackness and a piece of black pudding I gave to my husband). We returned to our hotel-apartment and I decided to go to the pool.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIf I get into a pool, I swim and try to swim at least some distance possible for my strength, i.e. I do not sit in the pool — I swam — I got out. Well then I swam and got out, I stand over the pool and think: «Well you, Ira, of course, are quite a piece of work»! An adventuress! Such pools in Europe are like puddles after a downpour! You had to fly by 3 planes, and back still 4 await the return, in order to swim in a pool.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«America, America …» Part 3"},{"content":"Morning, 20 May, 2025. We gathered, went to the local airport in the city of Kristiansand, for the morning local flight at 8.30. The flight to Oslo — 1 hour. I like our local airport. Calm, without fuss, and on the airfield you can see only a couple of planes.\nI was surprised by one airport employee — a grandma, years toward 80, she came up to us, asked if help was needed with checking in baggage through the machine (we at that time were standing in the queue). And so quickly she helped us check in. I, of course, was very impressed by her age! I think I am the only such «observant» one. Well that is how in Norway they do not use the word «old». Instead of old there is the word «of age».\nTo Oslo we flew about 50 minutes, normally. From Oslo to New York 7.5 hours in economy class. Hard. Anxious. for me. I am not used to planes. Although I am a coffee lover, in flight the coffee is not tasty, I drank only water. When they served food, I ate only the hot dish, and the salad of lettuce leaves I decided not to eat and offered the muffin to my husband. One could not be bored in flight, but watch the screen. Follow the flight trajectory and the time; also shown on the screen were altitude, temperature outside and the location of the plane. You could choose a film to watch; they handed out disposable headphones to everyone. Since we flew in the daytime, I did not want to sleep.\nMy seat was by the window, the husband sat in the middle (with his height and long legs sitting in the middle is inconvenient, but he is very patient and even-tempered, in a word a Viking — Nordic character), and at the edge sat a little old, greeting-smiling grandma American. She was flying with her grandpa husband; his seat was «across the aisle», also at the edge.\nI recall my flights when I flew alone independently and it so happened that next to me turned out people who communicated with me during the flight and time flew faster and merrier. Now everything is otherwise. Each is on their own — they bury themselves in screens and that is all. No communication — only disconnection. The flight to New York lasted 7.5 hours. Of course tiring. By local time we landed at 13.30.\nThe first impression … how to put it more decently — «bazaar–station» — long queues for passport control and women–traffic controllers in black work overalls–coveralls, strict. They directed us to a free window for control; ahead stood 3 people, but for some reason they closed the window and the policeman left, possibly for a lunch break; we had to wait, and this traffic controller did not propose that we stand at another working window (possibly they had an instruction on how to distribute people). At last a policeman came; Ivan asked if the two of us could approach the window. Yes, they allowed. The policeman asked Ivan questions; I pretended that English is «a little», he took fingerprints from me and Ivan and let us go.\nIvan at once calmed me that next time, when we fly here, they will no longer take fingerprints, we are already in their system. To which I asked: «are you planning to fly here in the future too?» — «Yes! It would be good to fly to Los Angeles!» But for now we hold course for Las Vegas.\nWe got to the gates for local flights. Now I cannot even remember how many hours we sat waiting (I think 3 hours) for the next local flight to Las Vegas. When I went into the plane, I understood that possibly we alone had checked in our suitcase. Everyone came in with hand luggage, which was not at all like hand luggage in our European standard. Passengers had not-small bags and suitcases. Passengers of European appearance were few; the main mass were Eastern and Mexican and dark-skinned.\nI took a seat and the husband also sat across the aisle at the edge. Next to me two seats remained free. And above my head free shelves for bags remained. A guy with a mama and two suitcases comes, stops next to me and starts placing his suitcases on these free shelves and they go further to their seats. Then a Chinese family comes with a girl about 5. Each has bags; the Chinese woman stands next to me in the aisle and looks for where to stick her bag. I ask in English: «are these your seats next to me?» She nodded that only one in the middle. I smile at the girl, her daughter, and show the seat next to me, to sit her down. Oh God! The child got frightened of me, started crying, shouting. Next to them stands her papa with a bag and also in the aisle. Behind them stands a huge dark-skinned man also with a bag and waits until this family settles and frees the aisle. And the family is in a stupor. This big dark-skinned man loses patience and starts stepping over the Chinese (and somehow he manages not to touch them). In the end they agree with an American woman and she moves to the seat next to me, and the Chinese family sits down safely.\nThe American woman asks if I speak English. Yes, I say. Well then we will watch together and she names some American film–series. I said no, I do not watch series; she sat by the window and 4.5 hours of flight to Las Vegas she sat eating — crunching chips, or maybe something else (I do not know these modern crunchies, I do not eat such, I spare my liver — little liver). The stewardess also handed out some unknown-to-me «crunchies» and all the passengers in chorus crunched, crunched all 4.5 hours.\nSince in a short time we changed 2 time zones, I was in some strange state, as if I were in space. We arrived in Las Vegas at one in the morning. We started getting out of the plane and in the aisle already stood a brigade of women cleaners (all of Eastern appearance, possibly Filipinas). They left a lot of rubbish, if they ate from packets the whole way, and also bottles.\nWe went out, started looking for the «carousel» with our suitcase. The carousel number was marked, but we cannot find the carousel with that number. We cannot connect the internet (I do not know why). Music thunders and everywhere slot machines. Well of course — Las Vegas! Then a staff member who came our way said that we needed to go down the escalator and ride the Shuttle (that is a train that runs there and back one stop). We rode, found the «carousel», which was motionless and without our suitcase. Ivan went to find out, and I sat on a bench and started looking not only at our carousel, but at the nearby ones. I look, our suitcase on another «carousel» all alone is turning; I ran up, took it off. And I cannot send Ivan an SMS from my cool smartphone. I sat again on the bench already with the suitcase, I think I will wait until he comes back. He came back.\nFurther we had to find a taxi and ride to the booked hotel 5 km beyond the city line (I myself am to blame, I did not want to book in the centre; true, the last three days of the stay were booked in the centre).\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20250715/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMorning, 20 May, 2025. We gathered, went to the local airport in the city of Kristiansand, for the morning local flight at 8.30. The flight to Oslo — 1 hour. I like our local airport. Calm, without fuss, and on the airfield you can see only a couple of planes.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI was surprised by one airport employee — a grandma, years toward 80, she came up to us, asked if help was needed with checking in baggage through the machine (we at that time were standing in the queue). And so quickly she helped us check in. I, of course, was very impressed by her age! I think I am the only such «observant» one. Well that is how in Norway they do not use the word «old». Instead of old there is the word «of age».\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«America, America …» Part 2"},{"content":"„It was in the evening ….” An ordinary family idyll — each looking into their iPad — wow…. and suddenly the husband spoke, naturally in Norwegian: «And shouldn’t we go, my soul, to Las Vegas?» (you understand yourselves, I make a free translation into my native language, adding tender words of which the Norwegian husband has no notion, because there are no such words in the Norwegian language).\n«A bit far,» I said, and in the brains «it started knocking Las Vegas = Casino». The husband continued voicing his thought: «Here I found inexpensive tickets, and it isn’t a long flight, shall I order?» I agree. (I have already written that in my soul I am a homebody.) You have to talk yourself into it approximately like this: «Little Red Riding Hood, agree, how old are you? And what have you got there, ahead?» And my husband knooows my homebody thoughts and pronounces: «Well, and when else, if not now, while there is strength?»\nIn short, indeed, exactly that case when desires and possibilities coincide! The man said it — the man did it! 👍 And for me, nowadays a resident of Scandinavia, great possibilities opened, to fly to America! (not like before …, well that is THEN, you know, when)\nI started thinking where to begin my packing for America. I opened Wikipedia, read the main characteristics and the history of the creation of Las Vegas, and also the climate. Well then, there was a desert without water, they created a city with skyscrapers and casinos. The number of local inhabitants is more than 600 thousand. The husband asked where to order a hotel, in the centre or 5 km from the city. Of course 5 km from the city and necessarily with a pool! And for the remaining 3 days he ordered in the centre, in the hotel Venetia.\nThe plane tickets the husband ordered in winter for 20 May, only three planes to fly! And at once for the return he ordered — bought out for 29 May. The visa we arranged through the internet without problems — filled in the form, paid, received. Foreigners plan all affairs and trips in advance, then live in anticipation of the realisation of their plans. Well and I am not a foreigner, I live not by a plan, I simply live and quietly worry about the future planned not by me.\nTwo weeks before departure a cancellation of the return flight lit up on the phone. Then they sent new tickets for the return flight, but already to fly not by three planes, but by four. I complained to my music teacher that I would have to fly from America by four planes, and she said to me: Well that is from America, and we with my daughter flew by four planes around Norway!» Thank you, they calmed me.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20250714/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e„It was in the evening ….” An ordinary family idyll — each looking into their iPad — wow…. and suddenly the husband spoke, naturally in Norwegian: «And shouldn’t we go, my soul, to Las Vegas?» (you understand yourselves, I make a free translation into my native language, adding tender words of which the Norwegian husband has no notion, because there are no such words in the Norwegian language).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e«A bit far,» I said, and in the brains «it started knocking Las Vegas = Casino». The husband continued voicing his thought: «Here I found inexpensive tickets, and it isn’t a long flight, shall I order?» I agree. (I have already written that in my soul I am a homebody.) You have to talk yourself into it approximately like this: «Little Red Riding Hood, agree, how old are you? And what have you got there, ahead?» And my husband knooows my homebody thoughts and pronounces: «Well, and when else, if not now, while there is strength?»\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«America, America …» Part 1"},{"content":"Oh no, pardon, the other way around, Vanya took me to the Canaries. Neither in dreams nor in thoughts did I have such a thing, to fly in there. 🙄 Honestly, I am not a tourist, not a traveller and not a cosmonaut. I confess, I feel fear and I myself fight it and calm myself.\nBut there are also positive moments in this week-long trip — this is the sensation of «privileges» which I had not had before. I list them: the first privilege is amazingly–delightfully to fall from winter into summer! But gathering, which things to put in the suitcase — that is quite a puzzle! Ivan prepaid the baggage and I had to fit into 20 kg.\nYou know, frightened by the masks in Italy on the cruise liner (I have already described that trip), I took with me disposable masks, an elastic bandage, activated charcoal, tablets for allergy, for the head, dried pomegranate peels (you can brew them with boiling water for diarrhoea), scissors.\nSo… 🧐 shoes: I travel in boots, trainers, little pump shoes, flip-flops and knitted slippers I packed in the suitcase. To knit slippers for all members of the family and non-members of the family — that is my firm, unshakeable hobby 😄 And I did not miscalculate in taking them with me. In the south, indoors, the floors are laid with cold tile without heating. That is very unaccustomed for me. (In Norway there is enough wood, which they use in construction. In our modern apartment the floors are wooden with electric heating, which is not switched off even in summer. (In the apartment there is not a single radiator at all.))\nThe second privilege is the comfortable delivery of me to the local airport early in the morning in our expensive and beloved Tesla car. I had asked Ivan in advance how we would get to the airport, maybe a taxi? But to my surprise the cost of a taxi trip turned out equal to the cost of parking the Tesla for a week at the airport! Well, look at that taxi service in Norway. So I had worried in vain about warm clothes. In the waiting hall one did not have to freeze.\nAnd at last I saw Norwegians and started carefully looking them over, in what clothes they fly south. Mostly sporty, hand luggage — backpacks. At last they announced boarding and everyone headed to the plane on foot across the airfield. Here the warm clothes turned out very much to the point. We had seats in the «tail» of the plane, but without thinking and without paying attention to the open entrance at the tail, we used the steps set at the front of the plane. And having entered the plane I understood that we had made a big mistake — you have to walk the whole plane! But we were not alone in our muddle-headedness! A stream of Norwegians who had come up the second, tail, steps squeezed through to their front seats! Apologising and smiling at one another. Some Norwegians even had children with them. 🙄\nIn the end everyone sat down, the pilot announced the flight time — 5 hours. Here suddenly Vanya decided to calm me in case of an emergency. He recalled a recent incident in Japan, and how in one!!! minute and 49 seconds they evacuated the Japanese during a fire in the plane already on the airfield, to which I answered: «well, yes, those are Japanese after all, they are small and disciplined! And judging by how muddle-headedly the Norwegians boarded the plane (I managed to catch the irritated face of the stewardess pushing through to the tail), we would hardly get out in two minutes in an extreme situation.» But the deed is done — we fly!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20240222/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eOh no, pardon, the other way around, Vanya took me to the Canaries. Neither in dreams nor in thoughts did I have such a thing, to fly in there. 🙄 Honestly, I am not a tourist, not a traveller and not a cosmonaut. I confess, I feel fear and I myself fight it and calm myself.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut there are also positive moments in this week-long trip — this is the sensation of «privileges» which I had not had before. I list them: the first privilege is amazingly–delightfully to fall from winter into summer! But gathering, which things to put in the suitcase — that is quite a puzzle! Ivan prepaid the baggage and I had to fit into 20 kg.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«I took Vanya to the Canaries»"},{"content":"(My free retelling of a chapter from a book by the young Frenchwoman Lorelou Desjardins; the title of the book is en FROSK i FJORDEN (A Frog in the Fjord))\nSo there, I have lived 12 years here in Norway and did not guess how Norwegians have acquaintances, meetings, parties and further «deep» relations. In the Norwegian language seduction and corruption are one and the same meaning — forførelsens.\nThe heroine and author of the book, Lorelou, working in a firm in Oslo, writes that her whole life consisted of short communication with colleagues during the lunch break and with shop staff whom she went in to after work. Before arriving in Norway she worked in Denmark and there she was left with a Danish boyfriend who married a Dane and was already raising a fair-haired baby.\nGirlfriends started advising her to go «out among people» and create a profile on a dating site, and take this question firmly in hand 🧐 It turns out that in order to get acquainted with Norwegians you need to know the «Norwegian social code» (a literal translation from Norwegian), which is based on three principles.\nPrinciple number 1 is eye contact. This may be a man or a woman who look at you hypnotically for several seconds. But a Norwegian man does not take further action first, whereas a Norwegian woman starts to attract — both to smile and to wink, i.e. to show initiative toward further relations. From this also comes the next principle — rollebytte (exchange of roles).\nThe author writes that foreign women in their countries are used to a more persistent showing of interest in a woman, to a more «bright» flirt, courtship. Norwegians have a «hidden» flirt, i.e. it is hard for a woman to understand whether this person likes you or not. It turns out that Norwegians are a bit afraid of women. And only alcohol, taken in a drinking establishment, can somehow help an acquaintance and a coming closer — or a not-coming-closer, but with minimal risk of being rejected. 😄\nAnd so, principle number 3 — alcohol 🍷. Hmm. And here I fell to thinking. 🤔 Oh, this fooling around is expensIve with them here! And you can buy it only at a certain time in a certain place, which is called «Vinmonopolet». It turns out that in a bar there is a chance of getting acquainted. But native Norwegian women «do not doze»; while «ours» and other foreign women think, batting their eyelashes, Scandinavian women are active, invite to dance and flirt openly.\nThose are the observations of the young Frenchwoman Lorelou Desjardins. She also mentions the Norwegian dating site sukker.no, where the language of communication is only Norwegian. Unfortunately this little book is not in Russian translation. I had the thought of starting to translate this book and in that way continue studying Norwegian. There is also the site afroginthefjord.com. On that site you can buy the book in English, Norwegian and French.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20231212/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e(My free retelling of a chapter from a book by the young Frenchwoman Lorelou Desjardins; the title of the book is en FROSK i FJORDEN (A Frog in the Fjord))\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSo there, I have lived 12 years here in Norway and did not guess how Norwegians have acquaintances, meetings, parties and further «deep» relations. In the Norwegian language seduction and corruption are one and the same meaning — forførelsens.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe heroine and author of the book, Lorelou, working in a firm in Oslo, writes that her whole life consisted of short communication with colleagues during the lunch break and with shop staff whom she went in to after work. Before arriving in Norway she worked in Denmark and there she was left with a Danish boyfriend who married a Dane and was already raising a fair-haired baby.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«The art of seduction the Norwegian way»"},{"content":"«LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER» part 2\n«The aunt is no fool!»\nYeees! That sounded so in our way, in Soviet-style, in a comment from one of my «nieces» ….\nSo then, however hard it was for me with two teenagers in their house, I always remembered that I am after all an «aunt» from Kiev and that they did not come to me, but I to THEM, and with a prospect! The aunt had to rebuild herself.\nI seemed even experienced, even had pedagogical seniority, but when I moved in I understood that they were unlikely to go into contact with me. They were «on their own wave» and went on living as they had before my appearance. The elder, Kristina, was already studying at gymnasium, spoke English not badly. Her room was on the first floor with an exit into the living room.\nHere I must make a small clarification about the personal space of each person living in the house. Each personal room abroad is officially customarily called a bedroom. Bedrooms, as a rule, are not heated. And if it is very cold, they switch on electric heaters. But in the living room there was a floor with electric heating, and it turned out that when it was cold, the girls settled in the living room at the coffee table, wrapped in blankets, settled on the corner sofa, each with her computer, and so as not to be bored they also switched on the television at the same time.\nOften friends, girlfriends, came to the elder, sat late and stayed overnight. In Kristina’s room a mattress always lay on the floor, and Norwegian youth are unpretentious and, if there was nothing to get home on, and weekend days were ahead, they could sleep on the mattress too. The younger girl’s room and our bedroom were on the second floor. There too was a small bathroom with a warm floor. The second floor was also not heated — only if they switched on the electric radiators.\nI go into a detailed description of the use of electrical appliances because until recently electricity in Norway was cheap. Of course in Norway in houses there is also stove heating; they use firewood. They say that is advantageous, but I do not know. So then, these portable electric radiators none of the household tried to switch off when leaving the house. And in the house often a cat and a dog remained.\nAnd I, the aunt from Kiev, arrived with my phobias (fears) about fires from electrical appliances left on. The house was wooden after all, and next to it a garage stood right up against it, also wooden. And the phobia appeared in me still from 2006, when I lived in Kiev. My neighbour, who lived a floor above, started a fire, after which we lived a week without electricity, fearing a short circuit in the wiring that ran along wet walls after putting out the fire.\nI have already described how easily and quickly everyone went out of the house to go shopping in town or to friends. On one, two, three — and everyone is sitting in the car, except me. They invite me, of course, but I remember!!! «when leaving, check the electrical appliances!» and like a goat I ran through the whole house, switched everything off. And the television was always on; at first there were, I think, 200 programmes which they did not watch. Ivan traditionally in the evenings watched only Norwegian news.\nThis I am describing is the beginning of my marriage, 2011. If the readers are not too lazy to «walk through» my blog, starting to read …. better from the beginning of the writing, in 2018, then you will get still more impressions of me as «the aunt who is no fool». 😉\nTo be continued ….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20231014/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e«LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER» part 2\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e«The aunt is no fool!»\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eYeees! That sounded so in our way, in Soviet-style, in a comment from one of my «nieces» ….\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSo then, however hard it was for me with two teenagers in their house, I always remembered that I am after all an «aunt» from Kiev and that they did not come to me, but I to THEM, and with a prospect! The aunt had to rebuild herself.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER» part 2"},{"content":"Well now! «LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER»\nDid you watch the interview on YouTube with the intriguing title «to Norway at 58» by the Ukrainian blogger Viktoria (the blog name is «Life with Pepper»)? Now you can read what I left unsaid. The interview lasted more than an hour, and in the rough version it was 3.5 hours. Yes! It came out optimistic–inspiring. Of course that is not bad!\nAnd there was a task: to support women who are over 50, now in a difficult life situation, who have already forgotten and given up on their personal life. For the first time in my life I learned so much about myself in the comments left. I thank you for every comment! I felt famous…\nEgoism, pragmatism, «and not a word about the children.» «and mama?» «and she lives at her husband’s expense!?» «and not a word about the first marriage!» ……\nSo then, do you know the secret of our family happiness? We never tell and never recall our life with the former ones! Our fates are similar. We were the same number of years — 14 years — in first marriages. My husband left me in 1989, when the sons were 6 and 9 years old.\nAnd does anyone among you who are reading remember what was happening in the country in 1989? What was it called there? «Perestroika, acceleration»? And what was there in general then? I remembered my colleague. She travelled to Kiev to work in the library, and lived in a village near Vasylkiv. She had three children. And I lived in Kiev and had no idea what village life was. And I ask her: «Oh Valya, you probably have a cow too?», and Valya answers me: «ta ni! We only have children!»\nAnd now I remembered Valya, when I was left alone and only my children… And then they started cutting the libraries too — «no money!» «no salary» but barter appeared! There, exactly! Does anyone remember what they paid wages with in the country? Well then? Continue or leave this crap of memories. But I lived in all of this… When they started cutting me at the library, the head, so embarrassed, said: well, Ira, you knit after all! — «And so?» well… you’ll survive, since you know how to knit… Yes! «kind people they were, responsive» 😻 especially the bosses 😻.\nAll right, I’ll leave the 90s for now. I’ll return to the bright side of my life — to «Lady Luck». When I moved into the Norwegian village, everything in the house was so neglected. There seemed to be a lot of stuff, but little use of it; with things and the household it was all right, you could sort it out gradually, but with the younger girl there was trouble of which Ivan was silent when we married.\nYou know, teenagers are different. The girl had friends; she rarely came back from school on time (and you could get to the village from school only by the school bus, and the last bus from town was at 17:30). So almost every evening, and also weekends, we only occupied ourselves with driving with Ivan in the car and picking her up from different settlements of our county within a radius of 50 km. Rain, snow, black ice, winding roads, storms, and we — hop into the car around 11 in the evening and go to pick her up, and she did not tell us the exact address, she came out to the bus stop.\nAnd Ivan did not know (or perhaps did not want to know) who her friends were and what they did in their free time from school. I once said to him that one ought to find out who her friends are, with whom she communicates, to which he answered: here it is not customary to poke into children’s personal lives, here psychologists work with children. «well all right,» I thought, «breathe evenly, teacher!» «here is not there!» 🙄\nto be continued ….\nP.S. And those who are very interested, I ask to «take a stroll» through my blog from 2018.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20230928/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWell now! «LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER»\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eDid you watch the interview on YouTube with the intriguing title «to Norway at 58» by the Ukrainian blogger Viktoria (the blog name is «Life with Pepper»)? Now you can read what I left unsaid. The interview lasted more than an hour, and in the rough version it was 3.5 hours. Yes! It came out optimistic–inspiring. Of course that is not bad!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Well now! «LIVE MORE WONDERFULLY — YOU WILL BECOME FAMOUS FASTER»"},{"content":"«Do you love to travel?» Part 4 — the concluding and joyful one! Of course joyful for me; I always, very much, strive to get as quickly as possible to my permanent habitat, i.e. home, home to the «little burrow», to my little bed, to my «rags». All the same I am a dyed-in-the-wool homebody, and it is good that my Norwegian husband does not know this (or perhaps he does? 🧐).\nToday is already 19 January 2023. I have just eaten a tangerine that I hung two days ago on the tree. Our tree is an ordinary artificial one from IKEA. But since in January there were rains and greyness, I decided not to take it down and every dark morning to switch on the garland on it and go on cheering myself.\n«I return to the ship with the beautiful name Wonders of the seas.» There are many floors: 18 🤣. I did not notice at once that the 13th floor was not marked in the lift. That my husband told me later. It turned out that we used the touch «buttons» and at times I paid no attention to the floors. Now I cannot remember on which floor our hotel room was, and I cannot call it a cabin, because the huge enclosed ship space looked like a city in miniature.\nWe — that is, 7,500 holidaying inhabitants — fitted in there, served by 2,300 trained staff. The lifts, of course, made an indelible impression on me at once. Transparent lifts — you see everyone and everyone sees you. You feel like a travelling frog. 😄\nFood: «all inclusive!» except alcohol. Alcohol at your expense and … that is understandable. A menu for every taste. The first two days we went to the restaurant to eat. They «assigned» us a table and as many as two waiters! One named his name and his native country — Honduras. In my head at once surfaced an old joke from distant Soviet times about events in Honduras. That joke sounded approximately like this: two Jews meet and one says to the other: «listen, lately Honduras has been bothering me so much!», and the second Jew answers him: «then don’t scratch it!»\nAfter two days I felt exhausted from such attention from the serving staff and decided to look for another eating place; luckily there were more than enough of them on the vessel. Having observed the «inhabitants» of our little town, I understood that for many the «Nutrition» mode was switched on round the clock; it remained only to find out where this round-the-clock point worked. The non-stop buffet was on the fifth floor. In the buffet the same set of products was presented — sandwiches, éclair cakes (little ones like that, but eat as many as you want), coffee, juices, drinking water you pour yourself «from the tap».\nI confess that I feel loneliness in my habit — I can eat often and a little at a time; my husband eats only twice a day: in the morning — breakfast, and lunch at 3 in the afternoon. This habit of his — to eat a solid meal in the daytime — more than once let him down on trips around Western Europe. Restaurants open late, from 18:00, and only in the evening do they cook a full lunch. So he walks–rides the whole day hungry, but, strangely, with a kind face. In all our life together he has never once admitted that he is hungry. What a unique person next to me.\nSo, I return from thoughts to the realities of the cruise. We did find the place where the ardent majority ate — «people of different nations». There it was very filling and interesting! You could choose a place by the window, eat everything you wanted and look into the distance and at the waves below, since this dining room was placed as high as the 10th floor!\nOh, and why am I going on and on about food and food? Like that soldier «closer to the kitchen — farther from the bosses!» After all, our cruise provided for travel through countries and cities in only 6 days! «a life like a dream» when every morning you wake up in another city! Ha-ha! You go to sleep in one city, and wake up in another and, possibly, in another country! A fantastic reality of which I never dreamed, never guessed, never thought.\nWell then, it is time to announce our route: start in Rome, Naples, Palma de Mallorca, Marseille, Barcelona, La Spezia, and the end of the route — Rome.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20230122/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e«Do you love to travel?» Part 4 — the concluding and joyful one! Of course joyful for me; I always, very much, strive to get as quickly as possible to my permanent habitat, i.e. home, home to the «little burrow», to my little bed, to my «rags». All the same I am a dyed-in-the-wool homebody, and it is good that my Norwegian husband does not know this (or perhaps he does? 🧐).\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«Do you love to travel?» Part 4"},{"content":"OH! “Do you love to travel?” Part 3. Although today is already 8 December, and snow is falling, and it is cold and slippery, it is all the more pleasant to lie on the sofa, having already eaten (I know, I know there is no such word 😻) as many as two croissants, and at once having cheered up 🤓, I start writing about the tedious boarding of the cruise liner with the much-promising name “WONDERS of the Seas.” I write in “petty” and unpleasant details for me.\nA positive moment: a wonderful Italian taxi driver in a super-duper BMW took us in an hour to the boarding point for the liner. At the entrance they met us and escorted us to the baggage drop and quickly took our little suitcases, issuing boarding cards and showing the direction “where further…” But this is not yet the ship! This tourist reception point is like an airport with checkpoints and document checks. 😳\nSo, before us the first checkpoint — People in masks. “Hello, hello, put on masks!” And our masks… are in the suitcases (possibly already being loaded onto the ship 🙀). What to do? Ivan ran back to the place where they took our suitcases; I decided to totter after him too (already all the suitcases were in a not-small heap of suitcases, to which they would not let us, and we had to, at a distance of about 30 metres, point to our suitcase. My little suitcase is small and yellow, easier to see, but I packed things at the hotel in an unconscious state and did not remember where that pack of disposable masks lay. And Ivan cannot remember such trifles at all, because the so-called “mask regime” in Norway “passed us by,” because crowding of people practically never happens here and we put on masks only for vaccinations. And we did all 3 vaccinations and on schedule!\nWe went up to the staff, show them the tickets with the suitcase numbers, and they temperamentally in Italian try to find our suitcases. I look, they roll a large suitcase, but not ours. I understand that my husband does not react, and I, of course, am more vigilant, I utter: “that is not our suitcase.” On the second approach to the suitcase heap the Italians rolled out our suitcases. From that moment we were “saved and protected by disposable masks.” I remind readers that this was happening at the end of May 2022, when in the world an “all-clear” had been declared to quarantine madness. But “a mask is not always bad,” I thought, hiding my “sour expression.” Well then, we go again to the checkpoint.\nHere a small interrogation takes place — a dialogue in English directing us further to the next point for paid express covid testing. On the way I grumble through the mask to my husband: “we have 3 vaccinations! You were sure and you assured me that we would have a ‘green street’ everywhere in all countries and continents and what do I get now?…..” (further it already carried me away with untranslatable words 😂). And again a checkpoint. They propose going to take this test “from the nose.” We took it. We wait — result in 20 minutes. My husband tries to set up internet on the phone. Somehow everything is slow… We wait. I look at the board with results. At last! We are negative! It remains only to register and show the vaccinations.\nAnd the internet “doesn’t pull,” and our vaccination passports are there, on the internet, on personal pages! That is when I remembered the old saying: “Without a paper you are a bug, and with a paper you are a person!” Well then I try to hold on, not to cry, not to get angry, not to be indignant. The staff girl also waits patiently until we can open our pages with vaccinations. She needs the exact dates of our vaccinations. We wait. I look around, look at people, they are also registering: some at the registration desk, some simply by the staff, like us. Well, my husband has a Nordic character, he is completely calm (my computer genius), and about myself I have nothing left to write. I simply stand in a mask, “a drooping donkey Eeyore.” Well at last, after 40 minutes our vaccinations opened! The girl notes the dates and went to the registration desk to photocopy onto paper. Everything passed! By the escalator stairs we went up onto the ship! Passengers were allowed to take off masks, but all the staff on the ship were in masks.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20221231/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eOH! “Do you love to travel?” Part 3. Although today is already 8 December, and snow is falling, and it is cold and slippery, it is all the more pleasant to lie on the sofa, having already eaten (I know, I know there is no such word 😻) as many as two croissants, and at once having cheered up 🤓, I start writing about the tedious boarding of the cruise liner with the much-promising name “WONDERS of the Seas.” I write in “petty” and unpleasant details for me.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"OH! “Do you love to travel?” Part 3"},{"content":"DO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL? Part 2. Each time I think: “Ira, write a little every day….” And it doesn’t work! Of course there is information and it must be written down and analysed. Suddenly it may happen that I start forgetting my life, just as my mama is now. She no longer remembers her life… But today’s part of writing will still be about our cruise.\nYou know, I really strained myself in noisy Rome in those two days before boarding the cruise ship. I understood that to fall from cool Norway into a hot summer is a real torture for me. The city centre, heat, crowds of tourists, among them cyclists and motorcyclists, cobbled alleys with a heap of “little eateries” that one does not want to go into. But I am a “tourist,” not a “inspector,” and my aim is to see as many sights as possible, which is what my husband and I tried to do.\nAbout my husband. He is an enduring person, strong, “Nordic character.” About myself. I am a woman not capricious and not demanding and even silent on long trips. But walking with him is hard for me — we have different steps, I quickly get out of breath, I tire, and I am already as in Vladimir Vysotsky’s song “neither friend, nor foe, but so….”\nTwo days in Rome flew by and morning came to pack for a journey not very far, but to the sea for boarding the cruise ship. With the taxi driver who met us at the airport we had agreed that he would take us to the boarding place. But about an hour and a half in the morning, something unforeseen happened to me — a “stab” in the lower back, after taking a shower.\nI will now describe the “scene of slowly crawling out on all fours from the shower-toilet.” Already dressed–packed, suspecting nothing bad, my Norwegian husband lies on the bed in headphones with an iPad. And here I am, half-dressed, crawling out, feverishly opening my iPad and searching, typing in YouTube First aid for a stab in the lower back, and remaining in the pose of a “sad donkey” I start watching films on the given theme.\nAs you understand, all the films start with advertising, and what I need to find quickly — urgently, namely special physical exercises for my problem, I cannot find. When I had already started throwing the bedspread and pillows off the bed to lie on the floor, my husband paid attention to me. Until the taxi arrived there remained 1 hour, and in that hour I set myself the task, as you understand, to straighten, stand on my feet, dress, comb my hair, put on lipstick (to look completely healthy). And I did find those exercises! There are many recommendations now. I trust on YouTube Dr Veremeyenko. In 15 minutes of special exercises I did overcome myself. I place a photo and you, looking at the photo, will probably not believe that I, “completely broken, ‘paralysed,’” stand smiling, waiting for the taxi….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20221909/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eDO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL?  Part 2. Each time I think: “Ira, write a little every day….” And it doesn’t work! Of course there is information and it must be written down and analysed. Suddenly it may happen that I start forgetting my life, just as my mama is now. She no longer remembers her life… But today’s part of writing will still be about our cruise.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eYou know, I really strained myself in noisy Rome in those two days before boarding the cruise ship. I understood that to fall from cool Norway into a hot summer is a real torture for me. The city centre, heat, crowds of tourists, among them cyclists and motorcyclists, cobbled alleys with a heap of “little eateries” that one does not want to go into. But I am a “tourist,” not a “inspector,” and my aim is to see as many sights as possible, which is what my husband and I tried to do.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"DO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL?  Part 2"},{"content":"DO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL? Part 1. I do not. I am a homebody and distant distances do not draw me. But it happens that I have such a possibility of “suddenly” going somewhere. 🤔 The initiative comes not from me, of course from my husband; he proposes a variant, I agree.\nAnd so, once my computer husband (and he is indeed “computer”! Since for 40 years already he has been “ploughing the computer science of programming and working, and working, mastering everything new and newest in this field) I think of him with pride, that he is a computer genius. So then, my genius, in January 2022 saw an advertisement for “cheap” tickets on a cruise liner with the tempting name Wonders of the Sea, briefly asking me “Shall we go?” I decided not to think long and agreed, asking myself “how old am I” and thinking “what are you, fool, Little Red Riding Hood? to refuse such a possibility” (well, that happens with me, I conduct a “casual” monologue with myself).\nAnd so on 17 May we flew to Rome. By that time the mask regime on planes had already been cancelled, but I took masks just in case and I did right! As soon as we transferred to the Oslo–Rome plane of the Scandinavian airline SAS, the stewardess, “hemming and slightly apologising, proposed that everyone put on masks, since we are flying to ‘Italy frightened by the pandemic.’” (that I already add from myself, since we were quite unused to masks; in Norway I did not notice particular strictness, but we are already people of unbending age, so we received the full set of vaccinations on time)\nI, a freedom-loving homebody 😻, had to stifle myself with that mask for almost 3 hours of flight. We took off at an air temperature of 12 degrees; arriving in Rome, we felt a hot reception with a temperature of 26 degrees above zero. It is good that they did not search us and quickly let us out, and a taxi ordered in advance took us to the centre of the city to an old building in which our hotel was.\nThe old lift in the hotel pleasantly surprised me. I remembered my childhood, how I and a girlfriend rode in such a lift in her new house, nicknamed among the people “the ministerial.” Ivan did not at once “get” how to use this ancient structure of Roman civilisation, but I, coming to life, exclaimed: “Get in! Ah, I’ll give you a ride with a breeze!” (I remember that you have to do everything yourselves — close the iron door well, to the click, then the wooden doors with glass windows tenderly and tightly, and then press the button of the needed floor, and on leaving the lift do the same “in reverse order” (only already without pressing any buttons 😻) And if you do not do that, the people from the first floor who need the lift will think badly of you and possibly out loud.\nYes! And another thing: at reception they gave us a bunch of keys and in English, but temperamentally, explained which key was for what. I, naturally, do not strain myself, I simply make a polite face, rely fully on my husband (he knows English!) 😻 after the receptionist fell silent, I tenderly ask in Norwegian: “I hope you understood everything?” Vanya nods, but I know that Vanya needs a computer screen, not a bunch of keys. I take it one key was for the front door in case we stayed out late, the second for the hotel room, but there was also a third 🤔 … Ah I don’t know for what! In two days’ stay we used only the key to the room.\nWaking early in the morning and opening the window, I felt “the painfully familiar smell” of rubbish bins in the hot season. Such an unforgettable smell, it reminded me of peaceful life in Kiev, in the hot season. I also understood that life in the city is round the clock, without breaks for sleep in the dark hours, that is, solid Italian wakefulness of all layers of society, only we — northern Scandinavian inhabitants are used to sleeping at night, which is what we did.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220807/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eDO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL?  Part 1. I do not. I am a homebody and distant distances do not draw me. But it happens that I have such a possibility of “suddenly” going somewhere. 🤔 The initiative comes not from me, of course from my husband; he proposes a variant, I agree.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd so, once my computer husband (and he is indeed “computer”! Since for 40 years already he has been “ploughing the computer science of programming and working, and working, mastering everything new and newest in this field) I think of him with pride, that he is a computer genius. So then, my genius, in January 2022 saw an advertisement for “cheap” tickets on a cruise liner with the tempting name Wonders of the Sea, briefly asking me “Shall we go?” I decided not to think long and agreed, asking myself “how old am I” and thinking “what are you, fool, Little Red Riding Hood? to refuse such a possibility”\n(well, that happens with me, I conduct a “casual” monologue with myself).\u003c/p\u003e","title":"DO YOU LOVE TO TRAVEL?  Part 1"},{"content":"Two months of anxiety. Part 3. We met Mama and before us stood the task of getting as soon as possible to Copenhagen, to my sister’s flat. At first we tried to take a room in a decent hotel, but everything there was taken, and in the hostel we could stay only until 10 in the morning. My sister decided to look at a rational route. Naturally that was a plane, but from Kraków, late in the evening.\nSo, we stayed in the hostel until 10 o’clock, Mama slept a little, my sister walked and bought sweets. Since the room had been bought for two persons, we were not allowed to settle as three (by hostel rules). At 10 o’clock we went out with our things into the fresh air and settled on a bench nearby, at a table, and started eating Polish pastries. 😻 The hostel warden came out (evidently his conscience tormented him that he had been so strict with us in the morning, opening the door and saying that three people were forbidden in the room) and started offering us the use of the kettle in the common kitchen and free coffee. We thanked him, but decided to move toward Copenhagen, hire a taxi, go to the station and get on a train to Kraków. And that is 4 hours’ travel.\nWe travelled in comfort, but we still had a mass of free time until the flight to Copenhagen. According to the timetable the plane was to take off at 23 o’clock. Well, what to do, what to do? There was not much strength to walk a lot; Mama and I sat down in a noisy hall for passengers. All around we heard Russian–Ukrainian speech and the ceaseless voice of an announcer with advertising. Noise, din, confusion. Kraków station is joined to shopping rows. First my sister went to find out where the taxi stand is and how much it costs to get to the airport. She did not find the stand. Then I went “walking,” understood I could get lost, decided to come back. I had the feeling that of all people in this human stream and noise our Mama felt best.\nWe decided to look for a taxi and go to the airport, although it was still very early. We hoped it would be more comfortable to wait there. And we were not mistaken. At the airport it was much calmer, we drank coffee with tasty pastries and felt much more pleasant. A message came to the phone that the flight was delayed by 1.5 hours. It turned out the plane would fly only at 12.30 at night. But check-in opened early and we found ourselves in the waiting hall. We decided to sit in a café on soft chairs, drink tea, coffee and wait for boarding.\nOh, how hardened by difficulties my Mama is! At such an age she waited completely calmly for boarding the plane, never once complained that she felt ill. At 12 at night a waiter came up and very pleadingly, politely said that he had to close the café, offering at the same time more coffee or tea. We had to leave the soft sofa and go to the waiting terminal. The flight lasted 1.5 hours. Mama slept. We woke her when we landed and she exclaimed rapturously: what? We’ve already arrived? So quickly! We hadn’t even taken off and already landed?\nBut there still remained a forced march through the deserted airport. It seemed to me that we walked to the exit longer than we flew. We also, foolishly, checked in my small suitcase, we had to wait. When we came out, a queue had formed at the taxi stop. But an attentive dispatcher noticed us and said: “your taxi will come now.”\nWaking in the morning, Mama started demanding breakfast. My sister at once started making Mama breakfast, and Mama took and fell asleep! 🧐 and when she woke she started asking us where she was. It is good that she recognised us. Accursed war! Did we ever think that we would be transporting Mama at such an advanced age, depriving her of her usual existence, of the independence and self-reliance she valued so much. Now I return to Norway in the hope that Mama will grow used to the new conditions and I will be able to see her again very soon. Only live long, my dear little Mama!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220505_3/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTwo months of anxiety. Part 3. We met Mama and before us stood the task of getting as soon as possible to Copenhagen, to my sister’s flat. At first we tried to take a room in a decent hotel, but everything there was taken, and in the hostel we could stay only until 10 in the morning. My sister decided to look at a rational route. Naturally that was a plane, but from Kraków, late in the evening.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Two months of anxiety. Part 3"},{"content":"Two months of anxiety. Part 2. A night of waiting. We had planned and paid in advance for a youth hostel, a room for two. When we got off the bus at the railway station, we understood that on our own on foot at 22 o’clock in the evening we would not walk and would not find this hostel.\nWe went up to the police, we ask, and the police are “not local people,” they politely send us to ask the local people in reflective yellow vests, the volunteers. We go up, they take us for arriving refugees and want to send us to the station to spend the night in the waiting hall. We try to explain that we are meeting Mama in the morning and will be going to Denmark. “Ah! To Denmark! And here is a bus for refugees, tomorrow it will go to Denmark, so you can spend the night here at the station.” Sensitive, responsive people, the volunteers! But we understand that we need to find a taxi and get to the hostel.\nSince we had booked and paid for the hostel on the internet, it turned out they had not given an address. We show the taxi driver the name and say we looked at the GPS map, it is somewhere not far across a bridge. At last the taxi driver guesses, we ask the price, because looking at us dressed modestly for the road with rucksacks, the taxi driver does not much count on payment. We say “no problem, we will pay,” he names the price 30 zlotys and takes us into the dark, further a barrier, a dark yard and a little higher an old building (the code for opening the doors and the room they sent me by e-post).\nWe said goodbye, paid the taxi driver and went into the dark and a little uphill to the building where two windows were lit. We went up to the entrance door, entered the code, opened, went in, found ourselves in a foyer — no one. Room 2, we stand, enter the code, a voice in Polish: “incorrect.” A girl walks past us: “Hello!” and goes up the stairs. We stand by the room again entering the lock code and all without result. The girl comes down the stairs and offers help. She speaks English, turned out to be French.\nAgain we enter the code already together with the girl. At last the door is opened from inside and before us stands a sleepy fellow in underpants. Then, as you understand, a small silent scene… First my sister came to and said: “well, everything is right! This is a hostel, in the room there are three beds, our two, and the fellow occupies one.” Then I start to “resist,” that I cannot sleep with a stranger, even if he stands completely sleepy and meek and even writes the lock code; the code turned out not to be ours, but another.\nThen I remember that our room is for two, that is, a separate one with two beds, and we need to ring, here are the phone numbers. The Frenchwoman dials the number and a young male sleepy voice tries to sort out our numbers; it turns out someone mixed them up and our room number is not 2 but 3 and indeed the code matched! And the fellow in underpants continued to stand as if rooted, while we were clarifying the situation. Having said politely in English to the fellow in underpants “Excuse me!” we withdrew to our two-bed room.\nIn the morning, for the arrival of the train at 5 o’clock, we decided to run to the station. I could not hide my agitation while we walked, ran toward the station; we did not find it at once, and in the morning there was no one to ask. At last we came: “one thought, how is Mama, did she arrive?”, in the eighth carriage, 15 hours on the road, only sitting places. We ran onto the platform, I stand by an iron fence, look at the arriving people, search with my eyes for Mama — I do not see her. My sister ran to the customs officers and volunteers to ask. It turns out they let people out by carriages, from the eighth people have not yet come out, but the volunteers have already warned customs that a woman of 95, alone, unaccompanied, is in the eighth carriage, with a Ukrainian passport.\nI continue to stand by the fence in the hope of seeing Mama, time stretches, a lump in the throat, I am not in control of myself. I want to write a great deal of positive about the organisation of receiving people in Poland. Early in the morning in the street there is a buffet with fresh hot food, tables, benches with warm blankets. The newly arrived can at once eat, drink coffee, tea, water. The volunteers work clearly, in concert, calmly. And I stood and waited. My sister called me, I turn — Mama! After all, while there are parents, we remain children, even if I will soon turn my seventh decade, and when there are no parents, we are orphans.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220505_2/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTwo months of anxiety. Part 2. A night of waiting. We had planned and paid in advance for a youth hostel, a room for two. When we got off the bus at the railway station, we understood that on our own on foot at 22 o’clock in the evening we would not walk and would not find this hostel.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWe went up to the police, we ask, and the police are “not local people,” they politely send us to ask the local people in reflective yellow vests, the volunteers. We go up, they take us for arriving refugees and want to send us to the station to spend the night in the waiting hall. We try to explain that we are meeting Mama in the morning and will be going to Denmark. “Ah! To Denmark! And here is a bus for refugees, tomorrow it will go to Denmark, so you can spend the night here at the station.” Sensitive, responsive people, the volunteers! But we understand that we need to find a taxi and get to the hostel.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Two months of anxiety. Part 2"},{"content":"Two months of anxiety. Part 1 The first days of the war in Ukraine. Confusion and incomprehension in my soul. Nothing to calm myself with. I look for a way out, I think how to evacuate Mama. Alarming reports, who is right — who is to blame — what to do — unknown.\nAnd then on Facebook they show a live broadcast from Moscow, a government sitting headed by Valentina Matviyenko. They reason and report about money and not a word about military actions on the territory of Ukraine. That was, I think, 3 March. The war in full swing, people are being killed, they are bombing, and in Moscow they reason how to distribute the budget! And those listening to this nonsense can write comments as the sitting goes on.\nWell then it carried me away… I write — type in every free line: “Stop the slaughter in Ukraine! Stop your monster! Stop the war! Stop the war! Enough sitting! My mama was born in the Moscow region in the settlement of Bolshevo, during the Great Patriotic War, as a teenager, she worked round the clock at the post office of Yaroslavsky station, took part in the defence of Moscow, defending you, not yet born! And now she is in Kiev, which you are bombing! Stop!”\nI look at the screen, I feel some confusion in their sitting, but of course Matviyenko continues to lead the event. And I type again: “enough sitting! ‘Stop the monster!’” And here Ivan has already come from work. I am in hysterics 😫, I say: “I’m fighting Moscow as I can!” He shrugged and says: “that will change nothing.” Later I learned, Valentina Matviyenko is Ukrainian, she grew up in Cherkasy, in Ukraine. And how does she live — sleep there, when her Homeland is on fire, in ruin.\nI do not know whose remark that is about politics, which I was not interested in, but perhaps it is right: “if you are not interested in politics, then politics will start being interested in you” 🧐 One so wants to send far away the one who said that.\nAfter about 10 days of war I understood that I have no right to live in constant stress, in tears and snot, and it is time to take myself in hand, occupy myself with ordinary peaceful household affairs, and also with myself, and that means: go out into the fresh air, breathe more deeply, enter my usual rhythm, keep calm, not enter into any conversations and quarrels with people I know in Ukraine. I am not able to change the course of the tragic events; it remains only to wait and pray for those who are in trouble.\nEvery day I ring Mama; she says everything is fine, she does not want to go anywhere, a neighbour comes in to her, they watch TV together and drink tea. My sister (she lives in Denmark) formed a plan to evacuate Mama. An acquaintance, a Ukrainian woman, is engaged in transporting parcels from Denmark to Ukraine and on the way back can pick Mama up and bring her to Denmark. The way is long. At the border with Poland there are queues. We started persuading Mama; she says she will not endure a long journey…. Again my sister and I think what to do.\nAt last a way out appeared: from Kiev a direct train started running to the Polish border town of Przemyśl! Thanks to a neighbour (he is 71) who bought Mama a ticket and put her on the train, it was possible to take Mama to Denmark to my sister.\nFor some time we thought through a plan, how to get to the Polish town of Przemyśl. Having our own transport, but not very suited to long distances, we decided to go together with my sister from Denmark by a direct bus, from the city of Aalborg 22 hours on the road, arrive there in the evening, spend the night in a hotel and at 5 in the morning meet the train on which Mama would come. All thoughts were only one — to meet Mama, and how we would go further to Denmark we did not plan, we decided to act according to the situation.\nHaving packed a minimum of things, having met my sister in Aalborg (before that I got there by ferry 3 hours 15 min and by train 1 hour, and my sister left Copenhagen and travelled 7 hours by train). We met her at 14 o’clock, then walked around Aalborg, whiled away the time, and at 21 o’clock we got on the bus, travelled the night and the whole day and only at 22 o’clock in the evening were we on the spot in the town of Przemyśl. Instead of the promised 22 hours on the road, it was 25 hours. The bus stopped only for 2 minutes; we did not have time to buy coffee or water. Having travelled such a way, we understood that going back like that with Mama would be impossible.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220505_1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTwo months of anxiety. Part 1 The first days of the war in Ukraine. Confusion and incomprehension in my soul. Nothing to calm myself with. I look for a way out, I think how to evacuate Mama. Alarming reports, who is right — who is to blame — what to do — unknown.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd then on Facebook they show a live broadcast from Moscow, a government sitting headed by Valentina Matviyenko. They reason and report about money and not a word about military actions on the territory of Ukraine. That was, I think, 3 March. The war in full swing, people are being killed, they are bombing, and in Moscow they reason how to distribute the budget! And those listening to this nonsense can write comments as the sitting goes on.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Two months of anxiety. Part 1 The first days of the war in Ukraine"},{"content":"as uncle with the propeller named Karlsson used to say. Having driven out to a more spacious place in the village, we stopped by an old abandoned two-storey house in the shade. We decided to get out of the car, walk and look for this villa that Vanya had booked and paid for.\nWe walk… Vanya strides ahead, I like Cheburashka with a little rucksack trail along and start falling behind, because we have to go a little uphill, a burning wind blows, nothing to breathe, we have gone into that narrow alley again, I feel my strength leaving me, I shout to Vanya: “maybe it’s time to ask people where this Villa is?” Although I know exactly, Vanya will not ask; I need to “switch my brains to English (at least!),” perhaps they will understand me.\nSuddenly I see a man rolling a motorcycle out of his shed, I shout to him “does he know where the villa…?” (and I don’t know the name, I shout to Vanya: “Vanya look at the name of the villa!”) It turns out I am shouting in different directions, the Frenchman with the motorcycle “froze in a coma”… Vanya looks for the name of the villa on the iPad. Then he pronounces the name, the Frenchman came out of the coma, shakes his head, regrets, but does not know.\nI feel myself, but badly. I tell Vanya that I will go no further, I will go back to the car, “and you switch on all your fancy gadgets and continue the search for the ‘villa with a pool.’” And we went in different directions. I went back to the car, in a deserted place, and Ivan continued. I sat in the car and cried loudly! Heavy thoughts crawled into my head: “and what if Vanya feels ill now, and what if he breaks a leg, how will I act in such a situation, I will have to sit at the wheel, pull myself together, not lose my composure!”\nTime stretches, I sit in the car, I think, I am no longer crying, I remembered that in the thermos there is hot water and in reserve bags of green tea and honey. So one can make tea and sit on the bench by the abandoned house, in the shade. That is what I did. I even spread a little blanket on the bench, created maximum comfort for myself, and when Vanya returned I was already sitting “like a cat on the little bench.” Vanya brought joyful news: he had found both the villa and the owner of the villa, who speaks English, and the right approach by car, not right up to the villa, but there is parking by the church, 200 metres from the villa.\nThe owner turned out to be a very welcoming elderly Frenchman, informing me that his villa is popular, and even from “Paris itself” a family has now come for a week, for a rest. Our room with facilities turned out to be on the second floor, a separate entrance, from the street one had to go up old stone steps. “And the pool?” — the pool… also an entrance from the street, one has to go up old stone steps. At once an old short joke spins in my head: “the bathhouse, across the road — the changing room!” And there is also a separate kitchen next to our room in a summer extension.\nIn the room everything is provided: air conditioning, a capsule coffee machine, an electric kettle, teas in bags, sugar. A double bed, clean linen, ironed, starched, smelling of perfume…. 🤔 Yes! — I think, you, Ira, are in France! And France is a country of scents! That is “perfume is a second skin,” as their Coco (Chanel) said. Maybe for Frenchwomen (and not only) it is a “second skin,” but not for me, unfortunately. No, I do not sneeze at scents, I simply become uncomfortable and want to get rid of them as soon as possible. I think, all right, I’ll survive, only one night! And otherwise, dear marquise, everything is fine, everything is fine!”\nThe owner also added that within a radius of 1.5 km there is a restaurant, and also two cafés. But first of all, for me — a swim in the pool. That is what we did, we swam, lay a little in the sun, having managed to meet the hospitable hostess and the tenants from Paris — with the youngest boy, 12 years old, I swam in the pool and, learning that he studies English at school, decided to practise him and myself in simple questions in English (I was an English teacher). After the third question I understood it was better to relax and not strain the child; he joyfully dived into the pool and swam to his arriving elder sister, whom he had been waiting for very much.\nHaving changed and gathered our strength we decided to walk through the village, take other roads that the owner had shown us and look for a café or restaurant. We found a café quickly, but it was closed. I started reading the timetable (in French). It turned out we had come early, and it was already about 6 in the evening. Suddenly a car drove up, a madame jumped out and came toward us. I thought that “she’ll open now.” No, she explained that “pardon. Closed for quarantine.”\nWe go further, we note that the village is charming, old, interesting to look about, and here is a restaurant with a veranda, twined with grapes. We go in in masks. A waiter came out to us: “non, non” (in French) we do not serve, because it is early, come at 20 o’clock, we will open. All right, we trudged on, the heat does not abate, dry, dusty, estates behind stone walls. And here is another café with a cosy entrance onto a terrace, bustle can be heard inside in the kitchen. A businesslike grandma-madame comes out and at once holds out a visiting card, like, come next time, and today we have special service.\nThen I thought: “we would at least eat a crust of bread, we are not local people…” What to do, what to do… I tell Vanya that there is a chance of going to bed hungry today, but if he agrees, I can make him tea with honey and even get out of my stores dry biscuits and a little processed cheese. Vanya had no choice but to agree to eat my modest supply. I have placed a photo from our veranda, where we gathered to drink tea with processed cheese. The pool turned out so good! The blue door at the top is the entrance to the room we rented.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220219/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eas uncle with the propeller named Karlsson used to say. Having driven out to a more spacious place in the village, we stopped by an old abandoned two-storey house in the shade. We decided to get out of the car, walk and look for this villa that Vanya had booked and paid for.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWe walk… Vanya strides ahead, I like Cheburashka with a little rucksack trail along and start falling behind, because we have to go a little uphill, a burning wind blows, nothing to breathe, we have gone into that narrow alley again, I feel my strength leaving me, I shout to Vanya: “maybe it’s time to ask people where this Villa is?” Although I know exactly, Vanya will not ask; I need to “switch my brains to English (at least!),” perhaps they will understand me.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“How I spent the summer” Part 6 — Still in France “Let’s continue the conversation!”"},{"content":"“How I spent the summer” part 5. The last night in France. We drove half a day without particular adventures. When we stopped at Supercharge to fill up, it was already 15.30 on the clock. It seemed like lunchtime, but since it was very hot we did not feel much appetite. My husband suggested fast food sold next to the charging station; I refused, saying if he wanted to eat he could eat. We decided to look where we could stay the night and have lunch there in a restaurant.\nI think I need not write much about the conditions that had formed during the epidemic of 2021. To charge a full battery in the Tesla, and that is ideally 800 km, we spend 40 minutes in time (that is on the old Supercharge installation; now some installations have been improved and on those we charge in 15–20 min.). Of course one can get out and wander while the Tesla charges, but the air temperature is 35, and in the car one can regulate it, and I create comfort for myself — I “stretch” my legs and observe the world around me half-lying, relaxed.\nI look at the car numbers — mainly from Belgium, the Netherlands; from Norway none came our way. Although in Norway oh how many of us with Teslas have multiplied! 😻 In the corner, in the shade, next to us a family with two small children had settled. The children sit barefoot on the dusty asphalt on the kerb together with mama, eating fast food from a bag; opposite our car on an “island” under a little tree sits a young person reading a book, a completely unremarkable appearance and clothes: dark hair, swarthy skin, in a black T-shirt and a black skirt. The thought arose in me that she has no relation to Tesla charging, but why is she sitting there? And then I say aloud: “She is not sitting there just so; she is watching who arrived with whom and waiting for a client.”\nWell, there is time, I continue observing. Yes indeed! I “waited” together with the well-read lady! A classic of the genre! A bald man with a little belly came up to his Tesla Model X (a cool car), and the lady, having put on slippers, calmly–slowly came up to the window and the man had to open it a little. They did not negotiate long — the deal was done and they drove off. Well then, Have a good time! And it is time for us to think and choose the nearest hotel.\nIvan gives me the chance to choose myself. I as always: “I need one with a pool!” I looked at the prices…. and fell silent. Then Ivan says: “Here is one with a pool, but in a village, 30 km from our charging station. Agreed?” — agreed, 30 km aside, to the village, for one night, inexpensive, we paid, we drove. We pass a suburb with shops, we do not stop, we do not buy food, why extra food when one can eat in a restaurant. Ivan has taught me not to worry about food (he does not recognise snacks of sandwiches with tea–coffee) and I, if I pack a supply of food for the road, then only for myself, and for Ivan — a cup, a spoon, a pot of honey, tea in bags, a thermos for two with hot water.\nAnd here GPS informs us that we are already almost at the villa, for which we have already paid “money in advance.” 😳 I will now try to find a photo of this village, and then continue….. I think you were “impressed,” looking at the picture. And how I was impressed! GPS drones “here nearby is your villa!” And we, thanks to the navigator, are already in the narrowest passage! And already a local car has come out of nowhere toward us and stopped very tightly with a large question in French in the driver’s eyes. And our Tesla has already taken the initiative into its computer hands and gives voice in the form of a “pi” icon many times in a row… We sit in a deep pause…. Everyone is thoughtful, because we cannot get out of the cars from any side, and there is no one to conduct–regulate.\nIt seems I was the first to come to; you understand yourselves, women have a wider angle of vision than men: where a man has to work to turn his torso together with head and neck, a woman need only squint a little “with one eye” to the side: a saving little alley–appendix to the left, a little behind the car! Now it remained to steer this “American bulk” into that little alley. The operation went successfully and unhurriedly! Ivan is an excellent and imperturbable driver! The Frenchman waved his hand in satisfaction. Thank God, we parted. It remained for us simply to drive out of that labyrinth into a more open place, park the car and go on foot to look for the villa.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220213/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“How I spent the summer” part 5. The last night in France. We drove half a day without particular adventures. When we stopped at Supercharge to fill up, it was already 15.30 on the clock. It seemed like lunchtime, but since it was very hot we did not feel much appetite. My husband suggested fast food sold next to the charging station; I refused, saying if he wanted to eat he could eat. We decided to look where we could stay the night and have lunch there in a restaurant.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“How I spent the summer”"},{"content":"A not bad quotation, one can even say it inspires me: “Writers write. If you want to become a writer, write.” Regina Brett. Thank you, Regina! Everything is simple, if you don’t complicate it… but it doesn’t always work out. We drive to the hotel, GPS tells us the way, we listen, look at the screen and drive. Outside it is 35 degrees of heat, and we are comfortable, you can choose the temperature; we drive into a French suburb, villas, cypresses.\nGPS solemnly informs us that we have arrived “here is what you ordered!” Around us private houses, good houses, but they don’t much look like a hotel. We sit in the car, we think… I say to Vanya: “is there somewhere else to look besides GPS? Or is it time to learn French, to ask the local population? And one still has to find someone to ask! Au, France! People, where are you? I think it’s time to get out of the car and look for people in their richly vegetated villas.” 😻\nSuddenly I see, in the shade, a middle-aged couple sitting, drinking coffee. I wave my hands in a friendly way, shout “Bonjour!” I say to Vanya: “Get ready to show the hotel address on the iPad.” Kind French people run to our aid. The man, thin, swarthy, tries to recall the English they taught him at school. Vanya such a “Norwegian giant” compared with him, shows the hotel address. The Frenchman: “Vi, Vi….” and then some words in English. I ask Vanya: “Did you understand?” (of course he didn’t, but he doesn’t admit it) but the Frenchman understands that we don’t understand how to drive, and with gestures shows that he will walk and show us the way, like, it’s quite close.\nWell all right, we sat in the car, Vanya steers, the Frenchman runs. And then a feeling of shame seizes me, awkwardness at such an absurd situation: a person is running in the heat, and we have sat down and are driving. Another thought flashed through me, which I said aloud: “and how long is he going to run like that?” At last the Frenchman stopped and with his hand showed us a clear direction — turn onto a serpentine path that stretches down. The hotel was in a picturesque place; we would hardly have found it ourselves! Thank you, responsive person!\nAnd a little about the French breakfast. (see Part 3, there is a photo 🤓) When you order a room at a hotel, then breakfast for the morning too…. so that it is “all inclusive!” That is what my Norwegian husband does. And he does right! His breakfast always consists of proteins, fats, carbohydrates. Proteins — that is “soft-boiled” eggs, Norwegian sorts of cheese, 82% butter, carbohydrates — several pieces of bread (he is used to baking bread himself), honey, jam, half a litre of tea. And in that way he eats for the whole day and already no coffees and fruits and even water during the day does he eat, drink or ask for (yes he never asks for anything at all!) The proverb: “eat breakfast yourself, share dinner with a friend, and supper…”? Well that is as each prefers…\nIn this cosy French hotel a small curiosity occurred. We came early in the morning to breakfast, found tables and what on the tables one could take oneself, set our table. Vanya asked whether to take an egg for me (he knows that I am “not very” about eggs, but a long road lies ahead, so one must eat an egg). In the photo you see everything beautifully and hygienically packed. Restaurant staff almost invisible (I compared it with Germany, which we had just driven through; there everything is precise: abundance of food, considerate staff in the hall).\nMy husband looks at those little jars of jam, the size of a thimble, and says “seems a bit little.” Yes, two teaspoons fit in one pretty little jar 😂. I say, “go take some more!” I feel he hesitates, it’s awkward for him, so big, to take from the common table. “Well then go, take another piece of bread!” I suggested, and myself I start breaking the egg. Good that I didn’t hit it hard; the egg turned out not boiled but raw, and good that it was on a stand!\nI sit at my table and wait, maybe someone from the staff will appear, to explain the “situasjon.” I drink coffee, chew pastry, eat yoghurt, I see one thin Frenchwoman staff member appeared in the hall, already circling near me, looking over, wiping tables. I to her in English with a question: “what to do with the egg, it’s raw, I’m afraid it will break, and why did it turn out raw?” The Frenchwoman smiles welcomingly and sends me… to the egg-cooking machine that stands in the corner, at the end of the hall, like, you press a button there and the egg will cook for you “in any form” 😳 “Too late,” I thought as a joke, “I’ve already eaten, but I mustn’t forget to warn my husband.” Fortified by the French breakfast, we set off again south through France; we still have to hold out one day and sleep one night and we shall find ourselves in Spain.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220212/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eA not bad quotation, one can even say it inspires me: “Writers write. If you want to become a writer, write.” Regina Brett. Thank you, Regina! Everything is simple, if you don’t complicate it… but it doesn’t always work out. We drive to the hotel, GPS tells us the way, we listen, look at the screen and drive. Outside it is 35 degrees of heat, and we are comfortable, you can choose the temperature; we drive into a French suburb, villas, cypresses.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I spent the summer»"},{"content":"I seemed to study well at school, but I was indifferent to geography. I remember that they started teaching that subject from the 4th class. Horror seized me when I went up to the geographical map — I could find nothing there, complete disorientation. The teacher would say: “Take the pointer and show on the map where the Volga flows into?” My feeling from a geographical map at that time: a heap of winding many-coloured lines, and among those “threads”-lines one had to find the Volga…. 🙀 So, something pulled me back into childhood. Well, you understood that I remained not very strong in geography, and I had a chance to display my illiteracy on the trip.\nHaving said goodbye to Baden-Baden and driven onto the motorway, my husband casually said: “well, a couple more nights in France and we’ll enter Spain.” …. “What? France too!? Well I never! He surprised me, he really surprised me! I had completely forgotten about France, that it borders Germany!” I think to myself, so many girls and women dream of getting to France, taking a photo at the Eiffel Tower or standing next to it, and here my kind wonderful husband Vanya is taking me to France, and I am almost indignant and surprised, the road is long and unknown. Well then, forward, to France!\nAnd when we crossed the border I suddenly exclaimed (I did not expect that of myself): “O France! — homeland of Fantômas!” Then I asked my husband whether he knew Fantômas — the hero of the film of the same name, whether he remembered it from his childhood. It turns out yes, he remembers, and his papa had a Citroën of the same model as Fantômas’s.\nWhile we were remembering, French radio came on, and how surprised I was when I heard an interview with the beauty Mylène Demongeot, who played the blonde, and without knowing French I feel that she is remembering all those already gone to the other world who played in that film. I try to tell my husband about such an amazing coincidence — I remembered Fantômas and here is an interview on the radio! Vanya has a Nordic character, he did not show particular emotion.\nAll right, we continue our way, the sun is shining brightly, in the distance blue mountains appeared, I saw a sign for Grenoble. I remembered that in some year the Olympic Games were held in Grenoble. My husband said that our first-priority task was to get there and get our bearings as to where to charge the Tesla. As they say, “GPS to our aid!” We drive. And then GPS “tells” us that it is time to leave the main road. We turned right onto a picturesque quiet road, even unpaved. We pass mountains on one side, fields on the other, almost no houses to be seen, we drive on a dirt road, no charging station in sight either. We drive, we are silent. Already maize fields appeared, no charging station. I glance with one eye at the computer screen, and the “battery” divisions are fewer and fewer, and then I thought “probably we’ll be left to live in these fields, we’ll sleep in the Tesla” … and the battery already shows 18 km, and my husband is silent and “dust curls from under the wheels” … m-yes. In Norwegian that is called a “situasjon” (situation). I was nervous, of course, but kept quiet.\nAt last an exit onto the motorway appeared, and so hope appeared of making it to a Supercharge station. Almost a happy ending. Yes indeed! We found it, arrived, charged. During daytime charging of the car we each time chose a hotel for the night on the internet. Of course we looked at prices and at the location of the hotel, and also whether there was a pool, to swim, precisely to swim, to “stretch” the spine after long sitting. We found one. We book and pay at once. We drive…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220211/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI seemed to study well at school, but I was indifferent to geography. I remember that they started teaching that subject from the 4th class. Horror seized me when I went up to the geographical map — I could find nothing there, complete disorientation. The teacher would say: “Take the pointer and show on the map where the Volga flows into?” My feeling from a geographical map at that time: a heap of winding many-coloured lines, and among those “threads”-lines one had to find the Volga…. 🙀 So, something pulled me back into childhood. Well, you understood that I remained not very strong in geography, and I had a chance to display my illiteracy on the trip.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“How I spent the summer.” Part 3"},{"content":" This photo was taken at a suburban hotel in Germany in the place Süderühlen. It was very cosy there, and on the way back from Spain we stopped there too.\nHappy New Year! It is I again, with thoughts of last summer. I will not weary readers with an artistic description of European sights. The thing is, I am a homebody, not a traveller and still less a tourist. But on trips my behaviour is always — exemplary. (as they once graded our behaviour in Soviet school) I try not to bother my Norwegian husband in any way when he is at the wheel and when he is not at the wheel either.\nSince we set out such a long distance for the first time in the Tesla, our main task was not to miss the so-called Supercharge electric charging points, which are now studded on the map all over Western Europe. And that, of course, is good. In practice it turned out like this: on the road one had to keep an eye on the computer screen, how many km the “battery” showed, and most of all not to miss a charge.\nWe could not book a hotel in advance. In the second half of the day, while at a Supercharge, we looked for the nearest lodging. The ideal lodging is a roadside hotel, but at the height of summer everything was taken. We had to look at suburban hotels.\nYes, and another thing. Our trip was planned for Spain; there was an invitation from my Norwegian husband’s brother. The brother has had a cottage there for about 11 years, and we received the invitation for the first time and of course decided not to refuse.\nSo, about Germany. I imagined that we would cross Germany at fantastic cosmic speed in our Tesla swallow! …. Aha, Little Red Riding Hood was dreaming (that is how I sometimes secretly call myself 😻). For two days we drove through Germany, and for two days almost the whole of the main road was under repair and construction work.\nOne night we spent at a suburban hotel. We liked it. Good conditions, I swam my fill in the pool, excellent service. Then we stopped in Baden-Baden. That is how it turned out; I never thought I would go there, to the famous European spa. We stayed in the centre of town at the Radisson hotel. What I understood for myself, and now I confess. I feel psychological tension from hotel comfort. And the more of that comfort and all sorts of extra frills, the worse for me. I understood that if I went there for a rest, a maximum of one week would be enough for me.\nAnd this is Baden-Baden.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20220116/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cimg alt=\"Sudermühlen\" loading=\"lazy\" src=\"/images/IMG_3295.jpeg\"\u003e\nThis photo was taken at a suburban hotel in Germany in the place Süderühlen. It was very cosy there, and on the way back from Spain we stopped there too.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHappy New Year! It is I again, with thoughts of last summer. I will not weary readers with an artistic description of European sights. The thing is, I am a homebody, not a traveller and still less a tourist. But on trips my behaviour is always — exemplary. (as they once graded our behaviour in Soviet school) I try not to bother my Norwegian husband in any way when he is at the wheel and when he is not at the wheel either.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 2 How I spent the summer"},{"content":"\nInspired by the number of people reading me in many countries, I decided to continue my travel story. I hope many understood that tormenting title of a composition that many of us had to write at school. At once I remember my childhood and adolescence (teenagerhood), as it is called now. And then the first days of September at school… God grant one remember what there was in summer, in summer, what there was in the hot summer…. And now too, I remember that I was hot. I have grown unused to heat in 10 years in Norway.\nBut before the trip I discussed with my Norwegian husband a plan for booking hotels, that they must have a pool. For me that was very important, to dip into a pool, to swim at least half an hour, and otherwise I am not very demanding. I understood that I like completely simple hotels, preferably without lifts and many storeys and pomp, and so… a long corridor on the first floor with rooms and many exits in case of fire 😻.\nIn the morning, breakfast. Here I have difficulties — I eat little, and there is a lot of food. My husband has no problems. He has eaten and can go a whole day without recalling food or drink. I have to take a piece of bread with me, spread butter, put a piece of cheese and ham, and also ask the waiter to pour boiling water into a thermos. I have a habit even in the heat of drinking hot tea.\nIn Denmark we were one night in a hotel; in the morning we went to Legoland. It is good that we arrived in the morning, but many had already managed to wake up and arrive too, managed to park successfully and stand in line at the machines to pay for parking. A couple of hours were enough for me to enjoy the Lego buildings. Having found out from my husband how far it was to the German border, we decided to set off, planning about 6 hours on the road and by evening to stop at a hotel that we would book on the way, using the internet.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20211211/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cimg alt=\"Legoland\" loading=\"lazy\" src=\"/images/IMG_7212.JPG\"\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eInspired by the number of people reading me in many countries, I decided to continue my travel story. I hope many understood that tormenting title of a composition that many of us had to write at school. At once I remember my childhood and adolescence (teenagerhood), as it is called now. And then the first days of September at school… God grant one remember what there was in summer, in summer, what there was in the hot summer…. And now too, I remember that I was hot. I have grown unused to heat in 10 years in Norway.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 2 How I spent the summer"},{"content":"\nHonestly, the first time I finally thought of putting a photo myself! The feet are not mine, but my husband’s, size 46. I think he will not take offence. The photo is “secret,” because photographing was forbidden in that place. And he was not photographing himself, but me! And only the feet came out! 🤓 Summer 2021….\nSome had neither the possibilities nor the desire, some had the desire but not the possibilities; I this summer had possibilities, which I did after all make use of, but I had no desire…. to travel. I am not a tourist and not a traveller, I am a homebody. That is my vice, so to speak “I am a vicious woman.” 10 years already in Norway, and with this vice of mine I have been fighting hard for 10 years! If they propose that I go — I go. But myself — no initiative! I am even afraid to mention any place on the globe, because at once the question will come “do you want to?” and at once one must start planning a trip, and my taciturn husband starts looking for tickets for planes–ferries–ships. I try to keep quiet.\nBut life turns out that when you “mustn’t,” but you very much want to, you yourselves understand what I mean now, and at the beginning of summer my husband suddenly dreamed of going to Italy in the Tesla, hinting that it was time to “walk” the Tesla around Western Europe, showing a map densely studded with special Supercharge electric charging points, and it would be good to use the advantages of our car in particular, namely free charging (for now!). I put that in brackets because when we bought the electric car they promised a great many “perks,” and now they are “cutting” them.\nI quietly agreed, and he at once ordered tickets for the ferry to Denmark. In my soul there remained a hope that he would not take me further than Denmark. 🤣 We booked a hotel room together with buying tickets to Legoland. I love the country of Denmark. It is small, cosy, sweet and beautiful, and close to me in family relations, and also very convenient to get to if you have a car, but if you have no car it is also convenient, because there is a ferry from Kristiansand that will deliver a “pedestrian” to Denmark in 3 hours 15 min. We have used the ferry to Denmark more than once. I like it.\nIf we go in the morning, my husband orders tickets with breakfast in the restaurant. You sit the whole trip in the restaurant, drink, eat, snack, coffee–juices–Cokes in a river; I call such abundance “keeping up appearances.” I walked through the duty-free shops. I bought myself there a “little black dress size XXL.” As Coco Chanel bequeathed to all women, to have a little black dress, so I fulfilled her bequest! 🤣 Inspired by my unplanned purchase, I thought, why not go further than Denmark and “walk” my little dress.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20211031/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cimg alt=\"Spania\" loading=\"lazy\" src=\"/images/2021_IMG_01.JPG\"\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHonestly, the first time I finally thought of putting a photo myself! The feet are not mine, but my husband’s, size 46. I think he will not take offence. The photo is “secret,” because photographing was forbidden in that place. And he was not photographing himself, but me! And only the feet came out! 🤓 Summer 2021….\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSome had neither the possibilities nor the desire, some had the desire but not the possibilities; I this summer had possibilities, which I did after all make use of, but I had no desire…. to travel. I am not a tourist and not a traveller, I am a homebody. That is my vice, so to speak “I am a vicious woman.” 10 years already in Norway, and with this vice of mine I have been fighting hard for 10 years! If they propose that I go — I go. But myself — no initiative! I am even afraid to mention any place on the globe, because at once the question will come “do you want to?” and at once one must start planning a trip, and my taciturn husband starts looking for tickets for planes–ferries–ships. I try to keep quiet.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I spent the summer"},{"content":"Part 9 “\u0026hellip; AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” So. I sorted out the dog. I had to sort myself out. After all, I arrived at a respectable age, with my own habits. The first-priority task was to learn Norwegian.\nI did not find any particular difficulties in studying; at home I continued to speak English, and for some time it turned out that I treated Norwegian as a subject of study, but not of practice. I will explain why I reason that way. I think that because of my age I could not fit two foreign languages in my head. Of course that is a funny thought, when you are abroad and feel that English is becoming “native,” while Norwegian, which you have to use in a Norwegian environment, just will not “switch on.”\nAnd as of today, on the contrary, I find it hard to “switch on” English. 😻 And yet there is such an opinion in the home country that a foreign language is easier to learn when you fall into the environment.\nAnd what did the environment I fell into mean — forest, fresh air, the sea, a taciturn husband (Vikings are like that!) and Norwegian courses at the municipality for foreigners. Ah! And also the bus. I have kept tender feelings for the bus; I called it personal transport. Very comfortable, always on schedule, but the intervals in the timetable were long.\nOnly in the morning, starting from 6.30, 7.30, 8.00, 9.00, could you get from our village of Homborsund to the nearest town, Grimstad, where the administration, the library, the medical posts were (that is what I called medical institutions in Norway, because there was no single polyclinic building). And the hospital was and is in the town of Arendal. That is 30 km from Grimstad.\nTo get to the courses I got on the bus at 7.30. At that time the bus filled along the way with sleepy, uncombed, unfed school-age teenagers, sneakers or trainers on bare feet all year round, but in headphones, with rucksacks and with travel thermos mugs in their hands. On the bus they tried to wake up, but they were silent. That was my deep immersion in the Norwegian environment.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210608/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 9 “\u0026hellip; AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” So. I sorted out the dog. I had to sort myself out. After all, I arrived at a respectable age, with my own habits. The first-priority task was to learn Norwegian.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI did not find any particular difficulties in studying; at home I continued to speak English, and for some time it turned out that I treated Norwegian as a subject of study, but not of practice. I will explain why I reason that way. I think that because of my age I could not fit two foreign languages in my head. Of course that is a funny thought, when you are abroad and feel that English is becoming “native,” while Norwegian, which you have to use in a Norwegian environment, just will not “switch on.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 9"},{"content":"Part 8 “\u0026hellip;AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Usually I write in the evening. First I sit–sit–sit — staring at one point. Memories of my first five-year plan in Norway will not let me go. And how to set out more correctly what happened to me in that period is no simple task.\nThere! I remembered! Who soothed me in hard minutes when I lost my peace of mind — it was the dog named Sami. The thing is, I had never had a dog, and here all at once — a husband, and a dog, and a cat, and daughters who are not-daughters.\nWhen I tried to express my dissatisfaction with their behaviour, Ivan very tactfully explained to me that I am not their stepmother and nothing in their actions should worry me, whereas he is both their father and guardian, who fully bears legal responsibility. “Well, of course it is good that he is so responsible,” I thought then. (He is still responsible now; I am lucky.) But he did not bring up his daughters, did not make remarks to them and never went into their rooms. And he should have! But their bedrooms are their private territory, “where no human foot has trod.” And there was nowhere to tread! A complete jumble of things, they never made the beds. They ate and drank in bed too, and forgot to bring the dirty dishes as far as the kitchen. Well, if guests came in or drove over, leftover pizza could dry somewhere in a corner.\nBut Ivan had a clear daily routine. Up at 5 in the morning, a walk with the dog, a shower, making breakfast and the obligatory making of sandwiches for the daughters for school — and, of course, some amount of money for the week he always transferred to their cards.\nWhy did I mention money now? Because the daughters were not hungry and bought themselves food outside the house, and brought the sandwiches back and threw them away, and since we sorted the rubbish, every time I had a shock from the thrown-out bread. I started saying that bread must not be thrown away. They did not understand me. Then I started explaining to Ivan why he gathered sandwiches for them every morning so that they would throw them away when they came from school. It would be more logical simply not to give them food; let them buy what they like. No, he did not hear me and stubbornly continued to pack them food and fruit. Then I started picking the bread out of the rubbish bin myself, gathering it in a paper bag, and when we walked the dog to the sea I threw the bread to the seagulls. They are always hungry, please. All right. I solved one problem.\nNow I will tell about the dog, who became a friend to me. A Border Collie, a shaggy black-and-white beauty; no one washed him or combed him; we walked him three times a day, 7–8 kilometres. I look, the fur on his chest is matted, hanging in clumps. I ask “what shall we do with the dog, how to look after him, probably he needs combing?” And Ivan tells me: “he gets angry, he is not used to a brush and I don’t touch him.” I guessed myself that one could try pulling the fur out, and he liked that very much, and gradually I put him in order.\nAnd once I read a very useful article on how to train a dog. The main thing I took from that article and successfully applied in practice is that a dog must obey its master without question and there must not be much freedom for a dog; a dog cannot be on its own, like a cat; there must be control over it.\nAnd it turned out like this: we would go out walking him, holding him on a long lead; there was a case when they were leading another dog toward us on a lead, and ours lunged so furiously at that dog that I had a shock. Ivan, of course, managed to hold him, but I started asking why such a violent reaction. He was already 8 then, and maybe he was so angry because he had never been taken to mate, that is, the dog had had no sex. My husband’s answer was a revelation to me: “how can a dog want what it does not know.” And what is there to know? — I thought, “a dog has instincts!” Later, when I had to walk him, I achieved obedience, walked him on a short lead; he understood the command “heel!” and, seeing neighbours walking with a dog, I would clamp my dog between my legs and hold him until he calmed down. Ah! I just remembered, I took a little treat and fed him when he was nervous. Later I learned that this breed has a very high intelligence, and if it were used for its purpose, namely herding and guarding sheep, then in that work it is an invaluable helper on a farm.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210418/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 8 “\u0026hellip;AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Usually I write in the evening. First I sit–sit–sit — staring at one point. Memories of my first five-year plan in Norway will not let me go. And how to set out more correctly what happened to me in that period is no simple task.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThere! I remembered! Who soothed me in hard minutes when I lost my peace of mind — it was the dog named Sami. The thing is, I had never had a dog, and here all at once — a husband, and a dog, and a cat, and daughters who are not-daughters.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 8"},{"content":"Part 7 “\u0026hellip;. AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL\u0026hellip;”. Thoughts about today. Sunday, 11 April 2021. My Norwegian husband is ready to drive me anywhere. It is good that in Norway there is a lot of fresh air and natural beauty. Of course, I have grown used to it. “There lived an old man and an old woman by the very blue sea.” Almost like us, but we do not feel our age and try to go somewhere, not very far, well\u0026hellip; to get some air.\nWe drove today, about 50 minutes one way. Just turn a little off the main road and that is it, you find yourself in wild places like Alyonushka with little brother Ivanushka: a narrow, winding road, mountains hanging over the road, and on the other side a huge lake, and\u0026hellip; no one.\nWe walked into the forest and along the lake, came upon a summer cottage, like a shed, with a wooden sign with the eloquent name “Hilton.” We walked around the shed and saw a solar panel. So some little comfort is provided in the shed. My husband asked whether I would like such a cabin? Of course not. If you are not a fisherman, what is there to do?\nAnd yet many Norwegians very much strive for that kind of solitary rest. And I need no cabins at all and never dreamed of them, but today I remembered my former husband and when we had a small child, we lived at his parents’ dacha, and how I worried when my husband went fishing, and I had to be alone with a 10-month-old son. In a rubber inflatable boat he would paddle to the middle of the Dnieper and cast a line there. And I was all in worry, as if something might happen. And now I “look back” and think “and what was there to worry about?”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210417/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 7 “\u0026hellip;. AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL\u0026hellip;”. Thoughts about today. Sunday, 11 April 2021. My Norwegian husband is ready to drive me anywhere. It is good that in Norway there is a lot of fresh air and natural beauty. Of course, I have grown used to it. “There lived an old man and an old woman by the very blue sea.” Almost like us, but we do not feel our age and try to go somewhere, not very far, well\u0026hellip; to get some air.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 7"},{"content":"Part 6 “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Return to Kiev. After the tourist period I came home on 3 March 2011. The plaster was to come off in three weeks. The decision had already been taken that we would marry, and Ivan at once began collecting documents to open my 6-month fiancée visa.\nFor that he prepared a list of documents. At that time the fiancé had to have a minimum of 240 thousand kroner a year in permanent income, have enough square metres of housing for a wife, and have no debts on that housing. And his documents and a filled-in form he submitted to UDI, paid 3,000 kroner for the visa, and sent me an official invitation and a form, with which I was able to get into the Norwegian embassy in Kiev only on 2 May.\nWhen I handed in my documents at the embassy, the secretary said: “you will have to wait for the visa to be opened from UDI; nothing depends on us any more, and we do not know the waiting times” (they only added that they can consider it for a long time, up to 11 months).\nAbout a week after my arrival in Kiev a letter came to me from the Norwegian hospital for payment for treatment of 2,000 kroner (200 euro). And I remembered that Ivan had paid for everything at the hospital. I rang, telling him excitedly. He says: “Everything is fine, don’t worry, I paid it all, they just sent it to your address, duplicated it.” I had to bustle some more, go to Podol to the insurance company, where they paid me 2,000 hryvnias. At the insurance company there is such an “interesting” system: I broke my arm at 12 noon, and I rang the insurance company at 19.30. So a polite voice answered me that one must ring about what happened at once, as soon as you broke it. Strange — and if I had been unconscious?\nThree weeks later I went to the clinic to see the surgeon. I sat out the queue, I go in: “hello–hello, I’ve come to ask for a referral for an X-ray!” The surgeon (an uncle the same age as I), asks: “And what’s this, such a posh plaster you’ve got? And where did they put it on?” I am silent, smile politely, don’t confess it is from Norway, I say “I need to get to X-ray.” And he: “So first you have to take the plaster off, and then X-ray, and I haven’t even got the instrument.” And I to him: “So maybe you want to send me to a plumber?” — “All right, let’s go to the treatment room!”\nThey started, he and the nurse, taking it off — cutting with blunt scissors, tugging at the arm. And it hurt me. I say: “Careful!” And he to me: “I zvidky taka tenditna pryikhala?” (where did such a delicate one come from?) I repeat “delicate–snowy” 😻. They sent me to X-ray. I bring him the wet film hanging on a stick, he looks–says: “And what did they do with your arm, tiahnuly (they pulled)?” I answer: yes, they pulled. “They pulled and didn’t pull enough, but you’ll live.” And my right arm hangs like a whip. I ask “And what now to do with the arm?” He says you need to go to physio for treatments, you’ll recover quickly. So I did everything “the doctor prescribed” 🧐. I recovered quickly and continued swimming in the pool. That is my long-standing hobby — swimming.\nBy the way, in my tourist period, before breaking my arm, Ivan and I used to go into town to swim in the pool. Once the elder daughter asked Ivan that we go somewhere in the evening, until about 11, so we would not be in the house, because guests were to come to her. Honestly, we had nowhere to go except the pool, but it was open only until 20.00. Ivan suggested sitting in a restaurant as well. Oh. We came out of the pool, winter, snow up to the knees, drove to the town centre, parked the car, walked through the drifts to the centre. In the restaurant — no one, only the two of us. We do not eat in the evening. We ordered coffee and dessert. We whiled away the time until 22.30. We arrived, and at home there was company; they did not break up soon. Then I did not yet think what a “merry” life I would have in Norway! 🤗\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210227/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 6 “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Return to Kiev. After the tourist period I came home on 3 March 2011. The plaster was to come off in three weeks. The decision had already been taken that we would marry, and Ivan at once began collecting documents to open my 6-month fiancée visa.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFor that he prepared a list of documents. At that time the fiancé had to have a minimum of 240 thousand kroner a year in permanent income, have enough square metres of housing for a wife, and have no debts on that housing. And his documents and a filled-in form he submitted to UDI, paid 3,000 kroner for the visa, and sent me an official invitation and a form, with which I was able to get into the Norwegian embassy in Kiev only on 2 May.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 6"},{"content":"Part 5 “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Today is 23 February 2021. Exactly 10 years since I broke my arm! A “jubilee.” At this time in Norway the winter holidays are on. Those who have cabins in the mountains and forests go with their families to ski and do sport.\nI return to my memories, to the departure of Ivan’s daughters to Spain, and I still had to go to the hospital for a check of the plaster, and Ivan had been given an appointment for a consultation — help from a psychologist as a single father-guardian. First we stopped at the psychologist’s. I decided to wait in the cosy foyer while Ivan got the consultation. The consultation dragged on for a whole hour and a half. I was already quite “worn out” with waiting, and the arm in plaster also hurt, “ached.” At last we got to the hospital and there they put on another layer of strong plaster.\nNow I understand that Ivan wanted somehow to cheer me up; he invited me to a shopping centre, we sat in a café, drank coffee with pastries, and then he asked whether I wanted to buy some clothes. I don’t know, unfortunately or fortunately, I am not a shopping enthusiast. Well, since he very much wanted to please me with something new (it was not the first during my tourist period), I agreed to walk through the clothing department and chose a little jumper for myself.\nI will not hide it: Norwegian prices “stressed” me a great deal at first. I will give this example: a monthly bus pass, with which I travelled from the village to town for language courses, cost 800 kroner (80 euros), and my pension in Ukraine then was 50 euros. (I have allowed myself now to compare the “incomparable” 🤭) \u0026hellip;.\nTime passes and you understand that in Norway it is better to explain less to Norwegians that in Ukraine they grant women a pension at 55, and men at 60 (that is how it was 10 years ago; now they have raised it), and if you name the sum of 50 euros they politely ask again: “is that — a day?” And as for the age threshold, Norwegians were delighted and at once complained that for them it is 67! In time I understood — the nicest thing is to talk about the weather, about nature, about pets and about travel.\nFor a time I went to a church choir. Norwegian pensioners gathered there, all local. We met once a week at 19.30 on Thursdays; my husband drove me by car (in the evening I could no longer get to town). In the break we drank coffee with baking, and of course the Norwegians took an interest in me, since I was a “phenomenon” in their society. I had to tell about myself, about the family, and so on and so forth, and once in May, before Victory Day, one very elderly, cultured man started recalling the war of 1941–1945.\nI cannot now remember the details, but it turned out that I asked him about the number of Soviet people killed. He thought\u0026hellip;. I then asked: “at least name an approximate figure\u0026hellip;” He named it. 100 thousand. I politely corrected him: 20 million!!! (then the old statistics were still in use) 20 million equal the population of 4 Norways.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210224/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 5 “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL.” Today is 23 February 2021. Exactly 10 years since I broke my arm! A “jubilee.” At this time in Norway the winter holidays are on. Those who have cabins in the mountains and forests go with their families to ski and do sport.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI return to my memories, to the departure of Ivan’s daughters to Spain, and I still had to go to the hospital for a check of the plaster, and Ivan had been given an appointment for a consultation — help from a psychologist as a single father-guardian. First we stopped at the psychologist’s. I decided to wait in the cosy foyer while Ivan got the consultation. The consultation dragged on for a whole hour and a half. I was already quite “worn out” with waiting, and the arm in plaster also hurt, “ached.” At last we got to the hospital and there they put on another layer of strong plaster.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 5"},{"content":"Part 4 “\u0026hellip; AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”. I must admit that I never for a minute doubted Ivan’s reliability, so I firmly decided for myself to gather patience, study Norwegian, and prepare to move to the village and to further family life. I would have to build relations with the remaining members of the family\u0026hellip;..\nI have already written that at the end of my tourist period, on 23 February, I broke my right arm, and my visa was until 6 March, the plane ticket 3 March. And getting used to “disability” turned out not to be the easiest thing. At the courses the winter holidays began, and I was already left at home alone; I had to get used to doing everything with my left hand, and in a week I still had to go to the hospital again for a check that the plaster had been put on correctly.\nThe daughters’ holidays began at the end of February, and they were planning a trip to Spain to their mother. Of course Ivan took all the expenses on himself. And I turned out to be a live witness of teenage girls packing for the road. For Ivan their trip was important because he was sending with them “the paper to sign” about the divorce. And their mother had also dictated what things they were to bring. That is when the most interesting part began — they could not find anything from the list.\nAmong the valuable things mentioned were a gold bracelet, 2 wooden icons, and Hugo Boss shorts. The mention of the gold bracelet embarrassed me a great deal. I will explain why. The house was a complete jumble of things. I had the impression that the girls put on everything “disposable” and then threw it “in a heap” onto the washing machine and under their feet. The cupboards and the storeroom were stuffed, and in their rooms, on the beds, things were scattered too. Perhaps someone would be impressed by the size of a two-storey house (I think 130 m²), but I was not very comfortable then.\nI will not hide it: although I was a guest, I tried to clear some of the “jams.” I finally began my so-called domestic activity with the laundry. Since I had few of my own things, I tried to “capture” what was piled in a heap on the washing machine. A 10 kg load. Next to the washer stood a dryer. I took an interest in that too, studied it carefully, tried drying. It seemed quick and hot, but the processed air of the dry linen spread through the whole house. Unpleasant. (There was no special utility room in the house.) I had to set up a portable drying rack in the large room and hang the small things. And that is how I spent part of my free time: washed–dried–folded–sorted–carried round the rooms or handed into the hands of the “mistresses” 😻.\nAt some point I grew so “bold” that I proposed a “subbotnik” (I have already written), but they “did not understand” me. At last the things were gathered, the bracelet found in a large box with numerous bits of costume jewellery, but for the shorts one had to go into the garage and look in a container. Neither of them agreed to such “feats.” And I too decided “not to risk it,” or else, I thought, a broken leg might be added to the broken arm. (The garage was wooden, without lighting, “by coincidence,” so to speak, a shed, into which Ivan skilfully “squeezed” his car.)\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210221/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 4 “\u0026hellip; AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”. I must admit that I never for a minute doubted Ivan’s reliability, so I firmly decided for myself to gather patience, study Norwegian, and prepare to move to the village and to further family life. I would have to build relations with the remaining members of the family\u0026hellip;..\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI have already written that at the end of my tourist period, on 23 February, I broke my right arm, and my visa was until 6 March, the plane ticket 3 March. And getting used to “disability” turned out not to be the easiest thing. At the courses the winter holidays began, and I was already left at home alone; I had to get used to doing everything with my left hand, and in a week I still had to go to the hospital again for a check that the plaster had been put on correctly.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 4 “... AND FROM THIS MOMENT, PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”"},{"content":"Part 3 “. .. AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL”. Today is 7 February 2021. It turns out there is a holiday in Norway — Fire Extinguisher’s Birthday. I think it turned 150. In Norway every house has such a thing. Its place is in the corner of the hall, at the entrance. But it is terribly heavy! God forbid one should have to use it! All right, I will not think about that.\nBecause I promised (myself) to write about relations with Ivan’s daughters. I want to stress this: I do not call them stepdaughters, or myself a stepmother, because they have a mother. I have no right to condemn her act — I am not acquainted with her, I have only seen a photo, but there was a moment when I was indignant.\nAnd it was like this (I am still writing about my tourist period of life in Norway). We went for a walk with the dog, and then the phone rang. I understood that it was she calling. The conversation was short, in Norwegian (I did not understand yet then), and Ivan tells me that she dictated conditions to him before she would sign the divorce paper. She demands a one-time cash settlement and monthly alimony payments to her until the younger daughter turns 21, that is, full majority. And the younger daughter was then only 15.\nIvan said he would pay everything she asked. I asked why they were divorcing without a lawyer. He said that with a lawyer it is expensive. And it is better than dividing all the property, and the most expensive thing is the house. “Yeees! They divorce interestingly here,” I thought.\nBy Norwegian law, if a family breaks up, the parents’ duties are divided equally. In practice the children live two weeks with the mother, two with the father. But if a divorced mother does not want to live in Norway, it is practically impossible for her to take the child with her. And in Ivan’s family it was precisely that case, when the underage children stayed with the father, who at the same time, by law, was also the guardian, because he was financially provided for. At the same time he also paid monthly alimony to the healthy, young 40-year-old mother of his children, living not in her native country but in Spain, and possibly “with someone.”\nI confess honestly, I did not feel very comfortable then. It seemed to me that she might come back and I would find myself “in a situation.” I shared my doubts with Ivan, but he firmly assured me that everything had long been decided, and the material part of the question was simply the concluding chord of his former family life.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210208/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 3 “. .. AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL”. Today is 7 February 2021. It turns out there is a holiday in Norway — Fire Extinguisher’s Birthday. I think it turned 150. In Norway every house has such a thing. Its place is in the corner of the hall, at the entrance. But it is terribly heavy! God forbid one should have to use it! All right, I will not think about that.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 3 “. .. AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL”"},{"content":"Part 2 “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”. To write shortly and in detail, one has to think at leength and not be distracted, or even not react to the sun, which today is shining brightly “straight in the eye.” I decided to give it the subtitle “Everyday stuff.”\nIn stories from past years I have already written how wonderfully I spent those almost 3 tourist months. I had to go back to my homeland when the visa ended. People close to me asked whether I talked with Ivan’s daughters, and in what language.\nHere I come out with such a long, thoughtful “well\u0026hellip;” Both daughters at that time knew English, especially the elder. Already then she was studying at a “decent gymnasium,” studying well, but she showed no particular eagerness to speak English with a guest from Kiev. At best she might say “Good morning!”\nShe had her own room on the first floor, 10 m², unheated, that is, if it was cold, a portable oil-filled electric heater was on all the time. The way out of the room was into the living room, in Norwegian stue. There stood an old corner sofa, a coffee table, a TV, and in the living room there was a warm floor — parquet, varnished and covered with a large carpet.\nA Norwegian stue is traditionally a large room in which, besides a sitting corner by the TV, a large dining table with chairs is usually placed by the window or the way out to the veranda. In our house the stue was about 20 sq. m., and a large oval wooden table fitted in the kitchen, at which we marked Christmas, gathered as a whole family. Note: once, all together.\nIn the following days the daughters carried food off to their rooms, and they handed over dirty dishes only after papa’s reminder, and papa Ivan had to remind me. (I was a guest, so I tried to behave decently.) The younger daughter’s room was on the second floor. There too was our bedroom, a bathroom with a toilet, where there was a warm floor. And on the second floor we also switched on electric heaters.\nWhen I asked Ivan about the cost of electricity, he answered that in Norway electricity is not expensive and I need not worry about expenses for electricity and water. I cannot say that those expenses worried me then; I was more concerned about observing safety with electrical appliances left on, when Ivan suddenly — urgently, at the request of one or both daughters at once — “tore from the spot to the garage to the car,” putting on a jacket as he went and taking the phone (sometimes he forgot and came back) to drive them to friends or bring someone, meet them from the bus, and so on.\nThey would leave the wooden house with the dog and the cat, without switching off a single electrical appliance, and also the lights. They called me along too. To speak and warn about the danger of a short circuit was useless. Ivan showed me the fire alarm built into the ceiling.\nOh, with that alarm a “funny” incident happened much later. I think in 2015 Ivan was going to work in Oslo. That is 300 km from our house. He came only on weekends, and I stayed in the house alone with the dog and the cat. Our dog, a Border Collie, was very sensitive to firecrackers and sharp sounds.\nAnd wouldn’t you know it: one of the sensors started beeping loudly in short bursts! It was winter, and I could not quickly run out into the street with the dog. The dog was in a panic, trembling, racing all over the house; I was trying to determine which sensor the sound was coming from, but I did not know how to switch it off. I ran out into the street to meet someone, anyone, to ask for help, but there was not a soul around.\nI came back. I put a chair, stretched my arm to the ceiling, got the “little box” attached to the ceiling in the hall, pulled the battery out of the box. That was all. Silence fell. And the system was this: when the battery “ran down,” those sensors started signalling as in a fire.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210205/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePart 2   “\u0026hellip;.AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”. To write shortly and in detail, one has to think at leength and not be distracted, or even not react to the sun, which today is shining brightly “straight in the eye.” I decided to give it the subtitle “Everyday stuff.”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn stories from past years I have already written how wonderfully I spent those almost 3 tourist months. I had to go back to my homeland when the visa ended. People close to me asked whether I talked with Ivan’s daughters, and in what language.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 2   “....AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE, IN MORE DETAIL”"},{"content":"“\u0026hellip;. AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL !” I keep the blog with the help of my Norwegian husband. If it were not for his skill and knowledge of computers, I would hardly have bothered and written my “memoirs.”\nOnce he asked what I write about. I even got confused; you cannot answer that in two words at once. I started saying that they are memories of the past, of my parents, of my homeland. “And have you written anything about our family?” — “Yes, but without particular details, as they say, I didn’t ‘air the dirty linen.’” He was even slightly surprised that there is nothing shameful in writing about jointly lived moments in relations with his daughters.\nYes, precisely with the daughters. With my husband, from the start, very companionable relations formed, and they continue to be so. Today’s anonymous post in an FB group pushed me to write more fully about what I lived through\u0026hellip; A subtitle even came to mind: “MY first FIVE-YEAR PLAN in Norway.”\nI have already written that the “live” meeting took place in Kiev; I met Ivan at Boryspil airport on 3 November 2010. Before that we talked every day on Skype, starting from 25 September. He told and wrote in detail about his family, who his parents were (mama is Swedish, papa is Norwegian), two younger brothers (both married to foreigners), and that his wife (also a foreigner) had left him with two daughters, who at that time were 13 and 15. And he had already been alone for 8 months, and his wife had flown to live in Spain, and she was “not alone” there.\nThen I thought: well, how interesting, we were both left by our first spouses, we each have two children (my sons were already quite grown and independent then), and in our first marriages we had been for the same number of years — 14. Ivan flew in for 4 days; the daughters stayed home alone. I, of course, doubted and worried how he could leave the house, the dog, the cat for as many as four days without supervision. I asked him, maybe the neighbours could help? And what was the daughters’ reaction to his temporary departure? He reassured me that the daughters had their own interests and would manage perfectly well alone and without the neighbours’ help.\nAha. Not so fast! As soon as he found himself in Kiev, the elder daughter started calling him and writing SMS, asking about all sorts of small breakdowns: the lights went out, where is the fuse box in the house, what to feed the dog, the internet was acting up, and so on. Ivan calmly, imperturbably answered both on the phone and wrote detailed SMS of “what, where, when.”\nOur four days together flew by quickly. The November days turned out very warm and sunny, which helped long walks around the city, and also a cultural outing to the Opera and Ballet Theatre. We took joint photographs. By the way, joint photos were very important for us as proof of our real-life meeting, and not just a virtual acquaintance. In those times, for me, a Ukrainian citizen, it was not very simple to fly to a distant country to a “man known from the internet.” You needed material evidence, namely joint photos, to open a tourist-guest visa for 3 months at the Norwegian embassy in Kiev.\nOn arriving in Norway, Ivan at once made out an official invitation, certified by the police, on a special form, and sent it by ordinary post. Every day we continued to talk on Skype. I think about two weeks passed waiting for the post, and still no invitation. Then Ivan made a new invitation and sent it by express post with delivery. A day later a courier handed it to me, and, having gathered all the papers, at the appointed time I went to the embassy to submit the documents.\nAnd yes indeed! Through the glass I was asked what I intended to do from 15 December, in winter, in Norway, and for a whole three months at that?! I answered that I was going to visit a friend who is a single father, to spend Christmas and New Year as a family, and after the holidays to go to courses in Norwegian. I remember the visa was issued quickly. And on 15 December 2010 I flew toward a new life in the prosperous country of Norway!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20210204/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“\u0026hellip;. AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL !” I keep the blog with the help of my Norwegian husband. If it were not for his skill and knowledge of computers, I would hardly have bothered and written my “memoirs.”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce he asked what I write about. I even got confused; you cannot answer that in two words at once. I started saying that they are memories of the past, of my parents, of my homeland. “And have you written anything about our family?” — “Yes, but without particular details, as they say, I didn’t ‘air the dirty linen.’” He was even slightly surprised that there is nothing shameful in writing about jointly lived moments in relations with his daughters.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“.... AND FROM THIS MOMENT PLEASE IN MORE DETAIL !”"},{"content":"Such a sign — a reminder — hangs before the entrance to the showers at the pool we have been going to for four years already. But my overall unbroken swimming record is already 13 years. All my movements in preparing to swim have been worked out to automaticity. And that is what this automaticity led me to last Sunday.\nOn Sundays my husband and I try to arrive at opening, at 10 o’clock. At that time there are few people; we each swim our own quota: my husband swims one and a half kilometres, and I 800 metres breaststroke. Going into the changing room I follow the rules — take off my shoes, go to the locker, undress neatly down to nothing, so as not to attract attention, say, of a 6-year-old boy whom his mother has brought into the women’s changing room (although the rules forbid this). But that happens, and no one bothers anyone or makes remarks.\nAnd before going into the shower I wrap myself in a towel, and already in the shower I wash myself so that all the water-dwellers will find my presence in the pool pleasant. I must say that, unfortunately, not many follow the rules, and very often people go into the shower in swimming costumes. Well, I don’t know how you can wash yourself without taking off the costume\u0026hellip; The thought of the “mysterious Norwegian nature” visits me at once. What is, is, and it is not for me to tell them.\nAnd so, wrapped in a towel, I head for the shower and see a young woman who seems to be a “duty staff member.” I think\u0026hellip; probably they posted her here, because of the epidemic, to watch that hygiene procedures are followed. I nod to her in greeting; she stops me (at that time I noticed only two girls of about 10 in the shower) and starts explaining something quickly to me in Norwegian. I “catch” a couple of familiar words: shower, swimming costume\u0026hellip;\nI answer helpfully in Norwegian: “ja, ja, dusje naken.” And suddenly she says: “nei, ikke naken” (no, not naked). After a pause I said: “forstår ikke” (I don’t understand). She immediately switches to English and tells me the same in English, adding a phrase about men in the shower. I quickly form my question in Norwegian: “Is the shower mixed today, with men?” — “No, not mixed,” she answers, “over there, in the corner, a plumber is repairing the shower! And you will have to put on a swimming costume.”\nAt last I saw the plumber, squatting, “facing the wall.” I laughed quietly, because an old Soviet joke about Sophia Loren and a Soviet plumber floated up in my mind, but there was no one to share the joke with. I went back to the changing room, put on my swimming costume, and when I entered the shower, neither the plumber nor the young woman was there. I had to take the costume off again\u0026hellip;\nAnd now I will try to put that old joke on paper. The world-famous beauty Sophia Loren arrived in the Soviet Union. They put her in a luxurious hotel room; she decided to take a shower “after the road” (they used to say: you’ve come from the road, you’re tired). And in the shower there was trouble, interruptions in the water. She started calling for help, standing there all beautiful, naked under the shower, and no water.\nA plumber came; to Sophia — “zero attention,” he squatted down and under the washbasin began to do his work. And Sophia stands naked, turns one side toward the plumber, then the other\u0026hellip;. And the plumber, once he had settled under the washbasin, never once turned his head toward her. Then Sophia could not stand it and quietly touched the plumber’s shoulder. The plumber turned, looked, and irritably uttered: “What, fool, never seen a plumber?!” M-yes. Plumbers in Soviet times were not very delicate, that is true. But then, no one was delicate with them either.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20201129/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSuch a sign — a reminder — hangs before the entrance to the showers at the pool we have been going to for four years already. But my overall unbroken swimming record is already 13 years. All my movements in preparing to swim have been worked out to automaticity. And that is what this automaticity led me to last Sunday.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn Sundays my husband and I try to arrive at opening, at 10 o’clock. At that time there are few people; we each swim our own quota: my husband swims one and a half kilometres, and I 800 metres breaststroke. Going into the changing room I follow the rules — take off my shoes, go to the locker, undress neatly down to nothing, so as not to attract attention, say, of a 6-year-old boy whom his mother has brought into the women’s changing room (although the rules forbid this). But that happens, and no one bothers anyone or makes remarks.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"«Dusje naken!» — “Take your shower naked!”."},{"content":"The article has a tempting title: «Lokker med 300000 kroner om bygger hus i denne kommunen» (we attract people with 300 thousand kroner to build houses in this municipality).\nIn the municipality of Iveland there live only 1,300 inhabitants. There is a school and a kindergarten. It is set in a picturesque place, but not on the coast. The mayor of the municipality, a young attractive woman, Gro-Anita Mykjåland, tells: in the 1970s the municipality numbered only 700 people, and in 2020 more than 1,300 inhabitants.\nIn order to attract new residents, the municipality can issue a subsidy for building housing of 30 thousand euros (300 thousand Norwegian kroner). Any resident of Norway can apply for the subsidy, but the person who wants to receive it must meet certain requirements in building their home: if you build a private house, your house must have at least 3 bedrooms, and if an apartment, then two bedrooms. I take it that they are attracting people with children to the municipality.\nThe mayor hopes that there are people for whom these conditions will suit, because a large part of people use their own transport to travel to work at a distance. For example, about 30 kilometres away, in the settlement of Vatnestrøm, there are three large factories — Voss, Moelven, Dørfabrikken — and workers at those factories can start building their housing in the municipality of Iveland. Although the municipality’s yearly budget is small — only 2 million kroner, 200 thousand euros. But the mayor stressed that if there are many who want to build their home, the budget in the municipality can be increased.\nUnfortunately the article did not name the cost of a building plot. Prices for housing and plots are different everywhere. And it is hard to name even an approximate price.\nAnd now I want to write my own thoughts about this article. The idea seems tempting for people who dream of building their own home. But what is 300 thousand kroner in Norway? What kind of big money is that? I give an equivalent: it is the average-minimum yearly wage of a worker or employee, if the person works full time and permanently. I stress the word permanently. In Norwegian it is called fastjobb.\nIn Norway there is a problem getting a permanent job at 100% employment. So if someone who wants to build housing does not have income from 100% employment, they will not get the subsidy, nor a bank loan for construction. So my conclusion for those who want to build in Norway is: first a job, then (almost at once!) a car as a means of getting around, and only then think about housing.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200526/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe article has a tempting title: «Lokker med 300000 kroner om bygger hus i denne kommunen» (we attract people with 300 thousand kroner to build houses in this municipality).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the municipality of Iveland there live only 1,300 inhabitants. There is a school and a kindergarten. It is set in a picturesque place, but not on the coast. The mayor of the municipality, a young attractive woman, Gro-Anita Mykjåland, tells: in the 1970s the municipality numbered only 700 people, and in 2020 more than 1,300 inhabitants.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"An article from the Norwegian newspaper «Fædrelandsvennen»."},{"content":"\u0026ldquo;You wait three years for what was promised.\u0026rdquo; That is how the photographs sent from my youth were signed. Almost half a century has passed since then\u0026hellip;. I did not wait, did not wait\u0026hellip; And then, like snow. I remember myself well — that I did not like being photographed, but that is how it turned out\u0026hellip; I will dare to write about the author. He deserves it!\nVovka was lucky! Right after school he got into the cinematography course at the Kiev Theatre Institute named after Karpenko-Kary. In Soviet times that was very cool. An evening student, the youngest on the course. And the specialization \u0026ldquo;Cinematographer\u0026rdquo; had only just opened, thanks to one man who was recruiting that course. The students nicknamed him \u0026ldquo;Papa.\u0026rdquo; His surname was Smorodin. I think he brought many people up in the world.\nAfter all, when we watch a film, we do not think about how it was made. What interests the viewer? \u0026ldquo;Action\u0026rdquo;! Of course the actors, the directors. And who \u0026ldquo;shot\u0026rdquo; it? Do we remember? So a cinematographer is a labourer in cinema. \u0026ldquo;Load, haul, shoot!\u0026rdquo; That is how it was\u0026hellip; How much did a film camera weigh then? Well then — who knows? Only they know!\nAnd cinema began with photography! Now you understand \u0026ldquo;what two big differences\u0026rdquo; there are between photographs of those years and today\u0026rsquo;s. Camera, film, exposure meter, lens, developer for the film, developer and fixer for the photographic paper, a special stand for printing, and also a red lamp. Everything had to be done in complete darkness. I remember you could switch on the red lamp to see what was coming out. And then dry the photos on a clothespin, on a line, and not touch them until they were fully dry. And then glaze them, or leave the photo matte, and look, and cry, because the result might not please you at all.\nThat is how my friend Vovka began his student cinematography work. He had to photograph a lot, and everything that caught his eye, and also do course assignments. And here I can already write about my part in his coursework. The notion of \u0026ldquo;model\u0026rdquo; did not exist in Soviet times. Only now can I say that I was a model. I was 15 years old. We lived then near the Kiev-Pechersk Lavra. And the film faculty was on the grounds of the Lavra. I should note that in those atheist times the Lavra was only a museum-preserve, and there, sometime in the late 1960s, the film faculty of the Kiev Theatre Institute was organized.\nI remember how Vovka would come to us and \u0026ldquo;ask leave\u0026rdquo; of Mama for me: \u0026ldquo;Let Ira go, I\u0026rsquo;m going to \u0026lsquo;sy mat\u0026rsquo;\u0026rsquo; her!\u0026rdquo; (that means shoot her). My mama, of course, asked strictly, like, aren\u0026rsquo;t there enough little actresses? Well, there weren\u0026rsquo;t enough! Future actresses had a lot of work; they really were busy. And that is how I \u0026ldquo;became a model\u0026rdquo;! My mama, of course, did not lose her vigilance! Along the lines of \u0026ldquo;when will you bring the model back?\u0026rdquo; Vovka had to account fully and return me in one piece, \u0026ldquo;on time,\u0026rdquo; to the fourth floor with no lift. I should note that we did not have telephones then\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200419/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e\u0026ldquo;You wait three years for what was promised.\u0026rdquo; That is how the photographs sent from my youth were signed. Almost half a century has passed since then\u0026hellip;. I did not wait, did not wait\u0026hellip; And then, like snow. I remember myself well — that I did not like being photographed, but that is how it turned out\u0026hellip; I will dare to write about the author. He deserves it!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eVovka was lucky! Right after school he got into the cinematography course at the Kiev Theatre Institute named after Karpenko-Kary. In Soviet times that was very cool. An evening student, the youngest on the course. And the specialization \u0026ldquo;Cinematographer\u0026rdquo; had only just opened, thanks to one man who was recruiting that course. The students nicknamed him \u0026ldquo;Papa.\u0026rdquo; His surname was Smorodin. I think he brought many people up in the world.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The story of \" more than one \" photograph."},{"content":"I do not want to quote the classic Mikhail Zadornov, but I cannot write it any other way: “Well, you dummies!” I will explain whom I addressed this to.\nYesterday was Wednesday, and the Norwegian people made a shopping tour to Sweden, through the border crossing at Svinesund. I take it that Norwegians, without breaking their gastronomic shopping traditions before Easter, tore across the border in their cars to the Swedish town of Strömstad.\nTrue, on the way back Norwegian guards met them and warned that if the like happened again, the fine would be 2,000 euros. And for now — go home and sit in quarantine. I do not know whether they will actually sit in quarantine (in Norway walks are allowed). But the fact that they once again “confirmed” their couldn’t-care-lessness — that is a fact.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200409/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI do not want to quote the classic Mikhail Zadornov, but I cannot write it any other way: “Well, you dummies!” I will explain whom I addressed this to.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eYesterday was Wednesday, and the Norwegian people made a shopping tour to Sweden, through the border crossing at Svinesund. I take it that Norwegians, without breaking their gastronomic shopping traditions before Easter, tore across the border in their cars to the Swedish town of Strömstad.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"And how are things there, in Norway?"},{"content":"There are days when you remember clearly the hard moments in your own life and in the lives of those close to you. On 31 March my grandfather Sergei Sergeyevich Dorofeyev would have had his birthday — 119 years. I have already written my childhood and youth memories of him.\nIt is precisely today, as they say “on the topic of the day,” that I remembered what illness tormented him all his life. The illness was called emphysema of the lungs. He smoked all his life and drank. In Soviet times it was rare for anyone not to “drink.” My story now is not about that… but about the cough that appeared in him before the war of 1941.\nMama remembers that he coughed a great deal; it tormented him; I think there was no treatment at all. He was always occupied with physical labour and, thanks to his physical fitness, he came back alive from the war. So, about his cough. At the war, for four years…. he did not cough even once!!! A paradox?! Yes. He came back from the front and started coughing again until his death at 78.\nThere are also medical facts of that kind from wartime: people did not get pneumonia. I learned this from a doctor-lecturer who taught at the Kiev Institute of Culture. (In Soviet times all humanities universities were required to have a department of medicine and military training, and we students were taught medicine for two and a half years! They issued diplomas as “Civil Defence nurse” and put everyone on the military register at the enlistment office. And we were liable for military service until we had children.)\nOne more fact from military life — pediculosis. Now we know that it is a virus, or in plain language — lice. During the war everyone had lice, but… in Grandfather’s words, I remember that no matter how hard the situation was at the front, they still provided the soldiers with a bathhouse and clean linen, whereas the Germans (in his words) were “eaten alive by lice!”\nAnd the last thing I want to write about those hard wartime days that humanity lived through. Quite recently, in a documentary film that my Norwegian husband was watching, and that I at some point also “joined” to watch, I was shocked by the facts that were revealed. It turns out that before an important battle German soldiers were given narcotics, which secret German laboratories were producing at the time. And the Soviets went into battle “For Stalin, for the Motherland,” “half of Europe, crawling on their bellies, they marched….”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200329/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThere are days when you remember clearly the hard moments in your own life and in the lives of those close to you. On 31 March my grandfather Sergei Sergeyevich Dorofeyev would have had his birthday — 119 years. I have already written my childhood and youth memories of him.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIt is precisely today, as they say “on the topic of the day,” that I remembered what illness tormented him all his life. The illness was called emphysema of the lungs. He smoked all his life and drank. In Soviet times it was rare for anyone not to “drink.” My story now is not about that… but about the cough that appeared in him before the war of 1941.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"What came into my head."},{"content":"That is a word-for-word translation from Norwegian of an article in the local newspaper. Quarantine has spurred Norwegians into cleaning their homes and throwing out rubbish.\nSince there are a great many private houses in Norway, we sort the small rubbish into three bins of different colours, plus a special bag for plastic. Plastic bottles and drink cans we take to a special machine at the supermarket. Glass bottles and jars also have to be driven to the supermarket and thrown into a special container.\nLarge rubbish Norwegians haul themselves in their own cars. We hitch a trailer, load it, and drive to the station. There we unload ourselves, but not “in a heap” — we sort it into containers. The workers at the station only sometimes hint which container is the right one.\nAnyway, quarantine began, and people “loaded up and arrived.” The article says that in a week, at our local dump alone, they threw out 134,000 kg of rubbish! And besides the rubbish they also bring the children along. And their children do not sit in the car while the parents throw out broken sofas and wardrobes (I mention those as examples) — they run and play among the cars and carts. All of this is unsafe.\nThe station workers found a way out: they hung up a sign that reads: “It is forbidden to dump rubbish for those who are in quarantine.” 😆\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200320/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThat is a word-for-word translation from Norwegian of an article in the local newspaper. Quarantine has spurred Norwegians into cleaning their homes and throwing out rubbish.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSince there are a great many private houses in Norway, we sort the small rubbish into three bins of different colours, plus a special bag for plastic. Plastic bottles and drink cans we take to a special machine at the supermarket. Glass bottles and jars also have to be driven to the supermarket and thrown into a special container.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Private waste dump closed”"},{"content":"The present situation in Norway — the local population grabbing toilet paper as if it were the main staple of the Norwegian Kingdom — has pushed me into reflections on my distant past.\nYes, imagine: it turns out I had a “difficult childhood,” and my tender places experienced the “bitterness” of Soviet newspapers! Yes! Every Soviet family subscribed to the newspaper Pravda. They “recommended” taking out a yearly subscription right at workplaces and institutions. There were special “members” of the party and the trade unions who handled subscriptions on the spot.\nAnd even if someone wanted to subscribe, for example, to a fashion magazine (oh, how hard that was!), they had to take Pravda “as a load,” plus Komsomolskaya Pravda, plus the newspaper Trud. In the end, the fashion magazine went to the local bosses, and the most advanced ladies at the enterprise got the all-Union magazine Rabotnitsa.\nAs a curious teenager I liked reading that practical women’s magazine. Especially the columns “Useful Tips” and “Knitting.” I think that reading those tips and putting them into practice influenced my later “household” development, and also survival in the post-Soviet years. And I could never have imagined that something like this would happen here, in Norway — some kind of frenzy… over paper, or over pasta.\nIn the end the supplies settled down; it was only in people’s heads that Quarantine took up residence.\nI have a habit of watching Norwegian news together with my Norwegian husband over a cup of evening tea. And today they showed one minister who had caught “corona,” has a positive test, and is giving an interview, I think, via Skype, from his home. He looks wonderful, no signs of illness on his face.\nI immediately gave my husband my opinion. He laughed and agreed — yes, “he might at least have sneezed or coughed once.” But if I had not spoken my mind, that episode would have gone unnoticed. M-yes… Norwegians are not in the habit of criticizing or of being “suspicious,” of supposing, reasoning, “believe–don’t believe”….\nSo. I am finishing writing now, because it is already late. I “solemnly” promise to write further, but not today.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200318/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe present situation in Norway — the local population grabbing toilet paper as if it were the main staple of the Norwegian Kingdom — has pushed me into reflections on my distant past.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eYes, imagine: it turns out I had a “difficult childhood,” and my tender places experienced the “bitterness” of Soviet newspapers! Yes! Every Soviet family subscribed to the newspaper Pravda. They “recommended” taking out a yearly subscription right at workplaces and institutions. There were special “members” of the party and the trade unions who handled subscriptions on the spot.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"I “sing” an ode to toilet paper."},{"content":"I am not a translator — I am only “learning,” but my “studies” with Norwegian will last until the end of my life. Oh well! Still, I do have a desire to read in Norwegian the little newspaper that my husband, early in the morning before he leaves for work, quietly brings me, without disturbing my sweet morning sleep.\nSo I read, and I am not too lazy to open my dictionary, which weighs about as much as a brick. I have already written that I became a car enthusiast in Norway. And I continue to take an interest in the automobile theme. I can already tell a Mercedes from a Toyota, and I can even name the latest Tesla models. 🤣 But closer to the point!\nI will set out the contents of the article. The beginning: a pregnant woman believed she had bought the car of her dreams in Arendal. And… from that moment the mouse nightmare began. The mouse nest that was found in her car was only the beginning of her nightmare.\nNow a lawyer continues to handle a case that costs 250 thousand kroner (25 thousand euros), to settle the dispute between buyer and seller over a car whose repair would cost 35 thousand kroner. Pregnant with her fifth child, she needed to buy a larger car.\nIn an advertisement on the popular Norwegian site Finn.no she found the car of her dreams in the right colour! (My God, what a delight — to choose a car by the colour she had dreamed of!) Such a car was available at a used-car dealership in the town of Arendal.\nWhile the pregnant woman’s husband was considering a Mercedes minivan as a suitable car, the pregnant wife was very concerned with choosing a car by colour: “Yes, I am a lady, and what worries me most is the colour of the car. Before I had a little blue car, and now I want a little black one.” — that is how she explained her purchase in court.\nAnd besides the black colour, the car had to have an engine — a perpetual-motion engine! And the pregnant woman also wanted her little car to run a whole million kilometres!!! The car she bought was already ten years old, with 200 thousand km on the clock. The article did not give the purchase price.\nShe turned to a lawyer at the Consumer Council with a demand that the car be returned to the shop. Her lawyer concluded that the car was indeed not in a condition to run another 1 million km. Then the woman asked, as an alternative, that the seller pay her 35 thousand kroner for repairs, and in that case she would keep it. It did not work out.\nThe woman decided “not to stop” and to go further in court with a lawyer’s help. The legal fees gradually grew to 180 thousand kroner (18 thousand euros) and then another 70 thousand kroner.\nThe article ends with the car having sat idle for two years already. Several times they tried to repair it. That yellow warning light “comes on,” then “goes off.” And the springs cannot be restored either. I, of course, drew my own conclusion from this article; I think you did too.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20200312/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI am not a translator — I am only “learning,” but my “studies” with Norwegian will last until the end of my life. Oh well! Still, I do have a desire to read in Norwegian the little newspaper that my husband, early in the morning before he leaves for work, quietly brings me, without disturbing my sweet morning sleep.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSo I read, and I am not too lazy to open my dictionary, which weighs about as much as a brick. I have already written that I became a car enthusiast in Norway. And I continue to take an interest in the automobile theme. I can already tell a Mercedes from a Toyota, and I can even name the latest Tesla models. 🤣 But closer to the point!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“And so the mouse nightmare began” (my free retelling of an article from a Norwegian newspaper)"},{"content":"With such a headline I read an article in Agderposten for 19 December. Of course I became interested: “and how is it in Norwegian schools?” The theme is not alien to me, since I myself worked 8.5 years in a school (for me that was enough). The article is about Arendal kommune. This kommune is large, it includes 15 settlements and accordingly 15 schools (in the newspaper a diagram is placed). I will not write many figures from the article, but the fact is that the number of pupils is shrinking every year.\nI was “struck down” by the money that the state transfers to Arendal kommune for one pupil aged 6–15. This is 119,000 kroner or almost 12 thousand euros. Good money for an ordinary school per pupil. And if the number of pupils decreases by 1,000, and this figure is forecast, then the kommune will not receive 119 million kroner from the state!\nNow in Arendal in kindergartens there are 2,200 people, but over five years a drop of this figure to 1,960 people is expected. For kindergarten parents pay on average 300 euros a month. And for each child the state pays 100 euros a month, starting from birth until 18 years. At birth there is a one-time payment, I think 4,000 euros (but the figure is not exact) I may be mistaken, I didn\u0026rsquo;t give birth here! 🤓. That\u0026rsquo;s such a little sadness.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191220/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWith such a headline I read an article in Agderposten for 19 December. Of course I became interested: “and how is it in Norwegian schools?” The theme is not alien to me, since I myself worked 8.5 years in a school (for me that was enough). The article is about Arendal kommune. This kommune is large, it includes 15 settlements and accordingly 15 schools (in the newspaper a diagram is placed). I will not write many figures from the article, but the fact is that the number of pupils is shrinking every year.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Schools, workplaces and the disappearing 119 million kroner”"},{"content":"Once you write or say “tomorrow” — consider it lost! A nasty word. Equal to unfulfilled promises and collapsed hopes. Today it is as much as 13 December, in Norway a religious holiday, Saint Lucy\u0026rsquo;s Day. I am watching Norwegian TV now, a morning programme, similar to Russian TV. Only a tiny bit similar. What television has in common is only the screen!\nOn Saint Lucy\u0026rsquo;s Day children in kindergartens from early morning are dressed in white robes, they are belted, on their heads little wreaths with gold leaves, in their hands candles, and they arrange a procession through dark streets with the song Santa Lucia. Now snow in Norway is only in the northern part, and mainly it is rain, and they showed a report “live,” and in Ukrainian there is a colourful word “NAZHYVO” 😂. And so this nazhyvo, little children in long white clothes with candles walk in the rain, through puddles and sing songs. A very touching spectacle.\nI think that under the robes the children have waterproof overalls on, but the heads in wreaths are without hats. Oh! They are already showing that they have returned to the kindergarten and the celebration will continue indoors. This procession in Norway is called “tog,” in translation into Russian — a train. The children are happy that they were led through the rain in the dark! That is what childhood is.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191213/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eOnce you write or say “tomorrow” — consider it lost! A nasty word. Equal to unfulfilled promises and collapsed hopes. Today it is as much as 13 December, in Norway a religious holiday, Saint Lucy\u0026rsquo;s Day. I am watching Norwegian TV now, a morning programme, similar to Russian TV. Only a tiny bit similar. What television has in common is only the screen!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn Saint Lucy\u0026rsquo;s Day children in kindergartens from early morning are dressed in white robes, they are belted, on their heads little wreaths with gold leaves, in their hands candles, and they arrange a procession through dark streets with the song Santa Lucia. Now snow in Norway is only in the northern part, and mainly it is rain, and they showed a report “live,” and in Ukrainian there is a colourful word “NAZHYVO” 😂. And so this nazhyvo, little children in long white clothes with candles walk in the rain, through puddles and sing songs. A very touching spectacle.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"This bad word “tomorrow”. Diary of a natural blonde"},{"content":"I have noticed that November is a hard month. And however optimistic the mood, at times it is difficult. Now darkness, now rain. A cultivated habit of always doing something gives no rest. So a gloomy November morning I begin with a cup of coffee and reading in Norwegian a nearly local newspaper. There is such a town Arendal, 30 km from my house. The town is densely populated, they have their own kommune, hospital and so on. And every morning we receive a newspaper called Agderposten, which is published in this town. I read and try to understand. It is hard for me to work out Norwegian, but I try — I develop. And then I am under the impression of what I have read. Probably I will be able to “impress” and outrage you who are reading too.\nOn the front page of the newspaper for 27 November it is written as follows: working as a teacher in school is becoming harder and harder: pupils push teachers, fight and scratch. National studies show that 35% of teachers have experienced violence, it is especially hard for teachers in the lower school. Anyway, Norwegian children have complete freedom of action. Living here, I am not surprised. “Gingerbread for the children, rods for the teachers!”\nAnd today I watched the Norwegian news on TV…. a report from a prison in Oslo. There the prisoners spit in the warders\u0026rsquo; faces. So they have already invented a special protective mask against spit, and one warder has already tried it on himself, but said that one can be in the mask no more than two hours. That is the protection they thought up. For teachers, probably, something protective should also be invented. I\u0026rsquo;ll continue tomorrow…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191130/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI have noticed that November is a hard month. And however optimistic the mood, at times it is difficult. Now darkness, now rain. A cultivated habit of always doing something gives no rest. So a gloomy November morning I begin with a cup of coffee and reading in Norwegian a nearly local newspaper. There is such a town Arendal, 30 km from my house. The town is densely populated, they have their own kommune, hospital and so on. And every morning we receive a newspaper called Agderposten, which is published in this town. I read and try to understand. It is hard for me to work out Norwegian, but I try — I develop. And then I am under the impression of what I have read. Probably I will be able to “impress” and outrage you who are reading too.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. What they write in the local newspaper in November 2019"},{"content":"When I was preparing to come to Norway on a guest tourist visa for 3 months, I imagined how I would live in this family, would help Ivan “about the household.” And it turned out that he was used to doing everything himself, not drawing the daughters into housework. He prepared breakfast himself, always made sandwiches for the daughters for school. This is called in Norwegian “matpakke.” They did not always eat these matpakker. Quite often I saw that uneaten sandwiches ended up in the rubbish bin, and also even uneaten fruit. Accustomed to treating food with respect, I felt a sense of guilt before the thrown-away food.\nNaturally I started telling Ivan not to pack food for them for school if they don\u0026rsquo;t want to eat, but he continued to do it and said that “that\u0026rsquo;s how it has to be.” Then I started packing bread in a paper bag myself, and when we went out for a walk with the dog, I took the bread with me to the quay and threw it to the gulls. What the dog got up to at this cannot be conveyed in words, he too jumped for joy, having got a crust of bread from me!\nAnyway at first I did not manage to show my culinary abilities and had to eat what Ivan was used to cooking, and that was heated tins: meatballs of reindeer and pork called Joika (it is considered a Norwegian delicacy and the price is also decent, but I don\u0026rsquo;t remember now how much it costs), and also tinned fish cakes. They are called Fiskekaker. There is also in Norway a well-frozen product in a little foil pan, called Fiskegrateng — this is cod mixed with macaroni. This little pan is heated in the oven for 45 minutes.\nUnaccustomed was the taste of salted Norwegian butter. Now I know that unsalted butter is also on sale, but I no longer eat it. Such a product as Norwegian brown cheese Brunost occupies an honourable place among Norwegian cheeses. At first I experienced nothing good, having tried it, but when I read the composition, I understood that it would not be bad to accustom myself to eating this cheese for breakfast. A completely natural product, with a mass of useful microelements, very nutritious! A very popular dessert in Norway is waffles. They are baked in electric waffle irons. Ivan then also managed to treat me to his own making of waffles for evening tea. In taste they resemble our oladushki. To be continued…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191117/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWhen I was preparing to come to Norway on a guest tourist visa for 3 months, I imagined how I would live in this family, would help Ivan “about the household.” And it turned out that he was used to doing everything himself, not drawing the daughters into housework. He prepared breakfast himself, always made sandwiches for the daughters for school. This is called in Norwegian “matpakke.” They did not always eat these matpakker. Quite often I saw that uneaten sandwiches ended up in the rubbish bin, and also even uneaten fruit. Accustomed to treating food with respect, I felt a sense of guilt before the thrown-away food.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My first impressions of Norwegian food Part 2"},{"content":"At last I have decided what to tell about. A theme everyone understands. I think that women of my generation, born in the Soviet Union, know how to cook and possibly take pride in their skill. I am sincerely glad when the food I have prepared is liked by those around me. From about 14 I started cooking. My first successes were home baking. And then I mastered all our Slavic dishes, and cooking was never a burden to me. In life food was the main item of expenditure both in the Soviet Union and after.\nSo, tempered like this by my five-metre kitchen, I arrived in Norway at an age at which some are often already grandmothers more than once, and of course I immediately joined the process of cooking with great enthusiasm, counting on the “unquestioning” approval of the whole Norwegian family. I remind you that I arrived in a village house to my future husband and his two teenage daughters, to a collie dog and to a cat who to this day is my “friend.”\nAt first I of course tried to find out the family\u0026rsquo;s taste preferences. The girls answered that “they eat pizza and drink Coca-Cola.” The husband, who was not yet a husband, politely said that “he eats everything.” This calmed and gladdened me, because he also said that he likes potatoes, especially mash. Here I almost wept from emotion, because peeling potatoes had been my favourite occupation from the age of 7, especially such potatoes as in Norway, already prepared, clean from the supermarket! In one-two-three!\nI arrived on 15 December, just before Christmas, when the buying of provisions is in full swing. We would go as a whole family to the supermarket and the girls would at once put in the trolley what they eat, and Ivan everything else, including food for the cat and the dog. And I was left only to look at Norwegian prices. Of course I could also boldly throw a product I liked into the trolley, but I felt a certain confusion: the trolley is packed with products, there seems nothing to add, except perhaps a pack of coffee…\nWhen we arrived home, the task was to “stuff” all this not into an empty refrigerator. Later I began to figure it out, the refrigerator is constantly replenished but rarely cleaned, and there were moments when the girls altogether forgot to close the door, because they had to place, straighten a product that was falling out, but the teenage girls could not think that far. All right, I will not dwell on such trifles. I then had a glimmering hope that I would be able to accustom this family to normal home food. To be continued….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191112/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAt last I have decided what to tell about. A theme everyone understands. I think that women of my generation, born in the Soviet Union, know how to cook and possibly take pride in their skill. I am sincerely glad when the food I have prepared is liked by those around me. From about 14 I started cooking. My first successes were home baking. And then I mastered all our Slavic dishes, and cooking was never a burden to me. In life food was the main item of expenditure both in the Soviet Union and after.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My first impressions of Norwegian food. Part 1"},{"content":"Still I want to continue the “saga” of this large family. It was already 1971, at last a miracle of miracles came to pass and we moved into a three-room apartment in the autumn. There was almost no furniture, and there was no money to buy any, and nowhere to buy it. Anyway, from habit, we loved to sit all together in one room. I was 17, but I had not yet learned at that moment to seclude myself from my parents. And my younger sister had only gone into second grade. And already in this apartment we began to forget the difficulties of life in the “khrushchevka” and the people who lived there. We had no telephone, and there was no communication with former neighbours either. Papa continued to work at the factory from which we had received the new apartment.\nBut one day my mama told me a story that was being discussed at papa\u0026rsquo;s factory. I will explain once more for the younger generation how apartments were obtained in the Soviet Union. Mainly houses were built by enterprises, such houses were called departmental, and apartments were distributed by trade-union committees to employees who had worked many years at this enterprise.\nAnd so, returning to granny Sidorchikha\u0026rsquo;s family and to their apartment, I can now say, reasoning, that it came to them “with blood and sweat.” But already at that time there remained in the apartment unmarried Lena and her aged father, who had worked most of his life at the factory and received this apartment. And suddenly “love came” to Lena, a former circus performer. Love, you know yourselves what it can be like, unearthly, after a long lonely life. They married. And in order for the incoming circus performer to be able to get a job in the hero-city of Kiev, the circus performer had to be registered in this three-room apartment. And it turned out that old man Sidorenko (and he was the master of the apartment) would not agree to register the circus performer, but little Lena, apparently, persuaded him, because she was already expecting.\nAnyway they registered the circus performer on the living space. Lena gave birth to a weak little girl, and when the girl turned one, the circus performer filed for divorce through the court and for the division of the three-room apartment. At the court there were representatives from the factory present, witnesses made speeches in defence of Lena and her aged father. Lena remained with her faith in love and with the hope that the circus performer would return to her.\nThere were three court sittings, and by Soviet law the circus performer was awarded space. And he went over to decisive action — to look for an exchange advantageous to himself. And he found one: for himself a one-room apartment in a good district, and for Lena, the child and the old man there remained little rooms in a semi-basement with neighbours. That is the tragic unjust fate that befell these people.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191105/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eStill I want to continue the “saga” of this large family. It was already 1971, at last a miracle of miracles came to pass and we moved into a three-room apartment in the autumn. There was almost no furniture, and there was no money to buy any, and nowhere to buy it. Anyway, from habit, we loved to sit all together in one room. I was 17, but I had not yet learned at that moment to seclude myself from my parents. And my younger sister had only gone into second grade. And already in this apartment we began to forget the difficulties of life in the “khrushchevka” and the people who lived there. We had no telephone, and there was no communication with former neighbours either. Papa continued to work at the factory from which we had received the new apartment.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My neighbours. Again about the khrushchevka”. Part 14 “Granny Sidorchikha” (ending)"},{"content":"I had long been meaning to continue the description of my childhood and youth in the “khrushchevka.” Twist it how you will, but at the present moment this is my brightest recollection! I have already written that we lived in a one-room apartment. For a family of three they then gave one-room apartments. The apartments were state, people stood in a queue at their place of work, and when they were distributed, everyone knew about one another, who was entitled to get what.\nAnd next to our apartment was the Sidorenko family, who received a three-room “luxurious” (that is how I thought at 9) apartment with walk-through rooms. I want to clarify such a name of a room as BEDROOM. At that time Soviet people rarely had bedroom-rooms. Those are completely bourgeois notions! So my neighbours, the Sidorenkos, received this apartment for six adults!\nThe mistress of the apartment — granny Sidorchikha (she herself introduced herself to me that way at our acquaintance) had five grown daughters and a hardworking husband. The eldest daughter was married and lived separately. The next daughter by seniority, Lena, was working at the same factory as her father, and granny Sidorchikha immediately allotted her a separate room. It seems to me Sidorchikha treated this daughter with greater love, respect and understanding. Lena was already “approaching 30,” and that at that time was already the age of an “old maid.” But Lena earned for herself, and Sidorchikha valued that, although she contributed only ten roubles to the family budget. The remaining three daughters were still studying, I think at a technical college, and the youngest was finishing school. It turned out that this whole “company” was housed in two rooms.\nI remember very well their first acquisition for the living room — a domestic folding sofa-“book.” Inside the sofa were springs (foam rubber appeared later), which I joyfully tried out, sitting “at a run” on this new sofa and a couple more times, sitting, bouncing, after which my mama made a remark to me. I of course took this remark into account, otherwise they would not have let me to the neighbours any more. They had no television. Sidorchikha\u0026rsquo;s husband was a completely silent man, reading thick books, sitting sideways to the radiator, on a stool by the window. I don\u0026rsquo;t remember him in another position.\nI don\u0026rsquo;t know whether Sidorchikha was considered a Mother-Heroine; she could not work with such a family. She was a housewife. There was no refrigerator in the kitchen. And there was no kitchen furniture at that time, only a cupboard table with two doors. Sidorchikha had to cook soups and borscht every day in a five-litre green saucepan. A glass of milk was allotted only to the working members of the family — that is the husband and Lena. And the remaining girls were half-hungry.\nI remember that one of the daughters, Vera, went in for sport — athletics, took part in competitions, and she, as an athlete, was fed at the competitions. How she strove to become a Master of Sport, so as to receive 30 roubles a month for the title! But it didn\u0026rsquo;t work out, she didn\u0026rsquo;t reach the Master norms. And how to “reach”? when you live half-starved. Later fortune smiled on little Vera, there was a wedding, marriage. My mama sewed her a wedding dress. And Vera left to live in her husband\u0026rsquo;s family.\nAnd the eldest daughter had a misfortune — her husband was hit by a train at night, returning from work. Two children were left… Soon another daughter, Olya, also got married. They said it was “for love.” The fiancé was not very healthy. I think there were problems with his legs. I remember his gait, as if he had flippers on his feet instead of shoes. The neighbours gossiped about how such a beauty decided to marry? Well, you know yourselves — “love is evil…” Anyway, two girls remained “unplaced” — the youngest and Lena.\nAnd suddenly, in some year, granny Sidorchikha dies. I remember how Lena howled for hours! And there was nobody to comfort her. The old man started drinking from grief. And then he brought a woman into the house. Scandals began! Lena and the youngest would not let her into the house, and the old man began to defend his rights, would get drunk and get into fights with them. Once the youngest knocked at ours and shouted to my papa: “uncle Sasha, father is fighting, help!” Papa opened the door and I well remember how he said: “I cannot interfere in your family affairs, I cannot!” And still the daughters deprived their father of the right to a personal life.\nBut soon the youngest had a boyfriend — a cadet of the Higher School of Communications, soon they married, the cadet finished his studies and lived with them in this apartment. “Quiet and calm” reigned. The cadet turned out to be an intelligent fellow from Leningrad. And he managed to set relations with everyone. Soon he was posted to service somewhere beyond the Ural mountains. And the youngest left her father\u0026rsquo;s house, going away with her husband the officer. This was already 1970–1971. I finished school and we received a three-room apartment in a new building. I promise to write a continuation….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20191028/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI had long been meaning to continue the description of my childhood and youth in the “khrushchevka.” Twist it how you will, but at the present moment this is my brightest recollection! I have already written that we lived in a one-room apartment. For a family of three they then gave one-room apartments. The apartments were state, people stood in a queue at their place of work, and when they were distributed, everyone knew about one another, who was entitled to get what.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My neighbours. \u003cAgain about the khrushchevka\u003e Part 13 “Granny Sidorchikha”"},{"content":"So autumn has come and the Norwegian husband decided today to take the boat over to point B, and there they will store it and “cherish” it the whole winter. I take a modest part in this undertaking. My task is to drive the car to this very point B and wait for my husband on the shore. Since I am not a born sailor, I always feel anxiety letting him go to sea alone. And of course, at my request he takes as companions his younger daughter, and the daughter took with her a dog of that strange hard-to-pronounce breed Chihuahua and a new boyfriend. And I am calmer that way.\nIn the morning I prepared lunch (food for me is sacred!), so that having done the job we could, arriving home, have lunch at once. Anyway, they got ready, put on life jackets, warm clothes and left the house for the quay. And I half an hour later, unhurriedly, drove the car. Sunday, the road half empty, not loaded with cars. Already, when I was approaching the town, in front of me, on my way, appeared a woman on a bicycle. Seems there is nothing to be surprised about. And still I am surprised and even irritated: “Well why drag along a narrow road if a special bicycle path is laid parallel!” All right. I drive by all the rules: I switch on the left indicator and at a distance of one metre from the cyclist calmly pass, returning to the road, and further a new obstacle awaits me — a skier on roller skis, waving poles, well here I already drew level with him, waited until he looked my way and showed him with my hand the empty path.\nThe skier turned out to be a not-young man with some kind of detached look… And you know what I thought, that this not-young man in excellent physical form has senile dementia, and the woman on the bicycle is accompanying him, I don\u0026rsquo;t need to be irritated about their illogical movement.\nAnyway I arrived early, having read an SMS from my husband, I thought I would still have to wait about 20 minutes on the shore. The wind blows, the sun shines, waves on the sea, I walk looking at new boats of various models. They stand in the street by the boat shop. The shop is closed — Sunday, and on Sunday all shops are closed. In the distance many people have gathered on the embankment — in the centre of town there are races of runners of all ages from small to great. Anyway I walk, looking at the sea.\nAt some moment I felt such a strong hunger! And I had not taken anything edible (usually I do). I look, some man with a backpack has come to the shore. I think, probably he is also waiting for a boat. He sat down on the little porch by the shop and looks toward the sea. He saw me, started talking about the weather. That is natural. And I have one thought: to ask him for food, a piece of bread, but I don\u0026rsquo;t dare. I continue walking around and about with my thoughts of food. And once more I looked his way. It seemed to me that he had a sandwich in his hands. I came a little closer…. and he is holding a lady\u0026rsquo;s compact with a little mirror and carefully examining his face… “No comments.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190908/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSo autumn has come and the Norwegian husband decided today to take the boat over to point B, and there they will store it and “cherish” it the whole winter. I take a modest part in this undertaking. My task is to drive the car to this very point B and wait for my husband on the shore. Since I am not a born sailor, I always feel anxiety letting him go to sea alone. And of course, at my request he takes as companions his younger daughter, and the daughter took with her a dog of that strange hard-to-pronounce breed Chihuahua and a new boyfriend. And I am calmer that way.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I spent Sunday. 8 September 2019"},{"content":"Today I read a post on Facebook in Norwegian, without indication of authorship. I decided to make a translation, because there are people who cannot work out what elections in Norway are, but many newcomers have the right to vote. Including me, I have an invitation to take part in the elections. I offer my translation of a Norwegian article of humorous content. But as people say, “In every joke there is a share of joke.”\nSo… Elections 2019 “If you have not yet decided…”\nIf your parents and grandparents and your whole family of 43 generations voted for AP (the Labour Party), and you are an ordinary worker at an asbestos factory and against all corruption, and also against talkative heirs of millions who got their education at an elite French university and who, going around the laws, do not pay taxes — Vote for AP (the Labour Party)\nIf you are from Bærum (an elite district in Oslo), studied at BI (an elite educational institution that trains leaders of big business) and received as a gift for your 18th birthday a Porsche (a very cool little car) from papa and at the same time for your collection of Rolex watches paid a tax equal to all your property — vote for Høyre (the Right)\nIf you are concerned to preserve what is called “The Real Norwegian,” namely Taco on Fridays (Mexican food), Derrick (a popular German detective TV series), the American musical style country, and also clothes for making a grill (grilldresser) and you like to type in capital letters in Nettavisens (a Norwegian newspaper that is published only on the computer), and also think that the names Ali and Hassan are used for people who smell strange — vote for FrP! (Fremskrittspartiet)\nIf you live at a distance of 150 km from the nearest neighbour and are afraid of wolves that may eat your sheep, cow, wife, children, car, house, the local hospital and the neighbour who lives 150 km from you — vote for Senterpartiet!\nIf you are an adherent of satanic rituals, and also dancing, bass-guitar music and fornication, then vote for KrF! (the Christian Party)\nIf you are a vegan and think that wolves and terrorists are “misunderstood individuals” who should meet understanding, love, a Latte coffee and kind hugs — vote for SV!\nIf you have no opinion of your own and you often use such words as “possibly, impossible, by chance, OK” — vote for Venstre!\nIf you have an electric bicycle, eat an eco-carrot, think that batteries grow on trees and are sure that the state will build each household a hyperloop — vote for MDG!\nIf you want to become a vegan, spend most of your time in a beer bar, live on a kunstnerstipend (a stipend for distinguished artists in Norway) and think that life around and society are hostile toward you — vote for Rødt! (the Reds). Good elections to you!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190820/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eToday I read a post on Facebook in Norwegian, without indication of authorship. I decided to make a translation, because there are people who cannot work out what elections in Norway are, but many newcomers have the right to vote. Including me, I have an invitation to take part in the elections. I offer my translation of a Norwegian article of humorous content. But as people say, “In every joke there is a share of joke.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Elections in Norway soon"},{"content":"I will say at once, I am not a tourist and not a traveller, and far-away distances did not attract me, nor hot exotic countries either. I am a homebody. And for me there must be a weighty reason to set out on the road. And this Chernobyl catastrophe, which happened on 26 April 1986, forced many, including me, to set out with two small children in evacuation to the nearest relatives in Moscow and the Moscow region. To this day I remember this hard time with a shudder.\nFrom 26 April to 1 May there was a terrible heat, degrees toward 30 in Kiev. The younger son was only 3 years old. No information about radiation, among the population there were only talks about how to protect oneself from this misfortune: close the windows, the transoms in apartments and wash the floors every day so that dust would not accumulate in the rooms, and also remove all carpet coverings. I think since then I have had a prejudiced attitude to carpets.\nAnd so I sit in my apartment with two small children of 3 and 5.5 years, having closed all the windows, and do not know what to do. The younger one demandingly yells: “Walk!” And how to explain to him that it is dangerous to walk, that it is better not to walk. The elder son grew up calm and demanded nothing. And of course, thank him! I tried to say that when papa comes from work we will go for a walk. But papa was on duty 12 hours and had signed a pledge not to leave. Then they took such pledges from all men, so that at any moment they could be mobilised to liquidate the consequences.\nAlready somewhere after the May Day holidays active stirring began among the population about evacuation from Kiev. Each family solved this problem independently. True, schoolchildren were sent to pioneer camps, but with preschoolers it was harder. Mainly mamas or grandmothers could leave with their children, and even then it often ran up against money problems, and also standing in long queues at the ticket offices.\nThanks to my relatives, tickets were bought for me and my children on an extra train to Moscow, and only on 8 May could we leave. It was hard to pack. I did not know what to take with me and for how long we were leaving. I think mama\u0026rsquo;s own sister, who lived in Moscow, and my own grandmother, who lived in Bolshevo, did not experience great joy from the fact that I was coming to them with two small children and it was still not clear for how long.\nI remember very well Kiev station and that terrible moment of boarding the train. My mother-in-law was seeing me off, and when we found ourselves on the platform, such a gathering of people I had seen only in films about the war. For each adult on the platform there were two or more children, prams, things…. To walk along the platform was impossible neither right, nor left, nor forward. How long we stood like that I don\u0026rsquo;t remember. I held the younger one by the hand the whole time, and my mother-in-law the elder. We waited for the train to be brought up. They brought it late, it was already about 11 in the evening.\nOn the ticket 16th carriage was marked and …. oh horror! In the train several carriage numbers were missing, including our 16! Everyone in panic, rushing about, the way to the ticket offices is already “closed,” nobody can run there to find out, there is no information on the radio and the train must leave according to the timetable in about 15 minutes. I grab my three-year-old child, approach the nearest carriage, show the conductress the ticket. She naturally does not let me in. I silently lift my child in front of me and “go for a ram.” The conductress turned out to be impenetrable and unshakeable. I say to her: “Let me in! When they hitch our carriage, we\u0026rsquo;ll move there, but now let me in!” She did not let me.\nBut the train did not leave according to the timetable either, and after half an hour extra carriages were after all hitched and they loaded everyone, even those who had no ticket. Such a “hare” turned out to be my younger sister (she was already then 23, and my mama decided to send her to Moscow too, if only for a while. And since my mama always does everything unplanned, quickly and “at the last moment,” in this case too they found themselves on the platform before the train\u0026rsquo;s departure. So my sister travelled on the upper third bunk of a platskart carriage.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190804/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI will say at once, I am not a tourist and not a traveller, and far-away distances did not attract me, nor hot exotic countries either. I am a homebody. And for me there must be a weighty reason to set out on the road. And this Chernobyl catastrophe, which happened on 26 April 1986, forced many, including me, to set out with two small children in evacuation to the nearest relatives in Moscow and the Moscow region. To this day I remember this hard time with a shudder.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Do you like to travel?” part 1. The year 1986, 8 May."},{"content":"I had been meaning to write since yesterday, but could not think of a title. Yesterday I saw a lifehack on how to tie a man\u0026rsquo;s tie quickly. Anyway “with a light movement of the hand” we get a beautiful knot! For the Norwegian locality a man\u0026rsquo;s tie is for a very, very special occasion. Norwegian men “don\u0026rsquo;t bother” with details. And thank God!\nBut from my childhood life I remember a major quarrel of my parents because of this tie. I have written a lot about my mama. She sewed beautifully and always had wonderful dresses “for going out.” I remember myself as a little girl, about five. Mama and papa are getting ready for the theatre. I watch mama: she has a dress of tender lilac colour of natural silk, a shawl collar fastened with a huge most beautiful mother-of-pearl button, little pump shoes on a modest spike (papa was a stocky man, so mama tried to wear a moderate heel so as not to tower over him; in those times it was not accepted to be taller than a man).\nAnd papa is also getting ready — dressing in his only civilian suit, a white shirt… very unusual for me to see papa “in civilian clothes” (that was a common expression among servicemen). And finally papa takes in his hands the tie that mama bought him for a solemn occasion, looks at the tie embarrassed and asks: “Masya (he always called mama that), and how do you tie it?”\nI remember that mama was in a hurry to get herself in order and nervously answered that she didn\u0026rsquo;t know, think for yourself! Papa decided to turn to the neighbour for help, but he was not at home. So my papa sits on a stool and helplessly twists this ill-fated tie in his hands (he had no other tie, only from the military uniform, swamp-coloured with a ready knot and on an elastic which they hid under the collar). And mama is already almost ready, already “boiling,” looking at the helpless papa. The whole action took place in one room; we lived then in a barracks.\nAnyway, it all ended in a major quarrel with tears and torn theatre tickets… At that moment I felt so sorry for both of them! I wept bitterly, I did not know how to pity them and reconcile them! What a trifle this untied tie! And who would have thought that it would become the cause of a major parental quarrel that I still remember.\nAnd I also remember myself, when I started seeing my future first husband, having asked him the question “can you tie a tie.” He answered that he can, but slowly, thinking a long time, and after he has tied it, he tries not to untie it any more, but having slightly “loosened” the ribbon, carefully takes it off, preserving the tied knot. Practical-logical. There!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190627/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI had been meaning to write since yesterday, but could not think of a title. Yesterday I saw a lifehack on how to tie a man\u0026rsquo;s tie quickly. Anyway “with a light movement of the hand” we get a beautiful knot! For the Norwegian locality a man\u0026rsquo;s tie is for a very, very special occasion. Norwegian men “don\u0026rsquo;t bother” with details. And thank God!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut from my childhood life I remember a major quarrel of my parents because of this tie. I have written a lot about my mama. She sewed beautifully and always had wonderful dresses “for going out.” I remember myself as a little girl, about five. Mama and papa are getting ready for the theatre. I watch mama: she has a dress of tender lilac colour of natural silk, a shawl collar fastened with a huge most beautiful mother-of-pearl button, little pump shoes on a modest spike (papa was a stocky man, so mama tried to wear a moderate heel so as not to tower over him; in those times it was not accepted to be taller than a man).\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The story with the tie"},{"content":"Sometimes I am surprised. Yesterday, for example, I watch the news on NRK (the state Norwegian television company). I watch attentively, so as to understand Norwegian (I have that age-related thing). They show a respectable-looking Norwegian who has in some way broken the law. Anyway by a court decision he must sit in prison, serve his sentence. But there are no places. He has to wait…. three years!\nI think: “I didn\u0026rsquo;t understand something.” I ask my husband: “Where is he supposed to wait? At liberty? That is, continue to live and work, is that it? And wait until they ‘put him away’ 🧐 Anyway, all the places are taken! I remember they used to rent places in the Netherlands. Apparently it has become expensive to send the lawless abroad.\nAnd here is another little story. Three Afghan children together with their mama the authorities decided to send back to their homeland, to Afghanistan. They flew as far as Turkey, because Afghanistan “started thinking and talking with the Norwegian embassy in Afghanistan.” These children together with their mama had lived and grown up in Norway and gone to school. For what reason they suddenly decided to deport them I, let\u0026rsquo;s say, did not understand, my Norwegian husband did not understand either. The children had Norwegian classmates friends left, who gathered for a rally in support and for their return to Norway.\nThey did bring them back! But it turned out very “fancy” for the state treasury, as much as 3 million Norwegian kroner or 300 thousand euros! They sent a private plane for them to Turkey, and in all this return as many as 18 staff were involved (the police among them). The Afghan mama, it\u0026rsquo;s true, arrived in Norway “unconscious” (they did not show her on TV, but sent her straight to hospital). Those are the kinds of Disposers of Destinies there are here.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190619/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSometimes I am surprised. Yesterday, for example, I watch the news on NRK (the state Norwegian television company). I watch attentively, so as to understand Norwegian (I have that age-related thing). They show a respectable-looking Norwegian who has in some way broken the law. Anyway by a court decision he must sit in prison, serve his sentence. But there are no places. He has to wait…. three years!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI think: “I didn\u0026rsquo;t understand something.” I ask my husband: “Where is he supposed to wait? At liberty? That is, continue to live and work, is that it? And wait until they ‘put him away’ 🧐 Anyway, all the places are taken! I remember they used to rent places in the Netherlands. Apparently it has become expensive to send the lawless abroad.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"From Norwegian television news (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"At first I wanted to write “how to choose an instructor?”, and then I thought “From whom to choose? Whoever they offer you on the courses, that is who you will have!” It turns out the saying “you don\u0026rsquo;t choose neighbours and relatives” can be supplemented … and driving instructors. I get the impression that starting practical driving, nobody thinks about what we are paying money for, and in Norway this is altogether “in a big way,” 1.5 hours of driving officially on the courses costs 140 euros.\nWell all right, I am so mercenary, I figured that we pay for petrol (diesel), wear on the car and the instructor for risking his life sitting with a beginner and pressing the extra pedals under his (her) feet. And let me now write what an ideal instructor should be, point by point!\nPoint 1. Acquaintance with the car you will learn on. Point 2. Check the pupil, whether he is sitting correctly, comfortably in the car. Immediately show where the seat heating, ventilation is switched on. Point 3. Acquaint the pupil in detail with the route, try driving with GPS switched on. Point 4. Remind the pupil to switch on the turn signal, at least in the first lessons, and also the “right-hand rule.” In Norway it is especially applicable. Here there are very many minor narrow roads, both in the city and out of town, in the village. Point 5. In every lesson teach how to park the car correctly, at least 3 times per lesson. Point 6. Warn the pupil in advance about intersections, and also about the peculiarities of a left turn. Point 7. Draw the pupil\u0026rsquo;s attention to road signs, where you may stop and where it is forbidden, and explain “why.”\nAnyway, whoever has read this, I hope has understood how one should learn to drive a car and ask one\u0026rsquo;s instructor more questions, otherwise it turns out the other way round, Norwegian instructors have a strange habit of asking pupils one and the same question at the end of every practical lesson: “how do you think, did you drive well today?” I, of course, am a cultured lady, but from such a question a counter-question immediately appears in me that is not very cultured, but I don\u0026rsquo;t say it out loud, and in the blog I can write: “well, and what the heck are you sitting here for then?”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190607/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAt first I wanted to write “how to choose an instructor?”, and then I thought “From whom to choose? Whoever they offer you on the courses, that is who you will have!” It turns out the saying “you don\u0026rsquo;t choose neighbours and relatives” can be supplemented … and driving instructors. I get the impression that starting practical driving, nobody thinks about what we are paying money for, and in Norway this is altogether “in a big way,” 1.5 hours of driving officially on the courses costs 140 euros.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 6. Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam in Norway. “If I were an instructor…”"},{"content":"In part 3 I already wrote about the road signs that were in my test. The name of this group of signs is FARESKILT (danger signs). I make a literal translation, so that it is easier to remember in Norwegian. Try to pay attention to them where you live and move about.\nThe next group of signs is VIKEPLIKT- og forkjørsskilt. Vike — to yield, plikt — duty, forkjør — main, priority on the road, skilt — sign.\nSign STOP 204. A red hexagon. In the Russian rules it is very clearly designated: Passage without stopping is forbidden. Stanse helt før kjøring inn på kryssende veg — a complete stop before driving out onto a crossing, a railway crossing onto a road in both directions, etc. The sign may be with a stop line (stopplinje) and without a stop line. If there is none, then så nær den kryssende veg som mulig (as close as possible to the intersection). So if you are driving with a course instructor, don\u0026rsquo;t be shy about asking him, when you approach the STOP sign, whether you have stopped in the right place. It turns out like this: you approach the intersection, and in front of you there are several cars. And when your turn comes to the stop line, and if there is none, then it turns out “closer to the sign and to the intersection” and… we stop.\nAn example of a question in the test: Du kommer kjørende sakte mot et kryss hvor du får dette skiltet STOP. Hva er korrekt? Answer: “jeg må stanse helt opp selv om det ikke er annen trafikk på den kryssende veien.”\nAnd now — attention! A very important sign 210 Forkjørskryss (in the Russian rules it is called Intersection with a minor road). Skiltet varsler om farlig vegkryss hvor kjørende fra sideveg eller kryssende veg er pålagt vikeplikt med skilt 202. “Vikeplikt” eller 204 “Stop.” It turns out in practice, if you are on the main road (forkjørsvei), then having seen this sign 210, be attentive, because from the side road (sideveg) a car may come out. This car must see its signs on the road — sign 202 Vikeplikt and sign 204 STOP.\nThere are also in this group two signs that are poorly absorbed by beginners. These are 212 vikeplikt overfor møtende kjørende and 214 Møtende kjørende har vikeplikt. I will not analyse them in detail, but will explain how I understand them if I am driving: “If the Red arrow on the sign is ‘on your side,’ then you stop and yield and place the car as close as possible to the verge, because signs 212 and 214 are set up on a narrow road (smal veg).” I give an example of an answer in the test for sign 212 “veien er smal og du må vike (yield) for motgående kjøretøy.” And for sign 214 — “veien er smal og motgående trafikk har vikeplikt.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190606/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn part 3 I already wrote about the road signs that were in my test. The name of this group of signs is FARESKILT (danger signs). I make a literal translation, so that it is easier to remember in Norwegian. Try to pay attention to them where you live and move about.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe next group of signs is VIKEPLIKT- og forkjørsskilt. Vike — to yield, plikt — duty, forkjør — main, priority on the road, skilt — sign.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 5. Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam in Norway. Road signs that came up on my exam."},{"content":"I have the inspiration to work out tunnels. At the exam there is always a question about tunnels. I advise you, when you are a passenger in transport, to pay attention to tunnels. 1. What do they set up before the entrance to a tunnel? These are posts with black-and-white stripes diagonally 914 Tunnelmarkering and 916 Avstandsmarkering i tunnel. Skiltet markerer avstand til tunnelåpningen. Be sure to look at them carefully and remember! When these signs come up at the exam, a strange feeling may arise with the question: “and where have I seen them?”\nIn Norway there are more than 900 tunnels, with a length of 85 miles = 850 km. The most serious accidents happen in tunnels. In Norway they make great efforts to ensure safety, but much also depends on the drivers themselves (bilførerne opptrer fornuftig ved kjøring i tunnel), that is drivers must act rationally when driving through a tunnel. At the entrance to a tunnel we may see the name of the tunnel, the length and pictures Telephone SOS — nødtelefon, a picture of a fire extinguisher (brannslukningsutstyr) and a picture of a red cross on a white background (førstehjelpsutstyr). These three pictures tell us that all this necessary equipment is in the tunnel and in case of an accident you can use the nødtelefon free of charge, use the fire extinguisher (brannslukningsutstyr) and give first aid (førstehjelpsutstyr).\nPay attention to the Radio skilt. It indicates the radio frequencies you need to be tuned to when driving through a tunnel, and next to this sign a yellow light may flash (blinkende gult lys), which lets us understand that somewhere nearby an accident has happened and we need to listen to the radio. “Tunnelen er stengt” is an inscription on a red background, and if under it two large round red “lamps” flash (blinkende rød lys), then you must stop. What else may there be in a tunnel? — Havarilommer — an emergency bay. In case of an accident you drive into this bay, leave the car, see the green directional sign Ut/EXIT—\u0026gt; (rømningsskilt). The word rømning means to flee. Above the sign hangs a telephone, you must calmly report that you are in the tunnel and immediately open the door and run! Løft av røret og snakk rolig, mottakeren vet hvor du er — you lift the receiver and speak calmly, the duty officer knows where you are.\nAnd here are recommendations from the Norwegian textbook: 1. Before entering a tunnel reduce speed (senk farten), there may be poor visibility (dårlig sikt) and also it may be slippery (glatt). 2. Bruk fjernlys (use high beam) if it is dark in the tunnel (mørkt i tunnelen), and these black-and-white posts called markeringsskilt 914 will show you the way (viser veg). 3. Sikre god sikt (ensure good visibility). It can be damp in a tunnel and the windows mist up (dugg) and to prevent this we switch on the wipers (bruk vindusviskere). 4. Unngå forbikjøring i tunnel — avoid overtaking, it is dangerous!\nIt turns out there is such a concept as tunnel fear (tunnelskrekk). Bilførere som er redde for å kjøre i tunnel, føler seg tryggere når det er flere i bilen. — Drivers who are afraid of driving in a tunnel feel safer when they are not alone in the car. Such drivers should if possible look for another route. That is how it is with Norwegian drivers!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190605-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI have the inspiration to work out tunnels. At the exam there is always a question about tunnels. I advise you, when you are a passenger in transport, to pay attention to tunnels. 1. What do they set up before the entrance to a tunnel? These are posts with black-and-white stripes diagonally 914 Tunnelmarkering and 916 Avstandsmarkering i tunnel. Skiltet markerer avstand til tunnelåpningen. Be sure to look at them carefully and remember! When these signs come up at the exam, a strange feeling may arise with the question: “and where have I seen them?”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 4. Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam in Norway. Tunnels in Norway"},{"content":"I warn you, there will be no pictures! You will have to open the Appendix in the textbook yourselves and look through the pictures.\nFARESKILT. Fare — danger, Skilt — sign. In the Russian translation they are called WARNING signs. A triangle with a red rim and inside a picture on a white background. Sign 146 Dyr (animals) — skillet varsler at dyr ofte ferdes over eller langs vegen — the sign warns of animals often passing across the road or along the road. There are 5 such signs in Norway. I got 146.1 on the exam — in the triangle an elk is drawn. Anyway “I remember the Elk, but I don\u0026rsquo;t remember the question!” I can assure you, the wording of the questions is not complicated, it differs from those twisted “questions that you get in computer tests when preparing on your own.” So now you need to remember in Norwegian: “skiltet varsler at dyr ofte ferdes over eller langs veien.” If you remember this sentence and know the translation into your native language, then at the exam you will be able to understand the question that will be asked. And in order to remember, you will have to read (you can aloud, loudly and with expression 😃 up to 7 times! The next sign (skilt) is 149 kø (queue). I give a description: a triangle with a red border, and inside little cars standing tightly against one another. Well, what can one say? Sitting at the wheel, how will you behave when you see this sign? I think you already need to be attentive (oppmerksom), reduce speed and approach civilly, “get in the queue.” I have now found in my notes how the “correct answer in the test for this sign” can sound: “FARE for kø.”\nThe next was 136 Avstandskilt — this is a white post with little red stripes diagonally. Avstand — distance, skilt — sign. These posts warn us of a railway crossing, which may be with a barrier 134 Planovergang med bom (a triangle with a fence) or 135 Planovergang uten bom (a triangle with a little locomotive). In the Norwegian textbook a very good picture is given of how we are to work out these posts (avstandskilt). A post with 3 red stripes is set up with signs 134 and 135. It shows the maximum distance to the railway crossing — 150–250 m, and the other two posts, accordingly with two red stripes, and then with one stripe, are already set up every 50–80 m. At the exam I had only one picture — a post with a stripe. And the question sounded like this: “what does this mean? Hva betyr det?” and from the four proposed variants I chose Planovergang.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190605/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI warn you, there will be no pictures! You will have to open the Appendix in the textbook yourselves and look through the pictures.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003col\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eFARESKILT. Fare — danger, Skilt — sign. In the Russian translation they are called WARNING signs. A triangle with a red rim and inside a picture on a white background. Sign 146 Dyr (animals) — skillet varsler at dyr ofte ferdes over eller langs vegen — the sign warns of animals often passing across the road or along the road. There are 5 such signs in Norway. I got 146.1 on the exam — in the triangle an elk is drawn. Anyway “I remember the Elk, but I don\u0026rsquo;t remember the question!” I can assure you, the wording of the questions is not complicated, it differs from those twisted “questions that you get in computer tests when preparing on your own.” So now you need to remember in Norwegian: “skiltet varsler at dyr ofte ferdes over eller langs veien.” If you remember this sentence and know the translation into your native language, then at the exam you will be able to understand the question that will be asked. And in order to remember, you will have to read (you can aloud, loudly and with expression 😃 up to 7 times!\u003c/li\u003e\n\u003c/ol\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe next sign (skilt) is 149 kø (queue). I give a description: a triangle with a red border, and inside little cars standing tightly against one another. Well, what can one say? Sitting at the wheel, how will you behave when you see this sign? I think you already need to be attentive (oppmerksom), reduce speed and approach civilly, “get in the queue.” I have now found in my notes how the “correct answer in the test for this sign” can sound: “FARE for kø.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part 3. Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam in Norway. Road signs I remembered when taking the theory exam"},{"content":"“Feet, brakes, seat belts and in general, What does it mean to drive a car? (Hva er bilkjøring?)\nIn the first part we established at which points we hold the wheel; now we take “feet in our hands,” that is we look down and find 3 pedals and understand that we are sitting in a car with a manual gearbox (manuelt gir). And that means that your two feet (venstre fot og høyre fot) — left and right — will take an active part in the driving process. The left foot has its advantages — it “presses” only the clutch (koplingspedalen trykkes inn). As our instructors put it, “press the clutch to the floor.” The brake pedal (bremsepedalen) is in the middle, and the gas pedal (gasspedalen) is on the right. And so on the right foot there is a load of as many as 2 pedals, which you MUST NOT confuse!\nAnd now, having made sure that your feet reach the pedals, that is you are sitting correctly and comfortably, you can fasten yourself with the seat belt (bilbelte). Of course in the further process the bilbelte must always be in FIRST place for you. This is important for your safety, and in Norway EVERYONE who is in the car must be belted. And if this is not fulfilled, it is strictly punished!\nNow ask the ledsager where and how to switch on the turn signal, because we start moving by switching on the left indicator (venstre blinklys). And now I advise you to remember the scheme for starting to move:\nWe approach the car and must make sure (forvisse seg om at kjøretøyet — the car and its components — er i forsvarlig og forskriftsmessig stand (everything is in full order and the car is ready to drive). We open the door with the key (bilnøkkel), sit down, immediately insert the key into tenningslåsen (the ignition), adjust the seat and fasten the bilbelte. With the left foot we press the clutch all the way, and the right presses the brake pedal all the way. Not sharply, calmly we turn the key so that all the “little lights” come on, and once more — we have already started the engine. We engage first gear and take off the parking brake (parkeringsbremsen). Smoothly we transfer the right foot from the brake pedal to the gas pedal (don\u0026rsquo;t press the pedal hard) and at the same time release the clutch pedal. We switch on the left indicator and “cast a glance at the left mirror” (what if a bicycle or a car is going past, then we must let them through). We start moving in 1st gear. If we need to change to second, first we press the clutch and only after that do we change. And now let\u0026rsquo;s analyse what “driving itself” means — Hva er bilkjøring? You are already driving the car and this is called the kjøreprosessen. In the kjøreprosessen are included your perception and senses (sanse), understanding of what you are doing now (oppfatte), you assess the situation and decide (vurdere, beslutte) how to act (handle) further.\nOne of the main “senses” I would like to draw attention to, because there is a question in the test, is vision (synet). Synsfeltet is our ability to see when driving a car (forgive me, I cannot find an exact translation). Synsfeltet is divided into sentralsyn or skarpsyn, and also sidesyn. Let\u0026rsquo;s work out what sentralsyn (skarpsyn) means. When you look straight ahead and drive straight along the road, concentrated — that is your central vision at an angle of 3–5 degrees, that is you drive fast and you do not look to the sides, only for 1 second you can look in the mirrors, starting with the left mirror. Don\u0026rsquo;t stare into the mirrors! I emphasise this because when taking the driving test, the examiner is sometimes strict and silent, but sees everything and records all your mistakes for as much as 60 minutes!\nSidesyn is your vision of 180 degrees. If you take your eyes (and not the whole head) to one side, then to the other, that is your ability to see 180 degrees. And when do we manage to look to the sides? When we drive at a low speed. In Norway there are very many places with a speed limit of 30 km. In the country (på landet). And when you move at such a low speed, you see everything that happens at the edges of the road, and that may be pedestrians and children, and cyclists and animals. And when you increase speed, your field of view shrinks, and on a motorway at 100 km you no longer have time to look at anything to the sides.\nNow I will explain why I have written all this so primitively in detail. When you buy tests and try to memorise the right answers, not everyone may succeed. Some moments and situations you have to “run through in your head and think” in your native language. Which is what I have just done for you. And also, if you drive in glasses, then studying on courses in Norway, don\u0026rsquo;t forget to book an appointment at the optician and have your eyesight checked, and they will write you a certificate on a special form, which you will give to the secretary at the courses. A health certificate is required only after 75 years.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190604-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“Feet, brakes, seat belts and in general, What does it mean to drive a car? (Hva er bilkjøring?)\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the first part we established at which points we hold the wheel; now we take “feet in our hands,” that is we look down and find 3 pedals and understand that we are sitting in a car with a manual gearbox (manuelt gir). And that means that your two feet (venstre fot og høyre fot) — left and right — will take an active part in the driving process. The left foot has its advantages — it “presses” only the clutch (koplingspedalen trykkes inn). As our instructors put it, “press the clutch to the floor.” The brake pedal (bremsepedalen) is in the middle, and the gas pedal (gasspedalen) is on the right. And so on the right foot there is a load of as many as 2 pedals, which you MUST NOT confuse!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam in Norway. Part 2."},{"content":"“My thoughts, my steeds….” as in the song. Of course I will not manage a tidy exposition of the material, but I very much want to share what I myself have already gone through in Norway, having received those coveted class B rights.\nThe best option is to start studying theory and practice at the same time and in the Norwegian language. In Norway a ledsager can be a person who has reached the age of 25 and has 5 years\u0026rsquo; driving experience. You must attach an L sign at the back of the car, and according to the rules there should also be an extra mirror, well, and “in life” not every private car has one.\nLet\u0026rsquo;s start with the ledsager — the Norwegian husband. Remember! that a Norwegian husband, sitting next to you in the car, will NOT explain anything to you. And if he meekly agrees to see you at the wheel of his car, then take that as an honour! The main thing for you is not to be capricious and to keep quiet!\nAnd so the hour has come when you sit at the wheel of a car. And from this place be more attentive. Sat down. Comfortable? Aha. You haven\u0026rsquo;t yet understood (until now perhaps your big husband sat there and the seat is adjusted for him). Your first task is to raise, move, adjust the seat “for yourself.” And when you have settled, the next action is Mirrors and your hands.\nLook, where is your left hand? — On the left! (Venstre!). And at once look for the left mirror on the outside of the car (venstre speil). You have not even started driving yet, but you must look at what you see there. The next mirror is at the top, in the middle. It too needs to be adjusted a little so that when you “cast your girlish glance at this mirror,” you must fully see through the rear window what is moving behind on the road. And the right mirror (høyre speil) is on your right hand (høyre hånd), on the outside of the car. You can look there too, still without starting to move.\nNow our hands. You can write in large Norwegian letters with a ballpoint pen accordingly Venstre — Høyre. And … take hold of the wheel (rattet). The classic grip of the wheel is like on a clock face — 9 and 14 o\u0026rsquo;clock. Now we look at the instrument panel (instrumentbord). It includes: bensintank (petrol tank), fartsmåler (speedometer, shows speed), turtall motor (engine revolutions per minute), motor temperatur gives information om motorens kjøling og arbeidsmiljø (about the engine\u0026rsquo;s cooling and working condition). Måler bensinforbruk — indicator of fuel (petrol) consumption. And computerdata — the computer.\nI took these concepts from the textbook, but in every car now there are many “bells and whistles” which you will have to study yourselves (look at the instruction). In short, to pass the practical exam you need to know “what-where?” is located precisely in the particular car. This is important, and when you start driving with a course instructor, ask more “where-what is located and how it is switched on,” because after you have driven an hour with the examiner, they will ask you two questions about the construction of the car and you will have to answer them.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190604/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“My thoughts, my steeds….” as in the song. Of course I will not manage a tidy exposition of the material, but I very much want to share what I myself have already gone through in Norway, having received those coveted class B rights.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe best option is to start studying theory and practice at the same time and in the Norwegian language. In Norway a ledsager can be a person who has reached the age of 25 and has 5 years\u0026rsquo; driving experience. You must attach an L sign at the back of the car, and according to the rules there should also be an extra mirror, well, and “in life” not every private car has one.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Useful advice for those who want to pass the driving theory exam successfully in Norway. Part 1."},{"content":"I found the statistics of what the population was in 1850 in Norway — 2 million 200 thousand. And I already wrote in the first part that for this population already at that time two literary languages were taking shape!!! And by the beginning of the 20th century the languages needed modernisation, therefore four language reforms of the “rural language” — landsmål — were carried out, which brought its norm closer to the specifics of the dialects of Eastern Norway, the most populated part of the country. Three reforms were also carried out with riksmål. Danish orthography was replaced by Norwegian.\nAnd here I want to tell a practical moment that happens with me when I correspond with my daughter-in-law — a Dane. I write to her in Norwegian, she writes to me in Danish, we understand each other! And that is the main thing in language! TO UNDERSTAND! All the language reforms pursued a good aim: to bring the two languages closer, to lead them to a single language norm. But unfortunately the majority of the population ignored this, that is as mamas taught them to speak, so they spoke.\nWell, and in 1929 riksmål and landsmål received the official names bokmål and nynorsk. And already in 1981 “Changes in orthography and the norm of school textbooks” restored in rights almost all previously widely used but unofficial forms.\nAnd now I will have to write only one example that will show you how complex the Norwegian language is for “newly arrived” foreigners, including me. On the courses all arrivals study bokmål, it is also the main language of instruction for 83% of Norwegian schoolchildren and about 90% of printed production comes out in it.\nSo the simplest example with the word HAND. In bokmål the word ‘hand’ with the definite article has the following forms: hånden, hånda, handa, handen, and in Nynorsk (that is the one with a multitude of dialects) — handa, handi.\nAnd there are also difficulties with numbers. One part of Norwegians, including foreigners, pronounce numbers in the “correct order,” 52 — this sounds like fifty-two (femtito), and elderly people pronounce such a number the other way round, as they say in mathematics, first the units, then the tens, that is toogfemti is translated as “two and fifty.” I hope I have not tired the reader too much with my short synopsis of the history of the Norwegian language. In the next part I will write about the northern people the Sámi. So to be continued…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190520/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI found the statistics of what the population was in 1850 in Norway — 2 million 200 thousand. And I already wrote in the first part that for this population already at that time two literary languages were taking shape!!! And by the beginning of the 20th century the languages needed modernisation, therefore four language reforms of the “rural language” — landsmål — were carried out, which brought its norm closer to the specifics of the dialects of Eastern Norway, the most populated part of the country. Three reforms were also carried out with riksmål. Danish orthography was replaced by Norwegian.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“The language situation in Norway” part 2"},{"content":"I put this title in quotation marks because I did not invent it myself. I have already written that I often use a large two-volume dictionary edited by Valery Berkov. I always keep the dictionary “at hand,” or more precisely on the shelf under the coffee table. That is how I nicknamed it the under-table dictionary. Oh what a heavy “brick,” but such a beloved one!\nSo today I read an article in the so-called Appendix 5 on a brief history of the Norwegian language, and I fell to thinking… I sit all pensive like this and cannot sleep. Anyway I am writing a short synopsis of the article about the language, and you can draw your own conclusions about your native one. After all, everyone has their own, the one mama spoke. In Norwegian this sounds very precisely as morsmål. One can translate it as “mama\u0026rsquo;s voice” or native language.\nI quote the article further: “the present language situation in Norway is the result of a complex historical development.” In the 14th century Norway falls under the power of Denmark, and the Norwegian language is gradually displaced by Danish from all official spheres. All literature came out in Danish, and in the countryside the people continued to speak dialects from Old Norwegian. And so they spoke like that for as much as five centuries! Until the second half of the 19th century.\nAnd then the struggle began for the creation of a Norwegian literary language. It would also be good to know the figure, how many inhabitants were there then in Norway? And even those were scattered over mountains, forests and islands! Anyway the struggle for Norwegian went in two directions: the first direction is the “norwegianisation” of the literary language. In the 19th century the literary language was Dano-Norwegian (dansk-norsk), and in 1890 this form received the name riksmål — literally ‘state language.’\nThe second direction is the creation of a literary language on the basis of rural dialects. Can you imagine what enthusiasm and zeal one must possess to “gather in a heap” and write down, of course “by hand,” this was the 19th century!!! all the dialects! Such an enthusiast turned out to be the self-taught philologist Ivar Åsen (Ivar Åsen). He published a book “Specimens of the people\u0026rsquo;s language.” This language received the name Landsmål, which means “rural language,” “rural speech.” “Landsmål answered a certain social need, and a number of favourable circumstances determined its success.” And in 1885 the rural language — landsmål — is equalised in rights with riksmål, that is with the state language. Continuation will follow…..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190519/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI put this title in quotation marks because I did not invent it myself. I have already written that I often use a large two-volume dictionary edited by Valery Berkov. I always keep the dictionary “at hand,” or more precisely on the shelf under the coffee table. That is how I nicknamed it the under-table dictionary. Oh what a heavy “brick,” but such a beloved one!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSo today I read an article in the so-called Appendix 5 on a brief history of the Norwegian language, and I fell to thinking… I sit all pensive like this and cannot sleep. Anyway I am writing a short synopsis of the article about the language, and you can draw your own conclusions about your native one. After all, everyone has their own, the one mama spoke. In Norwegian this sounds very precisely as morsmål. One can translate it as “mama\u0026rsquo;s voice” or native language.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“The language situation in Norway” part 1"},{"content":"This was in 2004. I was then earning extra as an English teacher on private courses. It was the holiday of 9 May. In the morning the director of the courses rang me and asked me to “teach English (the director of the courses did not know foreign languages, so that is how she put it) in 1.5 hours one adult girl, for good pay.” I decided not to refuse the extra work and agreed. I rang the girl, and in an hour she was already at my home.\nWhen I opened the door, the girl was not alone, but with an unremarkable young man. I understood at once that they were not local. I asked the young man, “do you also want to learn English in one lesson?” He said “no, I am the escort and I will not come in to you — I\u0026rsquo;ll wait in the fresh air.” Anyway the “warm up” — the introductory part of the conversation — took place.\nThe girl frankly told me that she was from Western Ukraine with a Lithuanian passport! She wants to get to Ireland, her boyfriend is there earning. And she showed me a real Lithuanian passport. I was surprised by the black-and-white photograph. In our passports there were already colour ones at that time. While we were studying English with her, her boyfriend rang from Ireland and “inspired her for the long road” through the border posts.\nAnyway we “worked through” a minimum of English sentences with her. But I then expressed a doubt that at the “crossing” of the Lithuanian border they might speak Lithuanian with her, and then what? You\u0026rsquo;ll pretend to be deaf and mute? M-yeah…. how long ago that was! But still relevant to this day…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190422/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThis was in 2004. I was then earning extra as an English teacher on private courses. It was the holiday of 9 May. In the morning the director of the courses rang me and asked me to “teach English (the director of the courses did not know foreign languages, so that is how she put it) in 1.5 hours one adult girl, for good pay.” I decided not to refuse the extra work and agreed. I rang the girl, and in an hour she was already at my home.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"From a past life (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"After Raisa Titovna\u0026rsquo;s dismissal, personnel reshuffles took place in the shop. Mama was offered the post of salesperson in the manufactured-goods department, they appointed a new shop manager who was able to unite the collective, remove the shortcomings and work without a shortage. The bosses “from above” put forward demands — fulfilment of the plan. The salespeople\u0026rsquo;s salary depended on this. And here is how they had to wriggle.\nUsually goods were brought to the shop by one and the same vehicle — a goods van. The driver was called Kolya, a small, lively fellow, a dancer of the world-famous Virsky ensemble, on pension (at 35 they were thrown out of the ensemble onto pension). The manager would arrange with Kolya a trip “to the district,” namely to Zolotonosha or Zhashkiv for the Sunday kolkhoz market.\nIn the evening, on Saturday, the salespeople with their own strength would load the goods that the people on the periphery needed, namely: fabrics, oilcloth, rubber footwear, simple underwear “with nap” (probably not every reader understands what this is. In those times women did not wear trousers, but put on simple dense hideous blue or pink pantaloons). So from the evening all the goods were loaded into the van together with the salespeople, and they would set off “into the night” in any weather over roadlessness.\nArriving by night at the market territory, they would sleep there in the van on these very sacks of goods, and early in the morning, at 4.30, the women would already gather in a queue at the vehicle and wake the salespeople, knocking — demanding that they start trading. They themselves also came from the villages to sell agricultural produce. And they were in a hurry to manage to sell their own and return home before dark by passing vehicles (in those times very few people had cars).\nMama would come back late in the evening with full bags of market produce. “In the district” produce was much cheaper than in Kiev. And as my mama loved to say, “what she left, she returned to”: a one-room little apartment on the fourth floor without a lift, I was 11, my sister 2.5, a husband “abandoned” for a day on a day off, and herself “tired as a dog,” but with the plan in trade fulfilled!\nPapa treated such work with understanding, but would try to relax on a day off and could meet his wife slightly drunk, which was very much not approved and was cut short by my mama not only with a reproachful look, but with a strong word. And to us she could say, sighing: “poor mother, shitty children!” I, of course, asked why “shitty?” She answered that this was “so, a figurative Jewish expression.”\nAnyway, mama\u0026rsquo;s absence on days off in our family passed more or less peacefully, but the shop manager, who also went to trade, had a very jealous husband, and this van, in which the salespeople slept and shivered from cold all night, he called a “whore-wagon,” and the unfortunate driver Kolya, who fitted in the cab thanks to his small stature, a “whore-driver.” He did not say this maliciously, so it all turned into a joke. Well, that is how we lived!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190408/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAfter Raisa Titovna\u0026rsquo;s dismissal, personnel reshuffles took place in the shop. Mama was offered the post of salesperson in the manufactured-goods department, they appointed a new shop manager who was able to unite the collective, remove the shortcomings and work without a shortage. The bosses “from above” put forward demands — fulfilment of the plan. The salespeople\u0026rsquo;s salary depended on this. And here is how they had to wriggle.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eUsually goods were brought to the shop by one and the same vehicle — a goods van. The driver was called Kolya, a small, lively fellow, a dancer of the world-famous Virsky ensemble, on pension (at 35 they were thrown out of the ensemble onto pension). The manager would arrange with Kolya a trip “to the district,” namely to Zolotonosha or Zhashkiv for the Sunday kolkhoz market.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Learn to trade!” part 4. The main task is to fulfil the plan."},{"content":"After Raisa Titovna\u0026rsquo;s dismissal, personnel reshuffles took place in the shop. Mama was offered the post of salesperson in the manufactured-goods department, they appointed a new shop manager who was able to unite the collective, remove the shortcomings and work without a shortage. The bosses “from above” put forward demands — fulfilment of the plan. The salespeople\u0026rsquo;s salary depended on this. And here is how they had to wriggle.\nUsually goods were brought to the shop by one and the same vehicle — a goods van. The driver was called Kolya, a small, lively fellow, a dancer of the world-famous Virsky ensemble, on pension (at 35 they were thrown out of the ensemble onto pension). The manager would arrange with Kolya a trip “to the district,” namely to Zolotonosha or Zhashkiv for the Sunday kolkhoz market.\nIn the evening, on Saturday, the salespeople with their own strength would load the goods that the people on the periphery needed, namely: fabrics, oilcloth, rubber footwear, simple underwear “with nap” (probably not every reader understands what this is. In those times women did not wear trousers, but put on simple dense hideous blue or pink pantaloons). So from the evening all the goods were loaded into the van together with the salespeople, and they would set off “into the night” in any weather over roadlessness.\nArriving by night at the market territory, they would sleep there in the van on these very sacks of goods, and early in the morning, at 4.30, the women would already gather in a queue at the vehicle and wake the salespeople, knocking — demanding that they start trading. They themselves also came from the villages to sell agricultural produce. And they were in a hurry to manage to sell their own and return home before dark by passing vehicles (in those times very few people had cars).\nMama would come back late in the evening with full bags of market produce. “In the district” produce was much cheaper than in Kiev. And as my mama loved to say, “what she left, she returned to”: a one-room little apartment on the fourth floor without a lift, I was 11, my sister 2.5, a husband “abandoned” for a day on a day off, and herself “tired as a dog,” but with the plan in trade fulfilled!\nPapa treated such work with understanding, but would try to relax on a day off and could meet his wife slightly drunk, which was very much not approved and was cut short by my mama not only with a reproachful look, but with a strong word. And to us she could say, sighing: “poor mother, shitty children!” I, of course, asked why “shitty?” She answered that this was “so, a figurative Jewish expression.”\nAnyway, mama\u0026rsquo;s absence on days off in our family passed more or less peacefully, but the shop manager, who also went to trade, had a very jealous husband, and this van, in which the salespeople slept and shivered from cold all night, he called a “whore-wagon,” and the unfortunate driver Kolya, who fitted in the cab thanks to his small stature, a “whore-driver.” He did not say this maliciously, so it all turned into a joke. Well, that is how we lived!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190331-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAfter Raisa Titovna\u0026rsquo;s dismissal, personnel reshuffles took place in the shop. Mama was offered the post of salesperson in the manufactured-goods department, they appointed a new shop manager who was able to unite the collective, remove the shortcomings and work without a shortage. The bosses “from above” put forward demands — fulfilment of the plan. The salespeople\u0026rsquo;s salary depended on this. And here is how they had to wriggle.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eUsually goods were brought to the shop by one and the same vehicle — a goods van. The driver was called Kolya, a small, lively fellow, a dancer of the world-famous Virsky ensemble, on pension (at 35 they were thrown out of the ensemble onto pension). The manager would arrange with Kolya a trip “to the district,” namely to Zolotonosha or Zhashkiv for the Sunday kolkhoz market.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Learn to trade!” part 4. The main task is to fulfil the plan."},{"content":"Having worked two days off at the till in the grocery shop, mama still decided not to sit at home, but to try her strength in another place. Next to our house there was a little manufactured-goods shop, and there too they needed a cashier. I think in manufactured goods at the till there was not such a load as in the grocery shop. And at a family council we decided that mama should work there, although my sister did not yet go to kindergarten, but I could stay home with her until lunch, since I went to school in the second shift, then papa came home for lunch for an hour, then in the manufactured-goods shop there was a break from 14 to 15 hours. And a pensioner from the neighbouring house, Faina Mikhailovna, also agreed to help us nanny for a couple of hours. And by 17.30 papa would return from work and already always walked with the child in the evening, until about 7.\nAnd now I will write in detail about this little manufactured-goods shop and what big affairs one aunt named Raisa Titovna turned there. In the shop there were two departments: haberdashery and manufactured goods. Raisa Titovna was in charge of the manufactured-goods department. There they sold fabrics, ready-made clothes, shoes, underwear. The goods were, how to put it more decently, unattractive. Only the fabrics were not bad, natural, though not always good colourways. Little imported goods came into this shop (then deliveries went by order of party people from the trade administration), that is there was practically nothing to put out for free sale to the people.\nIt depended on Raisa Titovna how she would distribute this scarce goods “among her own.” This did not mean that she shared with her subordinates. And under her there were very young girls after trade school, who still could not “get” the system of Soviet trade. One can call Raisa Titovna a kind of mistress of shortage. She had a storeroom, in the basement, the entrance without a door, simply a hole hung with dense cloth. To get there you had to crawl on all fours through this hole. When mama started work, she did not learn all these secrets at once. She had her own section of work for which she bore material responsibility, and the rest worried her little.\nBut there was such an order in all manufactured-goods shops, on the last day of the month to do a stocktaking, necessarily with a representative from higher structures. Several months pass, and every month in Raisa Titovna\u0026rsquo;s department — a shortage, which they divided “brotherly” — equally. These poor girls after trade school in fact worked to pay off the shortage. A disgrace, and nothing else! Raiska steals, the girls pay and cry, and they don\u0026rsquo;t know how to fight.\nWell, my mama had learned to fight since the war and she decided to call a meeting. They compiled compromising material on Raisa and threw her out with a bang! They threw her out, yes, but the saga did not end. In the shop there was also a credit department, so-called Instalments. In Soviet times this was a very popular system of buying expensive goods. And people used this system very actively. You could arrange instalments at once for several things.\nHere Raisa Titovna would sidle up to a customer who was arranging instalments, with a little request to include her goods, say a pair of imported shoes, for 45 roubles (wow! with an average salary of 80 r. a month), and she in turn would offer the customer better goods. Of course they met her halfway, that is they helped her out, entered her goods into the cost of their credit. Of course Raisa Titovna promised to pay her debt, “but nothing of the kind! Raiska was not going to pay anything to anyone, and nobody who had arranged instalments could prove that Raisa had “included” her goods and in this way had deceived more than a dozen people.\nThat is how Raisa Titovna knew how to trade and steal! I think she was not acquainted with V.I. Lenin\u0026rsquo;s slogan, but she possessed the talent for a swindle in full. To be continued….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190331/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eHaving worked two days off at the till in the grocery shop, mama still decided not to sit at home, but to try her strength in another place. Next to our house there was a little manufactured-goods shop, and there too they needed a cashier. I think in manufactured goods at the till there was not such a load as in the grocery shop. And at a family council we decided that mama should work there, although my sister did not yet go to kindergarten, but I could stay home with her until lunch, since I went to school in the second shift, then papa came home for lunch for an hour, then in the manufactured-goods shop there was a break from 14 to 15 hours. And a pensioner from the neighbouring house, Faina Mikhailovna, also agreed to help us nanny for a couple of hours. And by 17.30 papa would return from work and already always walked with the child in the evening, until about 7.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Learn to trade!” part 3. And life dictates."},{"content":"I have already written in my recollections of life in the “khrushchevka.” I understood little then that this was a hard period in our family\u0026rsquo;s life. It was hard for my parents! After my sister was born in 1963, the family\u0026rsquo;s material situation naturally did not improve, but worsened, and mama had to think how to go out to work and at the same time give attention to the family.\nWhen my sister was already 1 year and 10 months, mama decided to go to work as a cashier in the “yellow” grocery shop; it was next to our house (and this grocery shop still exists! opposite Slavy Park). In that period the grocery shop was opened after a renovation, L.I. Brezhnev was already “at the helm,” and for the opening they needed staff. And mama agreed to sit at the till.\nNow I think there was no work more frightening than at the till! And mama, after all, “did not choose easy paths” and could, without thinking, go to work in any post. I\u0026rsquo;ll explain what a cash register of those distant Soviet times was. It was such a “pain in the backside”! (I apologise for the expression), but I could not find another name.\nImagine a cashier sitting on a stool, in a half-glazed booth, in full view of everyone, a whole eight-hour working day, turning this very handle almost without a break, to “punch” the correct receipt, press the right buttons on the cash register and give the correct change, in small coins and large, without the right to a mistake!\nThe most terrible and dangerous thing was to “get a surplus,” that is a sum of money that might turn up in the final count of money and punched receipts (the receipts were received by the salespeople from customers in their departments for goods). So if the controllers discovered a surplus (and they often arranged checks), you could even end up in court. With a shortage it was “easier.” It could be paid from the cashier\u0026rsquo;s tiny salary.\nAnyway, my mama worked at the till Saturday and Sunday, while papa and I could stay with the child, and quit, having got stress from the work. Then nobody knew such a word!\nP.S. Yesterday, 26 March 2019, my mama Lidiya Sergeyevna turned 92! She never ceases to be surprised at my memory, at those episodes of her life that she no longer remembers at all. Well, and I sit here writing and am myself surprised. To be continued….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190327/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI have already written in my recollections of life in the “khrushchevka.” I understood little then that this was a hard period in our family\u0026rsquo;s life. It was hard for my parents! After my sister was born in 1963, the family\u0026rsquo;s material situation naturally did not improve, but worsened, and mama had to think how to go out to work and at the same time give attention to the family.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Learn to trade!” part 2. How my mama learned to trade"},{"content":"To this day I still do not know whether this is really a quotation of V.I. Lenin or whether it was already invented in Soviet times by the trader-party people, but that I saw this slogan in the assembly hall of the Ministry of Trade, in the city of Kiev, in the 1980s of the last century — that is a fact.\nPersonally I had “no relation” to trade in those times, but my friend was very proud that she had managed to get a job in this Ministry of Trade, in a new 24-storey building on Lvivska Square. And one day I visited her. She met me at the entrance and took me to the library, where she worked. We walked through the assembly hall and she pointed me to the poster, adding: “You see, Ilyich did not forget to set the trade workers on the right path either.” Then she smiled and quietly said: “I tried to find this quotation in his original sources (I remind you, Lenin wrote 55 volumes), but in vain.”\nSo I remembered the slogan “Learn to trade,” but I never thought that in the future trade would touch me, as it did many of my compatriots who survived the 1990s. To be continued….\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190326/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTo this day I still do not know whether this is really a quotation of V.I. Lenin or whether it was already invented in Soviet times by the trader-party people, but that I saw this slogan in the assembly hall of the Ministry of Trade, in the city of Kiev, in the 1980s of the last century — that is a fact.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePersonally I had “no relation” to trade in those times, but my friend was very proud that she had managed to get a job in this Ministry of Trade, in a new 24-storey building on Lvivska Square. And one day I visited her. She met me at the entrance and took me to the library, where she worked. We walked through the assembly hall and she pointed me to the poster, adding: “You see, Ilyich did not forget to set the trade workers on the right path either.” Then she smiled and quietly said: “I tried to find this quotation in his original sources (I remind you, Lenin wrote 55 volumes), but in vain.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Learn to trade!” (V.I. Lenin)"},{"content":"The little dog, literally before the eyes of the whole crowd of onlookers, began to grow sharply, turning into a strong unmanageable dog, which, breaking off the lead, began to run and jump around the crowd. And the owner, not standing such a shock, fainted! The crowd began to shout: “A doctor, a doctor! We need to call an ambulance!” (Everyone had already forgotten about Vova, and Vova himself had already shrunk to such a size that he could fit in the sleeve of his jacket!)\nLuckily at that time Doctor Nebolit had finished seeing patients and had gone out for a walk in the fresh air. Seeing the lady lying in a faint and a strange dog running around her, he asked “What happened?” And suddenly he sees the dog run up to the “lying jacket” and start shaking it with its teeth. “The jacket squeaked,” and the doctor immediately understood that Vova had to be saved. By this time the lady had come to on her own and kept repeating one and the same thing: “The Red pill, the Red pill.”\nThe doctor took the unfortunate child in his arms and with a quick step headed for the nearest pharmacy. Precisely to that pharmacy where in the morning Vova had bought these pills! The pharmacist was in shock from what she saw and quickly began to explain to the doctor that she had issued a green pill for rejuvenating Vova\u0026rsquo;s grandfather by 10 years. And since Vova himself was 9 years old! You can imagine what the result might have been if this process were not urgently stopped.\nVova could no longer eat on his own. The pharmacist had to dissolve the red pill in warm water, pour the solution into a baby bottle with a teat and start feeding the exhausted child. Vova quickly recovered, and by the time the militia arrived he was already able to give his home address. While the militia drove him home, Vova had time to think, and he swore to himself never, never in his life to be lazy!\nP.S. I ask readers\u0026rsquo; forgiveness for my free abbreviated retelling of the wonderful children\u0026rsquo;s book titled “The Green Pill,” author Sofya Leonidovna Prokofieva. I only found it today and read it on the site modernlib.net. This book is a masterpiece! Read it to children and enjoy!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190318/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe little dog, literally before the eyes of the whole crowd of onlookers, began to grow sharply, turning into a strong unmanageable dog, which, breaking off the lead, began to run and jump around the crowd. And the owner, not standing such a shock, fainted! The crowd began to shout: “A doctor, a doctor! We need to call an ambulance!” (Everyone had already forgotten about Vova, and Vova himself had already shrunk to such a size that he could fit in the sleeve of his jacket!)\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“An old tale about Vova Ivanov.” part four (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"Vova stands on the snowy path and cannot move from the spot; the sleeves of his jacket have become so long that they already drag on the ground, and having taken a step, Vova understood that with such sleeves he would not get far. He sat down on the path and wept bitterly.\nAnd two steps from him stood two women with prams, in which their infants slept peacefully. They were talking animatedly, turned toward each other, and of course, carried away by their conversations, paid no attention at all either to their sleeping children or to weeping Vova. Two sailors were passing by. They saw little Vova. They thought he had fallen out of a pram. They took him in their arms; Vova did not even have time to say a word before he found himself in a pram next to a sleeping infant!\nWhat was left for him to do? Quiet down so as not to wake the infant and not attract the mothers\u0026rsquo; attention. And since it was winter, he quickly drifted into sleep. How long Vova slept, nobody knows. I think, a long time. But “everyone knows” that women can talk for a long time. I think they finished the conversation when their soles began to freeze to the snowy asphalt.\nSeeing a sleeping strange child, they began to “wail” that someone had planted a child on them. A crowd of the curious gathered. Among the curious was a lady with a miniature dog of a rare breed, Chihuahua (I apologise for the word, perhaps I wrote it incorrectly, but I am unlikely to be able to pronounce it correctly). The crowd also began to call “in chorus” for the militia (then there were no mobile phones, they had not yet been invented. There was only Shortage, but that is already another fairy tale).\nThe mamas with four hands began to pull the frightened Vova out upside down. Because of this jacket it was hard to work out where the legs were and where the head. And by mistake the mamas took Vova by the legs and gave him a slight shake. Vova, it\u0026rsquo;s true, did not fall out of the jacket, but from the pocket fell the Red pill! Oh horror! And this little Chihuahua dog, excuse me, I can call her the Rapid-Response Dog, because, seeing the Red pill, she immediately swallowed it….\nAnd what happened next, some have probably guessed, but now I must go to bed and in my sleep compose the continuation.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190316/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eVova stands on the snowy path and cannot move from the spot; the sleeves of his jacket have become so long that they already drag on the ground, and having taken a step, Vova understood that with such sleeves he would not get far. He sat down on the path and wept bitterly.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd two steps from him stood two women with prams, in which their infants slept peacefully. They were talking animatedly, turned toward each other, and of course, carried away by their conversations, paid no attention at all either to their sleeping children or to weeping Vova. Two sailors were passing by. They saw little Vova. They thought he had fallen out of a pram. They took him in their arms; Vova did not even have time to say a word before he found himself in a pram next to a sleeping infant!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“An old tale about Vova Ivanov” part three. (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"“Ivanov?” asked Doctor Nebolit. “Ivanov,” answered Vova. “And how did you guess?” asked Vova. “I didn\u0026rsquo;t guess, I simply asked,” answered Nebolit. “Well then, come into the office, Vova Ivanov, take off your jacket and sit down, tell me why you are so sad today?”\n“I don\u0026rsquo;t want to go to school. Today MariVanna promised a maths test and a Russian dictation. And I\u0026rsquo;m lazy!” “A hard case!” said Nebolit sympathetically. “And maybe there is something that you are not lazy about?” Nebolit continued to ask. “There is one occupation I am not lazy about…. sitting on the fence and eating sweets! And in general, I want to be little!” “Ah! Well that is a fixable matter!” answers the doctor. “British scientists very recently invented two medicines: one medicine for rejuvenation, and another for growing up. They are called accordingly the Green and Red pills. I\u0026rsquo;ll write a prescription now and you\u0026rsquo;ll be able to buy them at the nearest pharmacy.”\nVova thanked the doctor for the prescription and ran to the nearest pharmacy. He holds out the prescription to the pharmacist, she reads it carefully and asks, for whom are you buying the medicine? Vova thought for a minute, and then says: “The Green pill for grandfather, he needs to get a little younger, and the Red one for myself, so I grow up faster!” Vova bought two pills with the “bread” money, walks toward school and thinks, with what money will I buy bread? I\u0026rsquo;ll have to explain to mama that I lost the money.\n“Ah, come what may, I\u0026rsquo;ll swallow the Green pill now!” And he swallowed it, and hid the red one in his jacket pocket. After five minutes he felt he was walking more slowly than usual. He dragged himself to school for the third lesson. He began to take off his jacket, noticed that the sleeves had become so long, sat at the desk — his legs dangled, they didn\u0026rsquo;t reach the floor. His classmates look toward him in surprise and are silent.\nThen MariVanna comes into the class, looks at Vova and says: “Boy, who did you come to school with? It\u0026rsquo;s too early for you to sit at a desk. Go home, rest! Come to school in about three years!” Vovka was glad that MariVanna did not recognise him, “hurrah, so I won\u0026rsquo;t write the test and dictations! So the pill works! Now I can walk as much as I want, sit on the fence, eat sweets!”\nHe ran joyfully out of school and, tangled in his own jacket, fell head first into a snowdrift, cannot get out, kicks his legs, cannot shout either — his face is in the snow! Luckily a passer-by was nearby, helped, pulled Vovka out of the snowdrift, began putting the school satchel on his shoulders (in those days they did not go to school with backpacks). And this passer-by says to him: “Grow up quickly, little one, you\u0026rsquo;ll become a cosmonaut!” (in those times oh how we lacked cosmonauts in our country!) To be continued…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190314-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“Ivanov?” asked Doctor Nebolit. “Ivanov,” answered Vova. “And how did you guess?” asked Vova. “I didn\u0026rsquo;t guess, I simply asked,” answered Nebolit. “Well then, come into the office, Vova Ivanov, take off your jacket and sit down, tell me why you are so sad today?”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I don\u0026rsquo;t want to go to school. Today MariVanna promised a maths test and a Russian dictation. And I\u0026rsquo;m lazy!” “A hard case!” said Nebolit sympathetically. “And maybe there is something that you are not lazy about?” Nebolit continued to ask. “There is one occupation I am not lazy about…. sitting on the fence and eating sweets! And in general, I want to be little!” “Ah! Well that is a fixable matter!” answers the doctor. “British scientists very recently invented two medicines: one medicine for rejuvenation, and another for growing up. They are called accordingly the Green and Red pills. I\u0026rsquo;ll write a prescription now and you\u0026rsquo;ll be able to buy them at the nearest pharmacy.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"An old tale about Vova Ivanov” part two. (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"There is it, there is this inspiration in me today! Once upon a time long ago, as far back as 1972, a children\u0026rsquo;s book by an unknown children\u0026rsquo;s author appeared in our house, titled “The Green Pill.” This book was read “to holes” by my papa and my younger sister. I want to present my free retelling of this fairy tale.\n“There lived a boy Vova, his surname was Ivanov, he went to school, to third grade. Vova had a little brother who lay in a pram and did nothing. But for some reason this little one was given the most attention by mama, and papa, and grandmother and grandfather. And Vova could only watch and listen as everyone admired this baby. ‘Ah what a pretty one he is, ah what a clever one he is!’ At the same time Vova\u0026rsquo;s mama would manage to ask Vova: ‘Have you done your homework? Don\u0026rsquo;t forget to buy bread when you come back from school.’ (This was Vova\u0026rsquo;s sacred duty — to buy bread, returning from school.) And Vova so did not want to do anything. He just wanted to sit on the fence with a caramel in his cheek.\nBut here it is, a winter Monday morning! ‘Get up and go!’ thought Vova, but only thought it, and then mama\u0026rsquo;s voice came from the kitchen: ‘Get up, get up, come on get up, time for school!’ and she turned the radio up louder. He had to get up, get ready and go out. Vova walks unhurriedly to school ‘along a long road,’ carefully examining everything on his way and once again counting the steps to school…. all schools in those times were called ‘Temples of Knowledge,’ and education in these temples was universal, with a single programme for all, programmed for the bright future of all who studied.\nVova walks, suspecting nothing of his bright future, and sees a notice printed in large letters in verse: ‘all girls and boys, without tablets and torment, I deliver from laziness, from offences and sorrows, from colds in a draught and from twos in the diary.’ Then the signature Doctor Nebolit. Ring 3 times, and at the bottom an addition ‘whoever cannot reach the bell, it is enough for them to squeak under the door.’ ‘Not very dignified somehow, to squeak under the door!’ thought Vova, rose on tiptoe and pressed the bell button three times.\nSteps were heard behind the door, the door opened and on the threshold appeared a grey-haired, thin little old man with a beard, in glasses and with a friendly smile. The old man held out his hand and introduced himself: ‘Doctor Nebolit!’ ‘Oh,’ thought Vova, ‘what an unusual name the doctor has!’ and quietly, holding out his hand in reply, said: ‘Vova.’”\nThe continuation will come as inspiration comes, possibly tomorrow…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190314/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThere is it, there is this inspiration in me today! Once upon a time long ago, as far back as 1972, a children\u0026rsquo;s book by an unknown children\u0026rsquo;s author appeared in our house, titled “The Green Pill.” This book was read “to holes” by my papa and my younger sister. I want to present my free retelling of this fairy tale.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“There lived a boy Vova, his surname was Ivanov, he went to school, to third grade. Vova had a little brother who lay in a pram and did nothing. But for some reason this little one was given the most attention by mama, and papa, and grandmother and grandfather. And Vova could only watch and listen as everyone admired this baby. ‘Ah what a pretty one he is, ah what a clever one he is!’ At the same time Vova\u0026rsquo;s mama would manage to ask Vova: ‘Have you done your homework? Don\u0026rsquo;t forget to buy bread when you come back from school.’ (This was Vova\u0026rsquo;s sacred duty — to buy bread, returning from school.) And Vova so did not want to do anything. He just wanted to sit on the fence with a caramel in his cheek.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“An old tale about Vova Ivanov” (diary of a natural blonde, which I write as inspiration comes)"},{"content":"Today I read an article in the newspaper with this title: “Ina (23 years old) is chronically ill. The problem is that nobody sees it.” They placed a colourful photo of a pretty girl, out walking with a dog. Her problem is that she can do nothing — neither study nor work. There is no energy.\nIf you told this now to my mama, who on 26 March is to turn 92, she of course would not believe it! I know what she would say: “well we survived in the war, teenagers worked round the clock, and still got a clip round the ear from mother if they did something wrong!” And now this girl is not alone in her problem. Young people are ill.\nWhat surprises me most is that specialists do not analyse the causes of this ailment. She goes to the doctor, the doctor writes a sick note, they give her a money allowance, and that is all. In the article the parents are not mentioned at all, but they also do not write that she grew up an orphan. By law at 21 a person becomes independent and nobody has the right to interfere in their life.\nAnd they don\u0026rsquo;t interfere: neither neighbours, nor the “old grandmothers” who once sat on benches by the house in former times in the Motherland. Here everyone is on their own. Neither friends nor enemies… somehow I don\u0026rsquo;t feel like writing today. I\u0026rsquo;ll go to sleep. “Morning is wiser than evening.” I hope to wake up wise.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190313/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eToday I read an article in the newspaper with this title: “Ina (23 years old) is chronically ill. The problem is that nobody sees it.” They placed a colourful photo of a pretty girl, out walking with a dog. Her problem is that she can do nothing — neither study nor work. There is no energy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIf you told this now to my mama, who on 26 March is to turn 92, she of course would not believe it! I know what she would say: “well we survived in the war, teenagers worked round the clock, and still got a clip round the ear from mother if they did something wrong!” And now this girl is not alone in her problem. Young people are ill.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The problem is that nobody sees it” (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"Well, for the first time I “ran into” such an un-Norwegian situation. And it was like this. Every Sunday we try to spend with benefit for health — to swim our lengths in the pool. And it is best to arrive there at opening, at 10 o\u0026rsquo;clock, while not all the people have woken up. True, at Aquarama (the water palace) there is enough space for everyone, but still we prefer to swim each our quota at a pace and quickly return home. This has already become a Sunday habit.\nThe private underground parking at Aquarama is paid for all types of cars (and they promised free for electric cars!). The system for entering the parking is as follows: you drive in, stop the car before the barrier, open the window, press the button on the machine, take a ticket. We swam, we go into the parking. In a convenient visible place there is a machine. There we pay by card for the time. Generally we spend an hour on swimming and dressing. An hour of parking costs 3.5 euros.\nAnd the last stage is leaving the parking. Here the barrier already rises automatically (the system is already “in the know” that we have paid). But in front of us, at the exit, stands a car with Norwegian plates and for some reason does not leave. Naturally you cannot go around it. We stand and wait. A young man got out of the car, opened the boot, searched for something there, sat again in the car on the passenger seat. We stand, he got out of the car again, opened the boot, Ivan pressed the horn once.\nI told him not to honk any more, because it gets on the nerves, a person can get confused and not find at all what he is looking for in the boot (apparently they had not paid for some reason, possibly they were looking for the payment card). But then the car moved, the barrier rose, but the driver managed to show us from the window a gesture not characteristic of Norwegian drivers.\nWe laughed, drove after them “two steps,” and “they” stopped again at the intersection (I must note there were no cars nearby). Ivan puts on the left turn, and at that moment an enraged Norwegian woman driver jumps out of the car, gesticulating in our direction! And that is when we quickly “escaped” from her.\nThat was the funny situation we had today. And yet in the rules it is written that you should get behind the wheel only in a good mood! Apparently there are exceptions to the rules.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190303/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWell, for the first time I “ran into” such an un-Norwegian situation. And it was like this. Every Sunday we try to spend with benefit for health — to swim our lengths in the pool. And it is best to arrive there at opening, at 10 o\u0026rsquo;clock, while not all the people have woken up. True, at Aquarama (the water palace) there is enough space for everyone, but still we prefer to swim each our quota at a pace and quickly return home. This has already become a Sunday habit.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"An angry Norwegian woman at the wheel (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"Today at dinner I asked Ivan whether he remembers his childhood. He said no. And I am interested! If only I could learn something. He says he remembers nothing. And why then do I remember everything? Probably because I live in another world, a very different one, which I am unlikely to come to know.\nI was about five when, being in Bolshevo at grandmother and grandfather\u0026rsquo;s, I once asked my grandfather a question. I would ask all sorts of questions when he smoked on the little terrace. He smoked strong cheap papirosy called “Dymok” (the name is inexact). Horribly poisonous. But this smoke did not bother me at all. Simply grandfather had a free minute and one could talk with him “about life.”\nSo the question was this: “Grandfather, do you want to die?” Answer: “Of course not.” And I: “Want to or not, you\u0026rsquo;ll die anyway!” (I was a “kind” little girl.) How did such a thing come into my head? And at that time my grandfather was younger than I am now!\nTime passed. I grew up, got married, we came with my husband on a visit to Bolshevo for a few days (I have already written that in Soviet times we went to Moscow as if by tram, very often). Grandfather had gone into hospital, and we visited him. We sat down by the hospital bed on stools. We sit in silence. Grandfather sat up on his bed and says: “Do you remember, when you were little, you asked me whether I wanted to die…”\nI “froze,” shrank all over. And he continued: “You said then: ‘want to or not, you\u0026rsquo;ll die anyway. And now my time has come… Want to or not…’” A month later he was gone…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190302/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eToday at dinner I asked Ivan whether he remembers his childhood. He said no. And I am interested! If only I could learn something. He says he remembers nothing. And why then do I remember everything? Probably because I live in another world, a very different one, which I am unlikely to come to know.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI was about five when, being in Bolshevo at grandmother and grandfather\u0026rsquo;s, I once asked my grandfather a question. I would ask all sorts of questions when he smoked on the little terrace. He smoked strong cheap papirosy called “Dymok” (the name is inexact). Horribly poisonous. But this smoke did not bother me at all. Simply grandfather had a free minute and one could talk with him “about life.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"That's how it happens."},{"content":"I have already written earlier about my grandmother Polina Vasilyevna (papa\u0026rsquo;s mother), who lived her whole life in a village in the Smolensk region. Apparently my grandmother lived so poorly after the war that nothing lodged in my memory, only the last trip to her, when I was already 10 years old, in 1964, in summer.\nPapa was then a serviceman and used the privilege of a free ticket once a year for leave in a compartment carriage. Before the trip we bought presents: bagel rings strung on a string (that is how they sold them then), biscuits, lump sugar, tea, and many caramel sweets. Papa decided to take the ticket at the station, not long before the train\u0026rsquo;s departure. We ended up in a general carriage “packed to the brim” with people. I can suppose that papa decided to get there more quickly; the journey took several hours in the evening. I had to sit on a suitcase, laying my head on papa\u0026rsquo;s knees, and I fell asleep.\nWe got off at night at some station, and distant relatives who lived near the station took us in. Papa was seated at the table to drink and have supper, and the hostess put me to bed. To the village of Akulovo, where my grandmother lived, we still had 18 km of roadlessness ahead, by a passing vehicle. They woke me in the dead of night, put me in the cab of a lorry, and I fell asleep again.\nAfter some time they woke me and transferred me into the cab of a tracked tractor (I suspect the vehicle had got stuck somewhere on the way). Although this tractor rumbled unbelievably, I fell asleep again and woke from the silence. The tractor “stood motionless”; papa and the tractor driver were not in the cab. I screamed, began calling papa in the dark. It turned out he had been walking around the tractor with the tractor driver and they were trying to find something. They were looking for a bottle of vodka that had fallen out during the ride. They found it! Whole, unbroken! The mud into which the bottle had fallen turned out to be soft and boggy after the rains.\nAt dawn we arrived at grandmother\u0026rsquo;s house. Did I think then that now, living in Norway, I would remember her with warmth and respect, she who had lived a long and incredibly hard life. Having lost her husband in 1937 and two sons at the beginning of the war, herself almost perishing at the hands of the fascists. “Yes! There were people in our time!” Bright memory to them!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190221/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI have already written earlier about my grandmother Polina Vasilyevna (papa\u0026rsquo;s mother), who lived her whole life in a village in the Smolensk region. Apparently my grandmother lived so poorly after the war that nothing lodged in my memory, only the last trip to her, when I was already 10 years old, in 1964, in summer.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePapa was then a serviceman and used the privilege of a free ticket once a year for leave in a compartment carriage. Before the trip we bought presents: bagel rings strung on a string (that is how they sold them then), biscuits, lump sugar, tea, and many caramel sweets. Papa decided to take the ticket at the station, not long before the train\u0026rsquo;s departure. We ended up in a general carriage “packed to the brim” with people. I can suppose that papa decided to get there more quickly; the journey took several hours in the evening. I had to sit on a suitcase, laying my head on papa\u0026rsquo;s knees, and I fell asleep.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"A journey from Moscow to the village to grandmother"},{"content":"Marya Grigoryevna did not instil in me a great love of reading; rather she taught me a responsible attitude to a book. But I loved to listen when my papa read to me before sleep. In the times of my childhood they issued a series of little books in a soft cover. It was called “My first books.” There were Krylov\u0026rsquo;s fables “The Elephant and Moska,” and Grigorovich\u0026rsquo;s “The Gut-ta-percha Boy,” and Kornei Chukovsky\u0026rsquo;s “Tom Thumb,” and the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm.\nSince I was still a preschooler and could independently read only the titles of books, I remember that the top heading “My first books” greatly puzzled me. I would look at the book then and think: “my first books??? Probably this is the first book of the one who WROTE it. Because for me this is not the first book!”\nMy childhood memory was so sticky that I would remember the text under the picture in the books papa read to me, and then I could “deliver” the whole text by heart. I don\u0026rsquo;t remember that my parents were greatly surprised by this. My poor papa! He read to me in my childhood, to my younger sister in her childhood, and he managed to read to my three-year-old son.\nI remember, when we lived in a one-room “khrushchevka,” papa would read to my sister before sleep Pushkin\u0026rsquo;s “Tale of Tsar Saltan.” Possibly for my four-year-old sister this was a favourite fairy tale, because it was this fairy tale she “demanded” every evening. And only after the lines “And then the honest guests laid the young ones on a bed of ivory and left them alone.” (!!!) would my stubborn little sister calm down and settle to sleep.\nAnd it\u0026rsquo;s time for me too, it\u0026rsquo;s late! (to be continued)\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190217/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMarya Grigoryevna did not instil in me a great love of reading; rather she taught me a responsible attitude to a book. But I loved to listen when my papa read to me before sleep. In the times of my childhood they issued a series of little books in a soft cover. It was called “My first books.” There were Krylov\u0026rsquo;s fables “The Elephant and Moska,” and Grigorovich\u0026rsquo;s “The Gut-ta-percha Boy,” and Kornei Chukovsky\u0026rsquo;s “Tom Thumb,” and the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Marya Grygorovna” (part two)"},{"content":"I cannot even explain to myself where today\u0026rsquo;s memory came from, of my acquaintance with the school librarian Maria Grigoryevna, whom some children called Marya Grygorovna. I think today\u0026rsquo;s suddenly-in-the-morning-arisen thought is connected with my attitude to reading then, in second grade, and now, when I have to restructure myself completely to reading on a computer. But it pulls me now into my distant childhood, and as if under hypnosis all the sensations of that time…\nI did not like Marya Grigoryevna…. oh how I did not like her… Once a week she would come into our class with her tattered and not always reglued books, interrupting the idyll of a wonderful drawing lesson, and in Ukrainian this word sounds even more wonderful — Malyuvannya. And so I sit, relaxing, thinking from which corner of the album sheet to begin to “malyuvat\u0026rsquo;” (Ukr.). and suddenly… there you are! Marya Grygorovna in the middle of the lesson, in a constant burgundy knitted jacket, in house slippers with rubber soles, of course in glasses with a black frame (frames of another colour were not for sale then), comes into our class, we all have to stand and greet her, and our teacher Elena Ivanovna had to urgently free her desk for Marya Grygorovna\u0026rsquo;s further library actions.\nShe would call us to the desk one by one, show a book and ask, rather strictly: “Have you read it?” I would shake my head one way or another (yes-no). Marya Grigoryevna would record the book in the form, and in a week you had to bring it back, Read and Reglued!\nOf course in the class there were “our own sly ones and cheeky ones” — the boys, who could shout out without raising a hand! (as the school rules of behaviour in a lesson required): “MaryaGrygorovna! I forgot the book at home!” To which Marya Grygorovna would answer calmly and demandingly: “In a week you\u0026rsquo;ll bring it, reglued and read, and you\u0026rsquo;ll tell the whole class what you read about.”\nIn that period of my childhood life I took this phrase “what you read about” as a terrible punishment. To go out to the desk like that and tell the whole class what you had been reading, and if the book turned out uninteresting, then what to tell? I remember I was so conscientious that I tried with all my strength to avoid such a situation, a retelling to the whole class, that is I lived by the rules: “read — I read, glue — I glue, hand in the book on time — I hand it in! (oh! just so they\u0026rsquo;d leave me alone and ask less).” To be continued…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190214/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI cannot even explain to myself where today\u0026rsquo;s memory came from, of my acquaintance with the school librarian Maria Grigoryevna, whom some children called Marya Grygorovna. I think today\u0026rsquo;s suddenly-in-the-morning-arisen thought is connected with my attitude to reading then, in second grade, and now, when I have to restructure myself completely to reading on a computer. But it pulls me now into my distant childhood, and as if under hypnosis all the sensations of that time…\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Marya Grygorovna”"},{"content":"Did I ever think, in my past life, that I would remember someone who had been of no interest to me at all. And it turns out the time has come to remember Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev. That he promised to build communism by 1980 and to provide all Soviet people with separate apartments — that I remembered clearly.\nI remembered the empty shelves in the “yellow” grocery shop on Yanvarskogo Vosstaniya Street in the city of Kiev, after they removed him from office. Very meanly the party people treated him then. After Khrushchev\u0026rsquo;s removal they arranged a famine for the Soviet people. Queues for bread…. and the famous Soviet white batons suddenly became grey, poorly baked. And at school they started handing out tiny white buns, the taste of which did not please me at all. How poorly we lived then! But what is most interesting is that we did not know it!\nWho are these “we”? My relatives, my neighbours in the “khrushchevka,” my girlfriends. One girlfriend of mine would say with pride: “My papa has a stomach ulcer, and they give us white bread on a coupon!” That was in 1964; I was in third grade. And during the winter holidays mama decided to take me and my one-year-old sister to grandmother and grandfather in the Moscow region, in Bolshevo. Now I understand why. And then I understood that I was going on holiday (hurrah! I even visited the New Year tree at Luzhniki). My holidays “stretched” for a whole school term, and I even managed to study at the Bolshevo school.\nForgive me, I have gone deep into the consequences of “Khrushchev\u0026rsquo;s removal”… And now I will write about that world-famous event when Nikita Sergeyevich “paid an official visit to America” and from the tribune of the UN Assembly, banging his shoe, threateningly shouted: “We\u0026rsquo;ll show you Kuzka\u0026rsquo;s mother!”…… since an untranslatable phrase needed translating, I think the simultaneous interpreters had a pause, during which a question came from the Americans: “What does it mean, Kuzkina mat\u0026rsquo;?” They had to make a literary translation — “Mother of Kuz\u0026rsquo;ka.”\nAnd when do you think I learned about this? I answer: being in 6th grade, studying English, or more precisely, studying the topic “The possessive case in English.” My beloved English teacher Riola Mikhailovna Pyatkovskaya (I have already written about her in my earlier stories “How I studied English”) suddenly, right in the lesson, began telling us, children! this outrageous case, which official sources kept silent about.\nI, of course, this possessive case “Mother of Kuz\u0026rsquo;ka,” and more grammatically, purely in English it sounds like “Kuz\u0026rsquo;ka\u0026rsquo;s mother,” remembered for my whole life! Which I now report not only to you, but having come home from school that same day, I told my papa, who suffered greatly from Khrushchev\u0026rsquo;s order “On the reduction of 100 thousand servicemen from the ranks of the Soviet Army,” having gone onto a modest military pension and continuing to work until the end of his life.\nWhen papa heard this, he laughed until he cried, repeating many times “mother of Kuzka, mother of Kuzka…” Every evening papa would quietly switch on the transistor and catch the mysterious hostile “Voice of America from Washington”…\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190201/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eDid I ever think, in my past life, that I would remember someone who had been of no interest to me at all. And it turns out the time has come to remember Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev. That he promised to build communism by 1980 and to provide all Soviet people with separate apartments — that I remembered clearly.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI remembered the empty shelves in the “yellow” grocery shop on Yanvarskogo Vosstaniya Street in the city of Kiev, after they removed him from office. Very meanly the party people treated him then. After Khrushchev\u0026rsquo;s removal they arranged a famine for the Soviet people. Queues for bread…. and the famous Soviet white batons suddenly became grey, poorly baked. And at school they started handing out tiny white buns, the taste of which did not please me at all. How poorly we lived then! But what is most interesting is that we did not know it!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Simple and bold Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"“For me this night is outside the law, I write — at night there is more darkness. I grab the telephone dial and dial the eternal 07. ‘Girl, hello! What\u0026rsquo;s your name?’ — ‘Toma. Seventy-two! I wait, holding my breath! It can\u0026rsquo;t be, say it again, I\u0026rsquo;m sure — he\u0026rsquo;s home! Ah, here they have already answered… Well, hello — it\u0026rsquo;s me!’\nThis night for me is outside the law. I don\u0026rsquo;t sleep, I shout — quicker! Why on credit, on a coupon, do they offer me the people I love? …… The telephone for me is like an icon. The telephone book is a triptych, the operator has become a Madonna, having shortened the distances for a moment. Girl, dear! I beg you, extend it! You are now like an angel — don\u0026rsquo;t come down from the altar! The most important thing is still ahead, understand, Here they have already answered… Well, hello — it\u0026rsquo;s me!”\nThis is a song by Vladimir Semyonovich Vysotsky, which I recently heard for the first time, sitting in the car, on “Dorozhnoye Radio.” My Norwegian husband was driving at the time, and since Vysotsky\u0026rsquo;s voice is unique and unaccustomed to a “Norwegian ear,” he asked me who it was and what the song was about. Well, I gathered my thoughts, and here is the story I came up with.\nSomewhere until the 1970s of the last century, telephone communication was very unreliable, and to get through to another city in our vast Motherland (but not abroad), you had to use the services of an operator. Not all citizens had telephones then; some had to go to the post office, order a call and wait until the long-distance line was free, and the operator could connect you with the subscriber.\nAnd if the subscriber also had no telephone, he was first informed by telegram of the forthcoming conversation, and he too would come and wait until both operators could connect people languishing in expectation — for all of 3 minutes of talk! Those who were a bit richer could even order 5 minutes! And a 10-minute long-distance conversation was considered unheard-of luxury!\nFrom the content of the song it is clear that Vladimir Semyonovich “was lucky” with a telephone. He could order a call on credit or, again, buy a coupon in advance at the post office for a certain number of little minutes on a sleepless night. I must note that an operator\u0026rsquo;s work was considered harmful, and the working day lasted 6 hours, and I think they retired at 45. And they took only women with a certain timbre of voice for such work.\nAnd now I return to “our days.” My elder son calls me on Viber (he was born the year Vysotsky died), and I, hearing my son\u0026rsquo;s voice, answer: “I\u0026rsquo;ll talk now, but first I want to see both your face and mine in the telephone! Because,” I say, “I was listening to a Vysotsky song, what difficulties he went through just to get through to a loved one!” And I tell him the content of the song.\nAnd he says to me: “Was this Vysotsky who couldn\u0026rsquo;t get through to Marina Vlady?” — “Oh, what are you saying, sonny, in those times there were no international calls! Only within the Soviet Union did women operators connect… or maybe there were…” “There were,” my son said philosophically, “only there the operators in civilian clothes decided whether to connect or not to connect.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190128/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“For me this night is outside the law, I write — at night there is more darkness. I grab the telephone dial and dial the eternal 07. ‘Girl, hello! What\u0026rsquo;s your name?’ — ‘Toma. Seventy-two! I wait, holding my breath! It can\u0026rsquo;t be, say it again, I\u0026rsquo;m sure — he\u0026rsquo;s home! Ah, here they have already answered… Well, hello — it\u0026rsquo;s me!’\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThis night for me is outside the law. I don\u0026rsquo;t sleep, I shout — quicker! Why on credit, on a coupon, do they offer me the people I love? …… The telephone for me is like an icon. The telephone book is a triptych, the operator has become a Madonna, having shortened the distances for a moment. Girl, dear! I beg you, extend it! You are now like an angel — don\u0026rsquo;t come down from the altar! The most important thing is still ahead, understand, Here they have already answered… Well, hello — it\u0026rsquo;s me!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“07” (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"I don\u0026rsquo;t know who said it, but just in case I put today\u0026rsquo;s story in quotation marks. I was struck, having read a post about the rescue of a family from a burning car in the city of Mykolaiv (in the south of Ukraine). Two men, hearing a child\u0026rsquo;s cry, without delaying a second, rushed to help. The driver was unconscious, and they saved him too, a minute before the explosion! Honour and praise to these two Human Beings! I was very struck by their act — a heroic deed.\nAnd then I remembered how two years ago I was studying on Norwegian driving courses, and in the practical classes they told us how to behave in an extreme situation, in a road accident and when giving first aid to the injured. The audience was asked whom we would save first — the one who is groaning but conscious, or the one who is “silent.” It turns out we save the one who is “silent,” unconscious.\nWhat surprised me was the absence of a first-aid kit in cars, and of fire extinguishers. And when it came to applying a tourniquet (I still remember this process from my student years), namely: a tourniquet is applied only to the limbs, above the wound, and you must put in a note with the time. In cold weather a tourniquet is applied for one hour, and in summer for no more than two hours. I immediately shared my knowledge with the group.\nHow surprised I was when the instructor said that they “don\u0026rsquo;t do it that way,” and that they stop blood with the help of whatever is at hand, which is a stone(!?) And she showed how to apply a pressure bandage with a stone. For myself I decided that in my car there will always be a first-aid kit, water, wipes, and instead of a tourniquet a sturdy kerchief or scarf.\nAnd one more thing: if a car has caught fire, they already do NOT save!!! You have to move to a safe distance… that is the rule.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190123/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI don\u0026rsquo;t know who said it, but just in case I put today\u0026rsquo;s story in quotation marks. I was struck, having read a post about the rescue of a family from a burning car in the city of Mykolaiv (in the south of Ukraine). Two men, hearing a child\u0026rsquo;s cry, without delaying a second, rushed to help. The driver was unconscious, and they saved him too, a minute before the explosion! Honour and praise to these two Human Beings! I was very struck by their act — a heroic deed.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“There is always room in life for a heroic deed” (diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"It is not always possible to admire their beauty and grace. It turns out they can also be aggressive! And here is a little story that was posted on Facebook at Epiphany.\nIn the little town of Drohobych (Western Ukraine) a man decided to wash away his sins by dipping in a pond where swans were swimming gracefully. And when he surfaced, he came under a swan attack! At first he tried to wave them off, but without success. He had to take up a threatening boxer\u0026rsquo;s stance right in the icy water, but even that did not save him. What saved him was running for the shore.\nFrom the side it looked very comical, but in fact the situation was serious, because a swan\u0026rsquo;s wing-stroke has great force and, when attacking a person, can break an arm.\nThis case reminded me of another story I watched on the Norwegian news a year ago. In a Norwegian kommune N (I did not remember the name) there lived a bully of a swan. And he had so worn out the local residents that by a court ruling! they decided to destroy him. Such a drastic decision did not come easily to them, and they thought about it in the kommune for more than one day, but what happened, happened.\nSo we continue to admire swan beauty, but we also do not forget about distance, especially when there are small children beside you.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190122/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIt is not always possible to admire their beauty and grace. It turns out they can also be aggressive! And here is a little story that was posted on Facebook at Epiphany.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the little town of Drohobych (Western Ukraine) a man decided to wash away his sins by dipping in a pond where swans were swimming gracefully. And when he surfaced, he came under a swan attack! At first he tried to wave them off, but without success. He had to take up a threatening boxer\u0026rsquo;s stance right in the icy water, but even that did not save him. What saved him was running for the shore.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"About swans (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"To be honest, I did not know the meaning of this word; it seemed to me it was a delicacy. It turns out that every year before Christmas, tin cans are sold in Norway, prettily and festively packaged.\nAnd so, sometime in the pre-Christmas days, my Norwegian husband said almost solemnly that for breakfast we would eat anchovies. And I at once became solemnly curious. He opens this little tin, and what do I see: cleaned sprat, spicy-cured, without the head. With the sprat my husband boiled soft-boiled eggs and made little sandwiches.\nI honestly admit that for me to eat fish for breakfast is nonsense, even the most “delicate” kind! I politely declined and began to tell the story of Soviet sprat, which was the cheapest snack with vodka and potatoes in their jackets.\nAnd I also remembered a stupid but inventive Soviet anecdote. Here is the anecdote: a modest Soviet worker by the name of Petrov unexpectedly, for the whole factory collective, started bringing sandwiches with black caviar. All the workers go to the canteen for lunch, and Petrov, you see, separates himself from the collective and quietly eats his scarce sandwiches.\nThey called a meeting (in those days it was the norm for the whole collective to examine a “straying” member). They summoned Petrov and “called on” him to explain where he got this black caviar — “you don\u0026rsquo;t live according to your means, comrade!” Petrov scratched the back of his head and honestly confessed: “Well I, this caviar, with these calloused hands of mine I get all night, picking the little eyes out of the sprats\u0026rsquo; heads!” Those are the kind of anchovies we have.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190116/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTo be honest, I did not know the meaning of this word; it seemed to me it was a delicacy. It turns out that every year before Christmas, tin cans are sold in Norway, prettily and festively packaged.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd so, sometime in the pre-Christmas days, my Norwegian husband said almost solemnly that for breakfast we would eat anchovies. And I at once became solemnly curious. He opens this little tin, and what do I see: cleaned sprat, spicy-cured, without the head. With the sprat my husband boiled soft-boiled eggs and made little sandwiches.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Anchovies, anchovies… (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"When we lived in a house, every year before Christmas my husband would buy a real beauty of a Christmas tree. We would drive into town as a family, choose “the prettiest” little tree, and… the holiday would begin.\nIn the last two years, having moved into a new little apartment, we decided to buy an artificial tree at IKEA and thereby simplified our troubles. I might not have developed this theme now, but I was struck by a report, again on the Norwegian news. And I think it happened in our region. Something about the place seemed very familiar to me.\nThe last time we bought a real tree was at a forestry. The choice was one more beautiful than the next! A huge territory planted with spruces, and a big hangar of trees already prepared for sale. So this year not all the trees were sold, and a woman farmer was burning them mercilessly on the same territory, without even taking them out of their net wrapping.\nA lot of smoke, a lot of fire! And what about “care for the environment and fire safety”?\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190108/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWhen we lived in a house, every year before Christmas my husband would buy a real beauty of a Christmas tree. We would drive into town as a family, choose “the prettiest” little tree, and… the holiday would begin.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the last two years, having moved into a new little apartment, we decided to buy an artificial tree at IKEA and thereby simplified our troubles. I might not have developed this theme now, but I was struck by a report, again on the Norwegian news. And I think it happened in our region. Something about the place seemed very familiar to me.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Good grief!” (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"I hasten to tell everyone who is reading that the vicious fox that attacked the child has been caught and shot. Ten hunters took part in the operation!\nOn the news they showed the result — ten hunters standing around a tiny little ginger fox that had been shot. The next shot was of the injured baby, who was cheerfully crawling on the wooden floor of the house. Two scratches were visible on his face.\nFor a little creature that is quite enough! Thank God it all ended well! Happy end\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190104/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI hasten to tell everyone who is reading that the vicious fox that attacked the child has been caught and shot. Ten hunters took part in the operation!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn the news they showed the result — ten hunters standing around a tiny little ginger fox that had been shot. The next shot was of the injured baby, who was cheerfully crawling on the wooden floor of the house. Two scratches were visible on his face.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Good news (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"I have already written that I have a habit of watching Norwegian news on NRK (the Norwegian TV channel). So yesterday they showed an outrageous case that I have to write about. A child lying in a pram was bitten by a fox.\nThe child\u0026rsquo;s father managed to grab the fox by the muzzle, and the bite was apparently not deep (they showed the child on TV). Specialists suppose the animal was sick. But as I understood it, they did not catch this fox.\nAt some point my husband told me that there is no rabies in Norway. I then doubted and asked: “And what, they don\u0026rsquo;t vaccinate animals against rabies?” He answered that he doesn\u0026rsquo;t know. (?!).\nAt Christmas our stepdaughter came to visit, and I asked her about our cat, whether they had given her this vaccination (the stepdaughter once found her emaciated and took her in). And now she is sort of “my cat.” She doesn\u0026rsquo;t know either. But she supposed there is a vaccination, because the cat was spayed.\nAnd in general, my husband said, “this fox is most likely not Norwegian, but ran over from Sweden.” “So what? It ran back to Sweden again?” — I asked my question. Anyway, we “talked.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20190103/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI have already written that I have a habit of watching Norwegian news on NRK (the Norwegian TV channel). So yesterday they showed an outrageous case that I have to write about. A child lying in a pram was bitten by a fox.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe child\u0026rsquo;s father managed to grab the fox by the muzzle, and the bite was apparently not deep (they showed the child on TV). Specialists suppose the animal was sick. But as I understood it, they did not catch this fox.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"An outrageous case (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"Today is 19 December 2018, St Nicholas’s Day. And on this day in 1995 my grandmother Anna Vasilyevna died, mama’s mama. She was 89 years old. More than 50 years she lived in marriage with my grandfather Sergei Sergeyevich “not in peace and not in accord”! But the 50-year anniversary, the so-called Golden Wedding, they celebrated in a restaurant in Bolshevo, and of course the initiative came only from grandmother. Grandfather did not want to go to the restaurant at all, he had to be persuaded.\nAnd when she looked into her Marriage Certificate, it turned out they had registered on the day of her 20th birthday. It turned out that in the restaurant they celebrated two events at once — grandmother’s 70th birthday and the golden wedding! That was 17 September 1976. I thought now, will there be such families with a 50-year record in our 21st century and in subsequent centuries? Precisely now this phrase came into my head: “not in love and not in accord” to live such a hard and long life!\nThe last time I came to grandmother was in August 1990, when I had already been a year without a husband with two sons of 7 and 10. And then she opened up to me, told a family secret. Now I too can write about this secret, because the heroes of those events are no longer alive.\nMy grandmother was born and grew up in a Ryazan village in a large family. She had three brothers and two sisters. She did not want to live in the village and went into service, in the Moscow region, in the settlement of Bolshevo. Being in service, she learned a great deal: how to keep house properly, wash well, iron, cook, clean. But such work did not particularly inspire her, and when the chance appeared to go to work at a weaving factory, she did it. Young Soviet country needed working hands in the 1920s of the last century. There at the factory one could also do public work, attracting and agitating new young women workers.\nHaving married, she moved from the hostel to live in the house with her husband (my grandfather). The parents allotted them a little room, and so her family life began. In 1927 my mama was born, and in 1928 Vera, mama’s sister.\nGrandmother told that from the start there were many quarrels in the family and she had a desire to throw everything up and return to the village, but grandfather said that he would not give up Lida (my mama). And Vera grandmother often sent to the village to her relatives. And grandmother herself often travelled around the villages, recruiting people for the factory.\nHer sister Polinka she first took from the village into her home, so that she would help her with the household. Grandmother worked at the factory in shifts, sometimes also on the night shift. So Polinka looked after the children and kept house, and at the same time “looked after” grandmother’s husband as well. My grandmother was businesslike, and Polinka soft and warm\u0026hellip;. And\u0026hellip; in 1940 Polinka gave birth to a girl, Lyusya\u0026hellip; (I think readers have guessed from whom)\nThen good night!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181219/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eToday is 19 December 2018, St Nicholas’s Day. And on this day in 1995 my grandmother Anna Vasilyevna died, mama’s mama. She was 89 years old. More than 50 years she lived in marriage with my grandfather Sergei Sergeyevich “not in peace and not in accord”! But the 50-year anniversary, the so-called Golden Wedding, they celebrated in a restaurant in Bolshevo, and of course the initiative came only from grandmother. Grandfather did not want to go to the restaurant at all, he had to be persuaded.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“A skeleton in the cupboard” part 2 (read the beginning from 6 May)"},{"content":"There is such an old saying. I understand it thus: when they send a person somewhere far, i.e. they punish. Three weeks ago, in a rainy dark autumn, I experienced such a trip myself.\nAnd it was like this: it was Saturday, my stepdaughter called and asked to take her boyfriend to prison in the evening. He had come on a visit to her for one day, on Saturday morning, and in the evening he had to be delivered back. I have already written that my husband always comes to the help of his children and not only, especially when it concerns travel by car. He asked me whether I would go with him. Of course! I am always interested in new routes in Norway! We looked at the map, somewhere “inland,” 170 km one way.\nWhy I wrote “inland.” Because there are many roads in Norway that are well, very picturesque!!! And they run along the coast, though narrow and winding, but sturdy, and in many places well lit. And my husband says: “the main thing is that there should be enough battery charge in the Tesla for the way back.” And I think to myself: “Why does he reason like that? In Norway everywhere, at any filling station, one can use electric sockets\u0026hellip;.”\nWe left home at 18.30. Somewhere after an hour we were already on the main direction. A dark, winding two-lane road. True, on both sides every 2 metres along the verges special red sticks with reflective strips are set. In Norway in the autumn–winter period they put out such sticks everywhere on narrow roads. Without them it is impossible — one can easily slide into a ditch at best, and at worst crash into a dark rock or fall into water or into an abyss.\nIn general we drove and drove\u0026hellip; The road is narrow, visibility poor, dark-black, a fine rain drizzles, on both sides of the road forest and rocks, rarely one or two houses may appear, and that’s all. And so for 2.5 hours. In some places the radio in the car fell silent. And not a single petrol station! And naturally nowhere to charge with electricity either.\nAt last a sign appeared with the name of the kommune and several houses by the road. “Our lad” says that the prison is located in this kommune. A small kommune with a population of 1200 inhabitants. Well, and here I with my simple question: “And so? Do all 1200 people guard ‘you’?” He laughed. “No,” he says. “They have a little factory where they make plastic cups.”\nHere my stepdaughter thoughtfully uttered: “I wonder how much it costs to buy a house here?” (she dreams of buying housing). I joke, I say: “Here — free.” (they laugh) I say: “First, buy a helicopter!” (they laugh again) Probably Norwegians don’t joke like that.\nWe drove through the kommune. Again dark and narrow. Our lad says that we’ll be there soon. This “soon” appeared about 40 minutes later. “By the forest, at the edge” wooden little houses appeared, a kind of “holiday camp.” I ask: “And how many of you ‘holiday’ here?” — “28 people.” “A Pioneer detachment,” I thought. “Do they lock you up for the night?” — “No” (he laughs). We’re not dangerous! I was then too shy to ask what he was guilty of, but the other day the stepdaughter said they’ll let him out soon, and he’s sitting because he drove a car without a licence.\nWe returned home at 1.30 at night. The battery in the car showed a red strip — there was charge left for 30 km\u0026hellip;. “Happy END”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181211/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThere is such an old saying. I understand it thus: when they send a person somewhere far, i.e. they punish. Three weeks ago, in a rainy dark autumn, I experienced such a trip myself.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd it was like this: it was Saturday, my stepdaughter called and asked to take her boyfriend to prison in the evening. He had come on a visit to her for one day, on Saturday morning, and in the evening he had to be delivered back. I have already written that my husband always comes to the help of his children and not only, especially when it concerns travel by car. He asked me whether I would go with him. Of course! I am always interested in new routes in Norway! We looked at the map, somewhere “inland,” 170 km one way.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Where Makar did not drive calves”"},{"content":"I already thought I had finished my memories of China with the ill-fated Chinese trainers, with which I got it on the fingers. It turned out that events of a week ago awoke in me memories of almost 50 years ago, the so-called Soviet–Chinese armed conflict over a tiiiny Far-Eastern island, Damansky, belonging to the Soviet Union.\nI was 15 years old in 1969, when the conflict happened. I only remember that we at School No. 90 of the city of Kyiv solemnly met a hero from Damansky Island and listened to his story, of which I remembered nothing. I only remember that diplomatic relations were “almost” broken and we were on the brink of war. And the island itself supposedly no longer exists — it is “wiped off the face of the earth,” as they said then, but “at what cost?!”\nI reread some articles about those events and learned that the size of Damansky Island itself is not tiiiny, but only, and moreover approximately, no more than 1 km! And it is on the Ussuri River, now it belongs to China.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181203/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI already thought I had finished my memories of China with the ill-fated Chinese trainers, with which I got it on the fingers. It turned out that events of a week ago awoke in me memories of almost 50 years ago, the so-called Soviet–Chinese armed conflict over a tiiiny Far-Eastern island, Damansky, belonging to the Soviet Union.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI was 15 years old in 1969, when the conflict happened. I only remember that we at School No. 90 of the city of Kyiv solemnly met a hero from Damansky Island and listened to his story, of which I remembered nothing. I only remember that diplomatic relations were “almost” broken and we were on the brink of war. And the island itself supposedly no longer exists — it is “wiped off the face of the earth,” as they said then, but “at what cost?!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"And here is one more memory of China, or more precisely of the PRC"},{"content":"There was no great desire to watch the news today. So I decided to do something household-useful — take out the rubbish in the evening. And at the same time breathe some sea air. I came back quickly, and the news is still broadcasting. I think, all right, I’ll “wave” a little more with my favourite household weapon, brought from the distant homeland, a broom, “lightly.” In general I stretched\u0026hellip; and here my gaze and hearing sharpened by the TV\u0026hellip;\nAnd there\u0026hellip; a whole demonstration against violence! In Norway. A correspondent asks random passers-by: “What percentage of violence against women is there in Norway?” And each answers differently, i.e. they “guess.” Some named 5%, some 15%\u0026hellip; It turned out 30% of women in Norway experience violence.\nHere the broom fell from my hands\u0026hellip; “What on earth is this? Poor Norwegian women!” Or maybe not poor\u0026hellip;. Or maybe it seemed so to them?\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181125/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThere was no great desire to watch the news today. So I decided to do something household-useful — take out the rubbish in the evening. And at the same time breathe some sea air. I came back quickly, and the news is still broadcasting. I think, all right, I’ll “wave” a little more with my favourite household weapon, brought from the distant homeland, a broom, “lightly.” In general I stretched\u0026hellip; and here my gaze and hearing sharpened by the TV\u0026hellip;\u003c/p\u003e","title":"And what is in the news today?"},{"content":"I answer: “Uh-huh.” — “And what is it like?” — “Like Danish. Only they do not understand each other.”\nI have been asked such a question more than once, so I decided to write a little about the language I have been studying for already 7 years, living in Norway. I do not regret that I went to language courses. For me it was an “entrée into Society,” new acquaintances, friends, events.\nSome foreigners said to me: “Of course it is easier for you to study Norwegian, you have a Norwegian husband!” Sort of yes\u0026hellip;. But if the husband does not possess “particular talkativeness,” then one has to show “initiative,” ask questions (“and what husband would like that?”)\nRecently a promotional magazine from Optikk was brought to the letterbox. Glossy. I open it, start looking at frames and the prices for them. The word “frame” itself I do not see in Norwegian in the magazine. But in Russian we often use it: “Oh, what a beautiful frame! Oh, what an expensive frame! Time to order new glasses! Buy a frame.” I have given examples of how often, at times, we use a word in our native language.\nHere I asked my Norwegian husband a question, showing him an advertising page of expensive branded frames: “What is this called in Norwegian?” I got the answer: “Glasses.” Then I ask the next question: “What are glasses without lenses called?” Answer: “Glasses.” Here I already set out on the path of being a bore and say: “We don’t wear glasses without lenses! Before ordering glasses, we choose a FRAME,” at this poking the advertising picture at him and already thinking to myself: “can it be that in Norwegian this word does not exist?!”\nI had to turn to the “under-the-table dictionary” — V. P. Berkov’s two-volume set. Such a heavy little dictionary, in weight and size resembling a brick! And I always keep it at the ready, on a shelf of the coffee table, which is why I gave it such a name — Under-the-table. I found it and remembered! INNFATNING!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181122/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI answer: “Uh-huh.” — “And what is it like?” — “Like Danish. Only they do not understand each other.”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI have been asked such a question more than once, so I decided to write a little about the language I have been studying for already 7 years, living in Norway. I do not regret that I went to language courses. For me it was an “entrée into Society,” new acquaintances, friends, events.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“And is Norwegian difficult?”"},{"content":"Several years ago I regularly looked through local newspapers, read advertisements, advertising. And in that way improved my knowledge of Norwegian. And once I came upon such an advertisement: “Velkommen til fengsel!” Well, I think, we have lived to see it, they invite you to prison. At first I thought it was for work. Then I look, and a little below are placed photos of wooden furniture: chairs, benches, little tables, a cradle, a wooden toy dump truck. Clearly there was a workshop in the prison and they needed to sell the products. That is how they advertised it.\nI also regularly watch Norwegian news. Once there was such a case. A prisoner needed to be transferred by aeroplane from one point to another. Prison staff drove him to the airport, and further decided not to accompany him, clearly thought he would get to the destination himself, and he “went and got lost”! I do not know how the matter ended — there were no more reports in the news.\nAnd recently they decided to build a new prison in the South of Norway (in the North it is cold). They invited Prime Minister Erna Solberg so that she would lay the first stone and solemnly open the construction in the picturesque little town of Froland. There!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181117/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSeveral years ago I regularly looked through local newspapers, read advertisements, advertising. And in that way improved my knowledge of Norwegian. And once I came upon such an advertisement: “Velkommen til fengsel!” Well, I think, we have lived to see it, they invite you to prison. At first I thought it was for work. Then I look, and a little below are placed photos of wooden furniture: chairs, benches, little tables, a cradle, a wooden toy dump truck. Clearly there was a workshop in the prison and they needed to sell the products. That is how they advertised it.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Welcome to prison!” (Diary of a natural blonde)"},{"content":"Chinese trainers. I think this was the first, very high-quality, sports footwear. I was 5 years old. We lived in Kyiv in a military town. Now this is the district of the metro station “Druzhby Narodov.” So I went out to walk from our barracks.\nTowards me comes a boy, Slava, 7 years of age. He has put on his hands! brand-new Chinese trainers with a snow-white sturdy rubber sole, walks and claps them as if clapping his hands! So merrily he claps! Clearly he decided to show off. He comes up to me and says: “Feel how smooth it is here!” And shows me the beautiful white sole of a Chinese “Druzhba” trainer. Well I felt it with my little fingers\u0026hellip; And he slaps me on the fingers from above with the second trainer! It was very painful.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181116/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eChinese trainers. I think this was the first, very high-quality, sports footwear. I was 5 years old. We lived in Kyiv in a military town. Now this is the district of the metro station “Druzhby Narodov.” So I went out to walk from our barracks.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTowards me comes a boy, Slava, 7 years of age. He has put on his hands! brand-new Chinese trainers with a snow-white sturdy rubber sole, walks and claps them as if clapping his hands! So merrily he claps! Clearly he decided to show off. He comes up to me and says: “Feel how smooth it is here!” And shows me the beautiful white sole of a Chinese “Druzhba” trainer. Well I felt it with my little fingers\u0026hellip; And he slaps me on the fingers from above with the second trainer! It was very painful.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Memories of China, or more precisely of the PRC part 2. My first acquaintance with Chinese products."},{"content":"I thought here and myself defined and named my phobia — a Phobia of heightened responsibility for a child’s life. Of course, I myself am “to blame” for my acquisition, and the conditions of life, it seems, contributed to this before arriving in Norway. So then, having come on practice to a Norwegian kindergarten, this phobia “received an exacerbation”! (at last I understood this now, what happened to me). Instead of three months of practice under a signed contract, I held out only three weeks. I can describe only a few “harmless examples” of my “quick reaction to a situation.”\nOnce I am setting the table, preparing lunch, I put on a little plate carrot cut into rounds (and the educator has already seated the children on the benches and they sit at an empty table and wait). I put the little plate with this carrot, and, naturally or unnaturally, because an educator must lead the process, several children grab a piece of carrot each, chew and play up, make the others laugh, rock on the bench. And I know that pieces of carrot for little children are the most dangerous treat, with which one can choke, when the child is “in motion.” I, possessing a well-trained voice but poor Norwegian, loudly made a remark and\u0026hellip;.. continued putting out food. At the table a grave silence arose, everyone looked at me, including two pieces of educators of this group.\nI have not yet written about the wonderful conditions of this kindergarten: a huge hall with large windows, beyond which the whole playground outside was fully visible, a kitchen-studio (yes-yes, precisely a studio, and not a food block, as we are used to). From the kitchen-studio one can see what is happening in the large hall. In the hall a large screen is hung, on which one could project children’s computer programmes. For example a child could go up to the screen and with a finger start drawing coloured pictures.\nTo the second floor led a convenient staircase, and next to it a non-slip gentle slide, up which children easily ran to the floor. And there already were little play rooms “by interests.” A little kitchen room with a toy stove and a set of dishes, a room with little cars, in the middle a large common table where one could draw or model from plasticine. And still higher, but I cannot call it a third floor — up a narrow steep little ladder one had to climb, and the child ended up in a small round tower — also a play room, where an adult person could not fit at full height, but only on all fours. Well, I “got carried” there too. I after all “needed more than anyone” to look “what children can do there,” and at the same time “check” the safety of the toys. Good if in this little tower one little child has secluded himself and is quietly playing, but if two have secluded themselves and one of them is very active and fighting for a place in the little tower, then it is better that there should be “soft toys” there. Finding there “cutting and piercing,” I moved it to my little cupboard, which locked with a key.\nAnd here is sunny weather! “August beyond the windows,” still warm, and the greater part of the time the children spend on equipped playgrounds. Beauty — a delight! Swings, a high wooden slide. Just manage to catch children coming down the slide, so they “don’t bury their noses in the sand”! And here are the little swings! The older kiddies swing the younger ones high-high, and then jump on themselves. And five people swing on one, hang like bunches of grapes. I ask the educators: “And is that allowed?” — “It is,” they answer. Well yes. “A child must feel free.”\nRight behind the kindergarten a forest was located. So I managed to be with the children on a walk in the forest. Each child was given plastic cups for gathering berries. A group of children of 13 people and three adults joyfully moved a small distance from the kindergarten and started gathering blueberries and lingonberries. Especially active were the educators, who squatted by the bushes, paying no attention to the children. But not all children liked gathering berries. One boy found a stick and went off walking in the forest. I shout to him to come back, he does not react. And the educators also do not react, they are gathering berries. I — “feet in hands” and after him over snags and hummocks. I take him by the hand and want to bring him into the “herd.” He — into a scream! (O God! What have I “done”! With a child in Norway one cannot do that.) But everything ended well. The berries were gathered, the children walked, everyone is happy!\nTo finish this story, I can say that in Norway I like studying more than working, and I also like being “behind my husband.” And as for kindergarten children\u0026hellip;. What to us, adults, seems terrible and unacceptable, children may like most of all: running with sticks, rolling in the sand or running through puddles, tasting snow, climbing trees\u0026hellip; and God grant that there always be Guardian Angels near them! Always and everywhere!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181111/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI thought here and myself defined and named my phobia — a Phobia of heightened responsibility for a child’s life. Of course, I myself am “to blame” for my acquisition, and the conditions of life, it seems, contributed to this before arriving in Norway. So then, having come on practice to a Norwegian kindergarten, this phobia “received an exacerbation”! (at last I understood this now, what happened to me). Instead of three months of practice under a signed contract, I held out only three weeks. I can describe only a few “harmless examples” of my “quick reaction to a situation.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. “give me a job!” part 3. A phobia of heightened responsibility."},{"content":"So then about practice in Norway. Many, newly arrived, get it in kindergartens. If the director of the kindergarten agrees to take you on practice, then NAV pays for it. You work a full working day of 7.5 hours and receive 300 kroner for these 7.5 hours. (30 euros). Of course joyful! Not bad language practice, communicating with the kiddies. And the main thing with a prospect of permanent work. And it is very important that the kindergarten is municipal, so in the future there is social security and I can even earn a Norwegian pension in 10 years! (that is what I thought). Much later I learned that to get a Norwegian pension one needs to have worked 40 years in Norway.\nSummer passed, and on the first of August I went out on practice. After the holidays the kindergarten opened on the first of August and there were only 13 children. A new building of original construction, a light premises, a possibility for the educators to drink coffee at a large table in a special staff room. The first day a mass of positive emotions. They met me, we talked, I got acquainted. They asked with which age group I prefer to work. I chose the middle group. At that moment children of 3.5–5 years were gathered in the group.\nSince I spoke Norwegian very badly, I gladly took on the work that does not require “much” Norwegian. In the kindergarten there was no post of cook, and I agreed to set the tables by 12 o’clock, for the so-called lunch. There is no official breakfast, as there is in our kindergartens here. Parents bring the children not hungry, and if a child has not breakfasted, they give him food with him, warn the educator, and she can sit him down at any time and feed him or see that the child has eaten.\nAnd at 12 noon the whole group is placed at a large table on long benches. Each child was given a plastic plate and a plastic knife and fork. And now about the everyday menu: on shared plates I sliced cucumbers, bananas, laid out crispbread, put out litre packets of milk, filled jugs with water from the tap, opened tins of mackerel in tomato and laid it out in a shared bowl, sliced hard cheese, and there is in Norway such a specific product resembling Doctor’s sausage, but white in colour with a fish smell (I have not tried it). This I also sliced onto shared plates, and in the microwave we slightly warmed the butter so that it would be easier for the children to spread. All these products were put in the middle of the table and the children themselves chose what they would like to eat or drink. The educators poured for them as they wished either milk or water, and sometimes “both.” And, I remembered, I also peeled carrots and cut them into rounds.\nIf a child did not manage to eat together with everyone, he could sit at the table as long as he wanted. Nobody touched him. And at that time I collected the dishes, quickly rinsed them under the tap and put them in a special steam machine for disinfection. In the daytime a cleaner with her husband from the kommune would come. They did wet cleaning of the whole premises. At that time the children walked outside.\nAt 15.30 the children were seated outside at a wooden table and I brought from the refrigerator the so-called Matpakke — boxes with food which parents had prepared for them in the morning at home — yoghurt, fruit, sandwiches. And by 16.30 parents were already arriving in cars and on bicycles and collecting their offspring. In the daytime the children did not sleep — beds in kindergartens are not provided. There are small sports mats on which one can lie if someone is tired.\nA continuation of this theme I do not promise\u0026hellip;. if there is a mood\u0026hellip; possibly\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181109-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSo then about practice in Norway. Many, newly arrived, get it in kindergartens. If the director of the kindergarten agrees to take you on practice, then NAV pays for it. You work a full working day of 7.5 hours and receive 300 kroner for these 7.5 hours. (30 euros). Of course joyful! Not bad language practice, communicating with the kiddies. And the main thing with a prospect of permanent work. And it is very important that the kindergarten is municipal, so in the future there is social security and I can even earn a Norwegian pension in 10 years! (that is what I thought). Much later I learned that to get a Norwegian pension one needs to have worked 40 years in Norway.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Diary of a natural blonde” give me a job! (continuation part 2)"},{"content":"By virtue of my “inflexible” age, I can only observe the “work situation” in Norway and draw my conclusions, having lived here already 7 years. In the first year I so rushed to work that it is even “scary” to recall!\nTwo higher humanitarian diplomas: one Soviet, the other of 2004, “not bought in a passageway,” but “honestly attended and passed” state exams. “And I walk, all so” clever, through the provincial Norwegian town of Grimstad, with my CV (service record), straight into the most cultural place — the town library. And I start telling the “directress” of the library about myself, about how good and literate I am and I study-I-am-not-lazy and I know so much in this life\u0026hellip; In general I “overwhelmed” the directress with my “intellect.” I look\u0026hellip;. and the directress somehow suspiciously “shrivelled” and quietly uttered: “We will call you!”\nHere I immediately understand that this is a zero result. At that moment I was not asking for a post, but for practice. So this is how it “works.” I explain. In Norway there is such an interesting organisation, which is called NAV. They render help and support to the whole population\u0026hellip; Yes, to the population, but not personally to You.\nThe first time I came to NAV, I thought that here and now they would offer me work. Yes. They listened to me attentively; sometimes the inspector repeated the same phrase in Norwegian, which I could not understand. I came home and ask my husband: “They want something, but I cannot understand what exactly? I came with my Résumé and registration\u0026hellip;.?” It turns out everything needs to be processed through a computer, fill in schemes in Norwegian, and only then go to NAV. Well, that is what we did.\nThen they summoned me to NAV and explained they do not provide work, and so neatly asked: “You, in your homeland, are already on a pension?” — “Yep,” I said. (but if I explain that my pension will not suffice for a monthly bus pass, they will hardly understand me) at best they can “pretend” they understood. But I “got the hint.”\nI continued going to language courses. I understood that one needs to study and sit exams. But I did not “give up,” I read advertisements, took an interest in work. And suddenly, what luck! Next to the house a permanent job is required in a kindergarten for the post of “Pedagog.” The head of the kindergarten invited me for an interview. After the interview, I understood that there is a chance of getting work, but first, from August, I must go through a three-month practice, which NAV will pay for! “That’s some happiness that has come!”\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181109/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eBy virtue of my “inflexible” age, I can only observe the “work situation” in Norway and draw my conclusions, having lived here already 7 years. In the first year I so rushed to work that it is even “scary” to recall!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTwo higher humanitarian diplomas: one Soviet, the other of 2004, “not bought in a passageway,” but “honestly attended and passed” state exams. “And I walk, all so” clever, through the provincial Norwegian town of Grimstad, with my CV (service record), straight into the most cultural place — the town library. And I start telling the “directress” of the library about myself, about how good and literate I am and I study-I-am-not-lazy and I know so much in this life\u0026hellip; In general I “overwhelmed” the directress with my “intellect.” I look\u0026hellip;. and the directress somehow suspiciously “shrivelled” and quietly uttered: “We will call you!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. “give me a job!”"},{"content":"The thing is that I have never been in China. And now I will tell separate fragments of my childhood memories. The previous chapter was about Aunt Rufa. So Aunt Rufa was in China and gave birth there to her twins Vitka and Natashka, whose combined weight at birth was 8 kg!\nFor the Chinese doctors this was a shock, and they would not have saved Aunt Rufa if it had not been for our professor, who I do not know how was delivered to China, most likely by a special flight from Moscow. Having covered all the Chinese with Russian swearing (the Chinese had arranged a ceremonial welcome with ceremonies for him), he broke through to Aunt Rufa and took the birth. The girl weighed 200 grams more than the boy, for which later Vitka received from loving relatives the nickname — Dovesok!\nI cannot fail to recall a solid man, Uncle Sasha — Aunt Rufa’s husband. He was a leading specialist, a Stalin Prize laureate, worked in China, helped the Chinese comrades there to build socialism. Then the Communist Party sent some specialists to work in China. Upon return to the Homeland they brought “a wagon of goods,” as my mama used to say.\nThis “goods” was bright Chinese wool for knitting. Then I first saw a woman who knits. That was Aunt Rufa. At that time things of hand knitting were a rarity (as they used to say). And so this knitting crept into my soul and became my dream, and I knitted my first mittens at the age of 9. Unfortunately knitted Chinese things when washed bled very strongly, “felted and shrank.”\nI also remember Chinese apples and persimmons, which were sold in Moscow. The persimmon in colour and shape resembled large ripe tomatoes, and the apples were also large, burgundy, without a single spot, like wax. My grandfather was surprised how one could grow such fruit?! In his Moscow-region garden there were apples of only one variety — the famous Antonovka. And he tirelessly fought garden pests, but it was not possible to defeat them completely, and little worms settled in the apples. I liked Chinese apples — after all they were not wormy.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181106/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe thing is that I have never been in China. And now I will tell separate fragments of my childhood memories. The previous chapter was about Aunt Rufa. So Aunt Rufa was in China and gave birth there to her twins Vitka and Natashka, whose combined weight at birth was 8 kg!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFor the Chinese doctors this was a shock, and they would not have saved Aunt Rufa if it had not been for our professor, who I do not know how was delivered to China, most likely by a special flight from Moscow. Having covered all the Chinese with Russian swearing (the Chinese had arranged a ceremonial welcome with ceremonies for him), he broke through to Aunt Rufa and took the birth. The girl weighed 200 grams more than the boy, for which later Vitka received from loving relatives the nickname — Dovesok!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Memories of China, or more precisely of the DPRK. Part 1"},{"content":"If it were not for Facebook, I would not have remembered Aunt Rufa with her children. The other day on FB they posted such a short funny film (I think it was a staging), how a mama feeds her boy porridge, brings a spoon to his mouth, he shakes his head no, and\u0026hellip; here mama grabs a rolling pin and hits the toy bear on the head, and the boy at once opens his mouth and swallows the spoon of porridge. This scene seemed amusingly funny to me.\nBut one Russian woman from Sweden took this plot as, possibly, a “conscious Scandinavian,” noting that if such a thing “happened” in Sweden, the “vigilant” “barnevern” would already have taken the child from the cruel mama.\nAn analogous plot I observed, being 4 years of age, in the Moscow-region settlement of Bolshevo. It was summer; at that time it was customary to go to neighbours “just like that” at any time of day or night and without warning (there were no telephones!). So mama and I went to Aunt Rufa.\nWe found her sitting on a wooden porch with an enamel bowl of semolina porridge and two-year-old twins Natashka and Vitka, who also sat next to her on the porch on both sides, with tightly, stubbornly closed mouths. I must note, Aunt Rufa was a large, beautiful woman, as if she had stepped out of a Kustodiev painting. It was clear that the children were not going to eat the porridge voluntarily.\nAnd Aunt Rufa had nothing left but to smack Vitka on the lips. He started yelling, and from the other side Natashka opened her mouth in surprise and at once received a spoon of semolina. Thus the semolina was eaten, and the remains were “finished” by Aunt Rufa herself. Yes. That was long ago. I think in 1958.\nAnd the basis of children’s nutrition in those times was precisely semolina porridge. Living conditions were primitive, they cooked on kerosene stoves, water was taken from a standpipe which was “across the road,” i.e. in order to fetch a bucket of water one had to cross the carriageway of a “noisy” road connecting Bolshevo with Mytishchi, and stand in a queue on the station square for milk. And only after “all that” cook the children semolina\u0026hellip;.\nSo at the concluding stage of feeding, I think, Aunt Rufa was already “in no mood for jokes,” so the children received porridge with a “whip.” The children grew up healthy and beautiful.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181030/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIf it were not for Facebook, I would not have remembered Aunt Rufa with her children. The other day on FB they posted such a short funny film (I think it was a staging), how a mama feeds her boy porridge, brings a spoon to his mouth, he shakes his head no, and\u0026hellip; here mama grabs a rolling pin and hits the toy bear on the head, and the boy at once opens his mouth and swallows the spoon of porridge. This scene seemed amusingly funny to me.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Aunt Rufa"},{"content":"On Sunday we dropped into the Eco-market. That is a shop of Polish-Russian-Ukrainian products. Besides buckwheat and tvorog I bought a few sweets. Yes, I am a sweet tooth, but I do not consume sweets by the kilogram. For some time I have tried to eat two or three sweets, and even then not every day.\nWe came home, I chose three different sweets for myself and think: “Now I’ll eat half a sweet each, and leave the remaining halves for myself for evening tea.” I bite off half a “Romashka”\u0026hellip;. and here you have memories of this sweet, which I cannot “get rid of” for several days already, so I decided to write.\nI recalled the Gastronom that was next to our “khrushchevka.” It had a folk name “the yellow gastronom,” because the house in which it was located was yellow. That house is still there in Kyiv, on January Uprising Street 26 (I think the new name of the street is I. Mazepa). We children were often sent there by our parents to stand in a queue for fresh bread, for milk\u0026hellip; but for sweets, of course, nobody sent us.\nOne had to beg mama for 20 kopecks for 100 grams of hard candies with the intelligent name “Teatralnye.” And “Romashka” sweets were almost twice as expensive and cost 37 kopecks for 100 grams, and they were bought very rarely.\nWhat amuses me most now is the memory of the weighing and packing of these 100 grams of sweets. Today one can “call” the packaging ecologically clean. Very dense paper like cardboard, light brown in colour. A stout auntie-salesperson with a deft movement of the hand would twist a little cone from this cardboard, and throw in at first 5 sweets, look concentratedly at the scale needle and, understanding that “Romashka” does not reach 100 grams, cut with a knife another half-sweet and “throw it in” up to 100 grams! “Voilà,” as the French say.\nI would carry 5 sweets home. I could not hold back from eating that half-sweet. And the remaining half-sweet was, as I now understand, “profit” for the auntie-salesperson, just like the ecologically clean cardboard, which also had its weight.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181024/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eOn Sunday we dropped into the Eco-market. That is a shop of Polish-Russian-Ukrainian products. Besides buckwheat and tvorog I bought a few sweets. Yes, I am a sweet tooth, but I do not consume sweets by the kilogram. For some time I have tried to eat two or three sweets, and even then not every day.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWe came home, I chose three different sweets for myself and think: “Now I’ll eat half a sweet each, and leave the remaining halves for myself for evening tea.” I bite off half a “Romashka”\u0026hellip;. and here you have memories of this sweet, which I cannot “get rid of” for several days already, so I decided to write.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Sweet thoughts"},{"content":"A thought arose in my head that “old parents give birth to ‘old’ children.” In this family the child was late and only. Mama was already “well past 40.” And all her intellectual potential, not fully used in Norway (here there is nowhere to use it), she directed at her child, and “at the same time” at me.\nAt the beginning of my narrative I wrote that I agreed to do a little English, having quite good experience of working with children in this direction. I advised buying on the internet an English textbook from a Russian publisher, i.e. with a translation of English words into Russian. Originally what was required was that the child should not forget Russian.\nAnd once, while I was heating up food for him in the kitchen, he was in the room. I call him to lunch, and he was sitting in headphones and listening to something on an iPad. I ask: “Listening to music?” — “No, English.” I looked at what exactly. In the iPad a programme for children had been “downloaded,” and in this programme he had already “gone through” Present Continuous! And here I was going to “drill into him” from a Russian–English textbook “What is your name.” Then he told me that his mama, before coming to Norway, had taught on English courses. In general the boy knew about all his relatives more than I about mine.\nAt some moment I wondered “why am I here, in this house?” But I could not quickly refuse the work. Because the parents had to submit an application to the after-school group in advance. And I decided that until spring I would “hold out,” all the more as my husband supported me, drove me to school and came for me.\nOnce we came from school, sit at the table in the kitchen, and the child says to me: “You know, Ira (that is how he addressed me), mama wants a student from England to work with me after school. Because she wants to send me to International school.” I asked: “What, have they already found a replacement for me?” — “No, mama is just thinking so.” I also thought then “God grant it!” This was said after three weeks of my work.\nAnd soon mama called me, when I was at home and already getting ready to leave to meet her son from school, and started telling me about shortcomings in my work and that I must draw up a plan of English lessons. And then I already “drew air into my lungs” and I “took off.” From my raised voice my husband jumped up from the sofa in complete bewilderment. (In Norway it is not customary to talk in a raised tone, and Norwegians get frightened when they hear loud Russian speech). The main thought that I said into the telephone was that I am working today for the last day!\nHaving met the child from school, I explained to him that I feel unwell and cannot work. I said the same to his father. He sincerely regretted my sudden decision\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181011/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eA thought arose in my head that “old parents give birth to ‘old’ children.” In this family the child was late and only. Mama was already “well past 40.” And all her intellectual potential, not fully used in Norway (here there is nowhere to use it), she directed at her child, and “at the same time” at me.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAt the beginning of my narrative I wrote that I agreed to do a little English, having quite good experience of working with children in this direction. I advised buying on the internet an English textbook from a Russian publisher, i.e. with a translation of English words into Russian. Originally what was required was that the child should not forget Russian.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long. Part 6"},{"content":"I must note the child I got was developed beyond his years and talented not only in the sciences, but also in everyday life. Order reigned in the house, nothing superfluous. He knew, for example, how to sort rubbish correctly, showed me where the rubbish bins stand. After eating he was allowed to eat only one sweet.\nAnd so he climbed onto the sideboard in the kitchen, opened a hanging cupboard and from the top shelf took a packet with various sweets. He took two sweets out of the packet and\u0026hellip; stands thinking. I ask him: “How long are you going to stand up there like that?” And he: “I’m thinking. Which sweet I should eat today.” And I to him: “And you can’t eat two at once?” — “No, I’m not allowed. Mama allows only one sweet a day.”\nI understood that they had started “studying” the 4th-class maths textbook before me. And when I started looking into it (by mama’s plan we were supposed to solve 4–5 numbers of problems and examples a day), honestly speaking, I had to “switch on my brains.” Especially a problem with arrows strained me. In general we drew it “not there.” The next day mama in her plan-message noted this mistake and, having written a new assignment, added to do work on mistakes and rewrite the incorrectly solved examples.\nAnd the child told me not to prompt him. I “played dumb,” pretended I did not remember such a fact and promised him not to look in the textbook at all, but only sit beside him. “But,” I said, “if he takes a long time solving maths, then we will not have time left for reading the primer, a fairy tale and a Norwegian book and we will not fulfil the plan, we will have to call mama.” And here he asks me: “Which mama?” And I: “well not mine, surely\u0026hellip; (funny). I think he perceived mama as a home administrator.\nBut the Norwegian papa was real and understanding of everything. And all the most-most he told papa in his NATIVE Norwegian on the telephone, during my presence. And in the evening, I think, he “reported” to mama-the-administrator in Russian.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181008/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI must note the child I got was developed beyond his years and talented not only in the sciences, but also in everyday life. Order reigned in the house, nothing superfluous. He knew, for example, how to sort rubbish correctly, showed me where the rubbish bins stand. After eating he was allowed to eat only one sweet.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd so he climbed onto the sideboard in the kitchen, opened a hanging cupboard and from the top shelf took a packet with various sweets. He took two sweets out of the packet and\u0026hellip; stands thinking. I ask him: “How long are you going to stand up there like that?” And he: “I’m thinking. Which sweet I should eat today.” And I to him: “And you can’t eat two at once?” — “No, I’m not allowed. Mama allows only one sweet a day.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long. Part 5"},{"content":"The next day I decided to go to Norwegian courses, and by 12.30 get to the school and meet the child. In the break between lectures mama called (I was just in the buffet) and I had to “stand to attention!” and listen to her remarks about yesterday. It turned out that I had acted wrongly, treating the child to a piece of homemade cake that I had baked myself. She said that it harms his health.\nAnd it was like this: when I heated up food for him, and tea for myself, I understood that it was somehow meagre at lunch to feed a child heated porridge. So I shared my dessert with him. Of course, after this remark, I decided not to show initiative, but to do only what they tell me.\nAnd one more moment impressed me in this telephone conversation about my first working day. “My son said that you played the piano!” Here I made a second-long thoughtful pause. Then honestly and quietly answered “yes”\u0026hellip; She said it in such a tone as if I had not played, but stolen that piano!\nAfter this conversation my enthusiasm dulled somewhat. But, as they say, “the beginning is half the battle,” and after the courses my friend drove me to the school. (On foot I would not have got there). When the child saw me, he said that he needed to go to the school library to change a book and eat fruit. I stayed waiting in the corridor. I understood that he does not feel great joy going home when his comrades stayed at school in after-school care, so he “stretched” time to be at school longer.\nWe walked home slowly, uphill, following mama’s instructions “only on foot!” And when we approached the house (I must note that in Norwegian towns the private sector predominates), the stairs were completely drifted with snow “up to the knees” and I had to crawl in to open the front door.\nHaving overcome the difficulties and taken off the wet clothes (we did not throw them, we laid everything out to dry), I went into the kitchen. This time there was no food for the child, but on the table lay a detailed work plan, including also quick cooking of food by me, like oatmeal. The plan was written out by mama to the minute with a concluding phrase: “At 16 o’clock you go out for a walk, the child needs fresh air!”\nHaving sat the child at the table, I read him the “plan of action” for the following couple of hours. He ate porridge and listened, then said: I must call papa, and left the table. Now I cannot recall what he talked about with his father in Norwegian; I did not listen in, he spoke for a long time, about 20 minutes. After that we started solving maths for 4th class.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip; Good night!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181004-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe next day I decided to go to Norwegian courses, and by 12.30 get to the school and meet the child. In the break between lectures mama called (I was just in the buffet) and I had to “stand to attention!” and listen to her remarks about yesterday. It turned out that I had acted wrongly, treating the child to a piece of homemade cake that I had baked myself. She said that it harms his health.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long. Part 4"},{"content":"My first working day passed satisfactorily. From 12.30 to 17 o’clock. Since the child needed fresh air, we went out with him on skis at 16 o’clock, dragged ourselves to the hill. I stood at the bottom and gave the command “down!” in Russian.\nAt that time there were many Norwegian children on the hill, and the hill too was Norwegian, not small, steep, so I stood at the bottom to “catch” “my” child. After several of my traditionally Russian commands “Come on!”, I suddenly noticed that the Norwegian children had stopped skiing and were staring at me with curiosity.\nWithout noticing it myself, with a few Norwegian phrases I established on the hill an order of descent-ascent: those with sledges ski on one side, those with skis on the other, and when they go up the hill, keep to the right side. Those reading these lines I hope will understand me, so responsible: “someone else’s child, someone else’s country, and this ‘damn’ hill in the winter twilight!”\nWell, at last his parents appeared in a car: mama driving, papa sitting beside. Thank God! I hand over a whole child! And here my husband pulled up in the car, like a personal driver. Joyfully I proclaim in Norwegian “Ha det!”, which means\u0026hellip;. oh\u0026hellip; for me it means a lot! And if shorter — then “Bye!”\nto be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181004/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMy first working day passed satisfactorily. From 12.30 to 17 o’clock. Since the child needed fresh air, we went out with him on skis at 16 o’clock, dragged ourselves to the hill. I stood at the bottom and gave the command “down!” in Russian.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAt that time there were many Norwegian children on the hill, and the hill too was Norwegian, not small, steep, so I stood at the bottom to “catch” “my” child. After several of my traditionally Russian commands “Come on!”, I suddenly noticed that the Norwegian children had stopped skiing and were staring at me with curiosity.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long. Part 3"},{"content":"The Norwegian primary school is very different from the one we were used to, being in the Soviet Union, and then in the CIS. The traditions of the Soviet school were preserved for a long time. I will not go into details now, but I will say about myself that I would not have been able to work with Norwegian children. The conditions in school are good, no violence against the child — that is the main rule.\nThe primary school is in a one-storey building, separate from the upper school. Each class has its own entrance-exit. A corridor-cloakroom. But there are no lockers, only long benches and hooks for things. By the entrance there are stands for bicycles (many get to school by bicycle), and also in a little corridor at the entrance there is a place for skis. Clothing is free and comfortable. Very popular are waterproof and windproof overalls, often “soldered” to the boots, and to put on such an overall independently a six-year-old child has to lie on the floor. There are 15 people in the class, and an assistant helps the teacher.\nAnd here is my first working moment — pick up the child. Lessons have ended, the children are dressing in the corridor, getting ready to go outside to ski at the stadium in the after-school group. “My” child is also dressing slowly, and I feel that he wants to be with everyone in the group, and not with me. And so he tries to “stretch” time, talks with the children, dresses unhurriedly; I try to “speed up the process,” help zip the zip, straighten the hat, check the backpack (he hasn’t forgotten anything). At last — ready! He remembered that he forgot to say “goodbye” to the teacher and get the duty hugs from her. We go out at last.\nHe says to me: “I’ll go on skis!” I offer to help carry the backpack — he refused. Ok. We cross all the roads “in skis.” Luckily the drivers treat it with understanding, they stop. We climb slowly uphill, a little more along a good road, and in 40 minutes we reach his house. The keys, naturally, at the bottom of the backpack; at last we opened the front door.\nAt once the “control” call from mama rang. “How did you get there? Is everything all right?” And a recommendation: “While you heat up food for him, he must read the Russian primer, and when he has eaten, start doing maths (a Russian problem book for 4th class) in writing in a squared notebook, then a 15-minute break, you will give him fruit, after that reading of a Norwegian book by himself, after that reading of a Russian fairy tale by you. And\u0026hellip; be sure to go out for a walk. The child needs fresh air! And also: check the backpack, if there is an uneaten breakfast there, let him finish it!” — “It will be done!” I said, and in my head a German phrase flashed “Jawohl, mein Herr!”\n\u0026hellip;. to be continued\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20181002/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe Norwegian primary school is very different from the one we were used to, being in the Soviet Union, and then in the CIS. The traditions of the Soviet school were preserved for a long time. I will not go into details now, but I will say about myself that I would not have been able to work with Norwegian children. The conditions in school are good, no violence against the child — that is the main rule.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long. Part 2"},{"content":"Governesses, tutoring, babysitting — not typical phenomena for Norway. But I had the chance to be a governess about 5 years ago. I was still studying on Norwegian courses then. I went to town by bus from my village.\nOnce a classmate told me that a Russian woman who works all day in a firm needed a Russian-speaking governess for her 6-year-old boy. He goes to the first class, was born in Norway, speaks Russian, but she worries that he may forget Russian, and in order that this should not happen he needs a Russian-speaking governess. I just happened to be the one who is “a tailor, and a reaper, and a player on the pipe.”\nOn a day off we met at their home over a cup of coffee. A wonderful family of three people. Papa a Norwegian, mama from Russia, the boy immediately announced to me that I may speak Russian with him! “How wonderful!” I thought. And I also tried to characterise myself from the good side: I know English, I have two higher humanitarian educations, I play the piano, and of course I have experience of working with children.\nTo which the Russian mama culturally replied that I need not already be proud of my two higher educations, in Norway our diplomas “don’t work,” but for her boy “you suit, so you can also do English with him,” and she named me a price\u0026hellip;\u0026hellip; “well, a very funny price!” (that is how I write now; at that time I very much liked kontant (cash), as they say in Norway, and now some unconscious Norwegians are also “fighting” against the complete withdrawal of cash notes, which may lead, as I understand, to complete, total control of money in the country).\nI “in my joy” hurried to tell my Norwegian husband about my material significance. He, with Nordic imperturbability, asked: “That\u0026hellip; per hour?” to which I answered: “No, per day, or rather for half a working day.”\nAnd now it is time to “announce the whole list” of duties I was supposed to perform. The first thing I had to do was by one o’clock, and sometimes by 12.30 (this depended on the timetable in the first class) pick the child up from school. Here my first difficulty arose: by one o’clock I had nothing to travel to town in, and still less specifically to the school, and I started my working activity in January, after the Christmas holidays! I had to “connect” my husband with the car; luckily he was working at home then and could “interrupt himself” to drive me. As luck would have it, snow had also fallen “up to the knees”\u0026hellip;\nThe boy’s mama put me in the picture about what the first class is in a Norwegian school. In first place in the first class is not study, but continuous positive emotions from the teacher. That is a smile, hugs, no marks, songs in a little circle, every day 45 minutes of PE in the fresh air, collective eating of fruit in class.\nAnd just in that period the Norwegian government began insistently recommending leaving children at school in after-school groups (but not free of charge). And I think that the Russian mama, being an economist, calculated that it was not at all bad to hire a governess, so that her little son would not relax too much and would be “not like all Norwegian children,” but better. In short\u0026hellip; Best of the best!\nto be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180930/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eGovernesses, tutoring, babysitting — not typical phenomena for Norway. But I had the chance to be a governess about 5 years ago. I was still studying on Norwegian courses then. I went to town by bus from my village.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce a classmate told me that a Russian woman who works all day in a firm needed a Russian-speaking governess for her 6-year-old boy. He goes to the first class, was born in Norway, speaks Russian, but she worries that he may forget Russian, and in order that this should not happen he needs a Russian-speaking governess. I just happened to be the one who is “a tailor, and a reaper, and a player on the pipe.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I was a governess in Norway, but not for long."},{"content":"In this part I will reveal a family secret, about which I was silent all summer. Today I have in a certain sense a holiday, and for my husband Ivan it is definitely a holiday. They returned his driving licence after a 4-month punishment for speeding: he overtook in a 60 km zone, drove at a speed of 90 km and “straight” ran into a police patrol. They were just carrying out a raid! And also a fine of 1000 euros! As they say, “even an old woman can make a blunder.” The first time in his life he suffered like that.\nLuckily the firm where he works “met him halfway” and allowed him to work from home. And as I have already written, what was written before me and became a quotation — “an automobile is not a luxury, but a means of transport” — that is just about Norway! Well, it is bad here without a car if you live not in a big city, and there are only 4 big cities in Norway.\nAnd so imagine: all summer I was forced to drive the Tesla and take my husband. Four months have already passed, and I have only now got used to it. But today with joy I “gave it back” into the owner’s hands, having gained good experience of driving on narrow Norwegian roads.\nOf course I will write my “non-advertising opinion” of this modern car. For me the Tesla is bulky, wide, with a low seat. All summer I felt pain in the left shoulder from tension while driving. I “saved myself” with special gymnastics and swimming. While driving, the screen shows how the car is positioned on the road. That only strained me and distracted me. I adapted to looking only at the road, so as to position the car correctly.\nOf course, there are also many merits. On the screen the speed that one needs to keep on the given stretch of road always lights up. Convenience of the pedals: you almost do not use the brake, you work only with one accelerator pedal. You ease off the pedal a little — the speed immediately drops. And safety. The computer reports an obstacle and the car can stop automatically.\nBut I am now glad that I will drive my Citroën again, because it is best of all to drive YOUR OWN car!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180926/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn this part I will reveal a family secret, about which I was silent all summer. Today I have in a certain sense a holiday, and for my husband Ivan it is definitely a holiday. They returned his driving licence after a 4-month punishment for speeding: he overtook in a 60 km zone, drove at a speed of 90 km and “straight” ran into a police patrol. They were just carrying out a raid! And also a fine of 1000 euros! As they say, “even an old woman can make a blunder.” The first time in his life he suffered like that.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. There are happy days. Part 17"},{"content":"All the same it is dangerous to make a long pause in writing a blog. Some kind of vacuum in the brains. Having been in the homeland, I understood that I have two lives. In the homeland one has to recall the most elementary everyday moments: again adapt to a gas stove, to the absence of hot water, to “native” money which is catastrophically losing value, to people\u0026hellip;\nI lived in the centre of the city of Kyiv. Round the clock noisy, dusty, hot. And at 6 in the morning, on top of that, one can hear how the first metro train passes “under my bed.” What can one say? — The central district of the capital — Pechersk! I beheld a clear advantage over other districts: every evening a virtuoso rubbish truck squeezed through cars parked every which way and with a light movement of the lift quickly threw the rubbish into its body. As they say: “The work fears the master!” Once again one wants to repeat “virtuoso rubbish truck.” I admire their work! The poetry of Labour! Without them we are nowhere!\nI also greatly respect plumbers. Imagine, if it were not for them, in what interesting place would we all be? And of course, marshrutka drivers! They manage to talk on the mobile, count money and give change, and also hear shouting passengers ordering a stop “somewhere here”! Every time I thank the driver. After all, our life is in their hands! Thank you for getting me there! \u0026hellip;.with a breeze-draught.\nAnd so my stay in native places came to an end. “Farewell, kyiany!” The airport “Boryspil” with correct border guards. Of things — hand luggage! They checked thoroughly and “let me go.”\nI landed in Riga. 55 minutes in reserve for the transfer. They’re not hurrying to bring up the steps! Well, nothing, Ira, (I calm myself) you’ll run, the main thing is not to think how old you are, all the same you are younger than mama, who is 91! So run, Ira!\nStop! Again control by vigilant Latvian customs officers. Good that there is no queue. But more thorough than in Boryspil. I quietly repeat only one word “please\u0026hellip;.., yes, yes, \u0026hellip;.please,” and I myself think “what are they looking for then?” I have only hand luggage, weighing 7 kg. They let me go, now the main thing is to run to the gate! I make the boarding! I fly, and from my window I see a propeller! Spin, propeller, spin! And don’t stop!\nThere will be a continuation\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180914/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAll the same it is dangerous to make a long pause in writing a blog. Some kind of vacuum in the brains. Having been in the homeland, I understood that I have two lives. In the homeland one has to recall the most elementary everyday moments: again adapt to a gas stove, to the absence of hot water, to “native” money which is catastrophically losing value, to people\u0026hellip;\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI lived in the centre of the city of Kyiv. Round the clock noisy, dusty, hot. And at 6 in the morning, on top of that, one can hear how the first metro train passes “under my bed.” What can one say? — The central district of the capital — Pechersk! I beheld a clear advantage over other districts: every evening a virtuoso rubbish truck squeezed through cars parked every which way and with a light movement of the lift quickly threw the rubbish into its body. As they say: “The work fears the master!” Once again one wants to repeat “virtuoso rubbish truck.” I admire their work! The poetry of Labour! Without them we are nowhere!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. 13 September 2018."},{"content":"From 0.5 sec. to 3 sec. It turns out like this: we are driving at a speed of 20 km/h. We have seen a cat sitting in the middle of the road and understand that it is not going to run away, but continues to sit on the road. And you are driving at 20 km and in 1 second take the decision to brake. So in that second you have already travelled 5.5 m and pressed the brake on dry asphalt, “stretched” another 2 metres!! That’s all. Stopped. The cat is alive and of course ran away in time.\nAnd what does that mean? That at such a minimal speed you needed as much as 7.5 metres to a full stop?! (perhaps that is the length of your living room, 7.5 m). I am writing this now and figuring it out myself. But they have already figured it out in the textbook before me and compiled a table.\nIf we are driving at a speed of 40 km/h, then our second for thinking is 11 m! Then we sharply press the brake and “stretch” another 8 m! The main thing is that we all together must understand that even with a very good reaction of 1 second, the car will not stop at once.\nAnd further I write only figures: 50 km/h we think — 14 m, we brake and “pull another 12.5 m.” At a speed of 60 km/h we think 1 second — 17 m, we brake and “stretch” 18 m. If we are driving 80 km/h (this is outside town, where animals may appear on the road) we think and travel 22 m, press the brake and “stretch” 32 m!!!\nI will not now calculate what braking will be on the highway at a speed of 100 km\u0026hellip;. therefore we keep a distance and do not trail behind heavy goods vehicles, but switch on the left turn, after that look in the side mirror and also turn the head a little back (to see the left lane better, and if it is occupied by cars, we let them pass and only after that enter at the same speed as before (100 km).\nWe do not occupy the left lane for long, only overtake the heavy goods vehicle or trailer that is moving in the right lane. We switch on the right turn, look in the right side mirror, and when the heavy goods vehicle has remained “well behind,” we smoothly enter the right lane and continue moving.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180820/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eFrom 0.5 sec. to 3 sec. It turns out like this: we are driving at a speed of 20 km/h. We have seen a cat sitting in the middle of the road and understand that it is not going to run away, but continues to sit on the road. And you are driving at 20 km and in 1 second take the decision to brake. So in that second you have already travelled 5.5 m and pressed the brake on dry asphalt, “stretched” another 2 metres!! That’s all. Stopped. The cat is alive and of course ran away in time.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 16. Our reaction to braking."},{"content":"I paraphrased the saying. I want briefly and primitively to describe how to sit at the wheel for the first time. If I now write the phrase “don’t worry!”, it will be useless. “Worry!” But\u0026hellip; only until the moment of sitting in the car! Dress comfortably, so that clothes and shoes do not constrain you. Try chewing gum. It calms. Recall where the right hand is and where the left. That is obligatory. You may label them with a felt-tip pen in large letters.\nSo\u0026hellip;. We sit at the wheel. From this moment connect the instructor. He must show how to adjust the seat (in all cars the buttons and levers are located differently). How to take hold of the steering wheel. If you look at the steering wheel as at a clock face, then the left hand at the level of 9–10 o’clock, and the right at the level of 2 in the afternoon. The instructor must also check this moment, whether you are holding the steering wheel correctly.\nNext we look at the panel. Where what is located. This too the instructor must show you. In all cars it is different. Study the panel! Now we look at the feet. If it is an automatic gearbox, then the left foot “rests” to the side (there is a special little place). And the first position for the right working foot is to press the brake!\nFasten your seat belt!!! If the belt presses on the neck, adjust it, don’t hurry. And your right foot is on the brake. Now you are already prepared to turn the ignition key: once — the instruments on the panel have come on, and two! — “Hooray! It started!”\nBut it is very important not to forget to release the parking brake P, or as they call it among “the people” — the handbrake. And shift the gear from the neutral position N to D (drive). And your foot is still on the brake pedal!\nStart of movement: we switch on the left turn (the indicator lever is to the left of the steering wheel). And the start of movement is a responsible moment! A glance at the mirrors left — middle (what is in the car must be adjusted by you with the instructor’s help) and the right side mirror. If there are no cars, we start moving.\nThe best option for the first time is a familiar road along which you have already been driven. At the first lesson you will be able to determine whether the instructor is good or “so-so”\u0026hellip; if he does not explain and does not correct, then change instructor.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180819/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI paraphrased the saying. I want briefly and primitively to describe how to sit at the wheel for the first time. If I now write the phrase “don’t worry!”, it will be useless. “Worry!” But\u0026hellip; only until the moment of sitting in the car! Dress comfortably, so that clothes and shoes do not constrain you. Try chewing gum. It calms. Recall where the right hand is and where the left. That is obligatory. You may label them with a felt-tip pen in large letters.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 15. The beginning is not half the battle”"},{"content":"I zealously took up the study of driving theory in Norwegian. Many times we bought tests on the computer. I solve, I solve\u0026hellip; and the result is 50% correct answers. What to do? What to do? I drag it out\u0026hellip; I do not dare go to sit the exam. And one can sit it any day. You arrive, photograph yourself in a booth, pay 600 kroner (60 euros) and go into a computer classroom; they give you 1.5 hours for 45 questions. Of them it is permissible to make 7 mistakes.\nI consider that I somehow “dragged out” the preparation for the exam, kept hesitating, and of course it is better to go and try and gain experience sitting this “ill-fated” theory! In the end I “over-studied” to such a degree that, not having passed on the first attempt (I made 11 mistakes), I finished the test in 37 minutes of the allotted 1.5 hours and\u0026hellip;.. remembered all 45 questions! (I am surprised at myself!). Of course not the formulation of the question, but the topics.\nComing home, I opened the textbook and with a pencil marked the road signs and pictures that had come up for me. The next time I had to go to sit it not earlier than in two weeks. And I successfully passed on the second attempt, making only four mistakes. That is the feeling of complete happiness!\nWe press on. My husband called the courses and arranged a meeting with an instructor. I met him. An elderly strict man with a car. I look\u0026hellip;., and he has a car with a manual gearbox, and I had already practised on an “automatic,” and I said at once that I would not start. And he suddenly began to insist: “You will learn on a manual!” I say: “No, sorry!” and got out of the car.\nA week later I got another instructor, a girl of 30, a Norwegian, completely “wordless,” i.e. taciturn and without emotions, but in a good new electric car of the Nissan make. This Nissan is made for monkeys! (of course, in a good sense). Driving such a car is a pleasure!\nBut I suspect that expensive operation resulted, and after two lessons my instructress arrived in a Peugeot. I had to get used to it, because I had to sit the exam in this same car. The instructor explained to me (of course not in my favour) that lessons need to be conducted for 1.5 hours, and that came to a round sum of 1340 kroner (130 euros). However\u0026hellip;. (as always I thought together with the hero Kisa Vorobyaninov from “The Twelve Chairs”)\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180817/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI zealously took up the study of driving theory in Norwegian. Many times we bought tests on the computer. I solve, I solve\u0026hellip; and the result is 50% correct answers. What to do? What to do? I drag it out\u0026hellip; I do not dare go to sit the exam. And one can sit it any day. You arrive, photograph yourself in a booth, pay 600 kroner (60 euros) and go into a computer classroom; they give you 1.5 hours for 45 questions. Of them it is permissible to make 7 mistakes.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 14. “The process has begun...”"},{"content":"That wonderful March day arrived when we went by bus to buy a Tesla. A pretty girl-manager so quickly put Ivan in the picture! I stood patiently beside them and also tried to catch at least something. Everything seemed very tangled and computerised. In general, we sat down and drove off.\nThe acceleration immediately impressed: very swift, like in an aeroplane when it lifts off the ground. American scale! And I had puppyish delight! But when we came home, our dog met us, and I at once “sobered up” and say: “And where are we going to take the dog?” We thought and thought and decided not to sell the Citroën, but to keep it for me and for the beloved dog.\nAnd I so wanted to continue driving this car! For here it is, here it is, the dream of my childhood! Dreams come true! Only a “tiny bit” remains — to get a licence\u0026hellip;\nOne day, in sunny weather, I decided to clean the interior thoroughly, cleaned the windows, sat at the wheel, took a cup of coffee, and sat like that calmly, enjoying the moment, and promised myself that I would definitely overcome all the difficulties.\nAnd the Tesla turned out after all not to be a luxury for Ivan, but a means of transport. At that time he was forced to move to a new job and drive to Oslo, and that is 300 km from our village. And at that time in Oslo they introduced a ban on the entry of cars with diesel fuel. So it seemed advantageous to use, if one did not think about the high cost of the car itself.\nA month of Tesla use passed, and suddenly a “paper” arrives for payment of 800 kroner (80 euros) of so-called bompenger — paid road sections. And right there on the receipt a “postscript” of the following content: if you cannot pay, it can be “replaced by 3 days in prison.” Ha-ha, not funny.\nAnd I ask, and what about the free roads and parking? It turns out nobody told Ivan, when he registered the car, that in addition one needs to acquire for the windscreen some “little thingamajig” for 1000 kroner on the internet. And then the roads will be free. And parking is all paid too. Free only at municipal ones, and there are almost none left. So the saying about free cheese in a mousetrap has a place to be!\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180808/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThat wonderful March day arrived when we went by bus to buy a Tesla. A pretty girl-manager so quickly put Ivan in the picture! I stood patiently beside them and also tried to catch at least something. Everything seemed very tangled and computerised. In general, we sat down and drove off.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe acceleration immediately impressed: very swift, like in an aeroplane when it lifts off the ground. American scale! And I had puppyish delight! But when we came home, our dog met us, and I at once “sobered up” and say: “And where are we going to take the dog?” We thought and thought and decided not to sell the Citroën, but to keep it for me and for the beloved dog.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 13. Dreams come true.... for some."},{"content":"I will not hide it: at some moment I lost the desire to drive a car. Closer to autumn a problem with the sun begins in Norway. The sun shines low, and when you are driving a car it can appear suddenly from behind a rock or a cloud and blind you. Everything happens in one moment, unexpectedly and very unpleasantly. Norwegians are used to this. But I, an impressionable person who notices everything around, naturally got stressed one day.\nAnd I decided for myself that I ought “not to rush into battle,” but calmly look out the window, take travel photos, and not get too worked up about studying on driving courses. And so I spent some time in “inaction,” i.e. I left this idea.\nBut Ivan had a dream of buying a Tesla. He signed up in a computer queue and began patiently waiting for the delivery of a Tesla S to Norway. Of course he started telling me the merits and privileges of this car, and that it is supposedly very “advantageous”: free charging, parking and roads. In general we decided that when we buy a Tesla, we will put the Citroën up for sale.\nOnce Ivan told me that a special socket is required for the Tesla, which needs to be installed in the garage. Our garage was quite simple, not electrified, wooden. And a socket for a Tesla is a serious thing, and it is installed by a specialised firm. OK.\nHe orders this socket, but before the specialists arrive we ourselves needed to dig a trench from the house to the garage 3 m long and 50 cm deep, along which an electric cable would be run from the house. It was spring, the ground had already thawed, and Ivan did this “dirty work” independently. I must note that the layer of soil is very slight in Norway, and under the soil there is impenetrable stone. But Ivan managed to dig the trench.\nAt the appointed hour two Norwegian lads arrived and in half a day did everything, taking for the work 3000 euros. (the zeros are written by me correctly) or 30 thousand Norwegian kroner — that is the size of a good monthly salary. “However\u0026hellip;.,” I uttered the words of a well-known hero from “The Twelve Chairs.”\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180805/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI will not hide it: at some moment I lost the desire to drive a car. Closer to autumn a problem with the sun begins in Norway. The sun shines low, and when you are driving a car it can appear suddenly from behind a rock or a cloud and blind you. Everything happens in one moment, unexpectedly and very unpleasantly. Norwegians are used to this. But I, an impressionable person who notices everything around, naturally got stressed one day.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. My doubts and hesitations. Part 12"},{"content":"I received a book on the theory of driving a car and two hefty dictionaries, Rus.–Norw. and Norw.–Rus., as a gift from Ivan, opened the book, and what did I see there? Not a single familiar word! I had the feeling that I was seeing a completely different language. What I learn on the courses is “one thing,” and what is in this book is completely another. In general, as they say in Odessa, “two big differences.”\nWhat to do? — Of course, only emotions. I think: I’ll start studying the pictures and the captions under the pictures, and also the signs.\nOn the Norwegian courses with me studied one young man from Iraq. At that period our knowledge of Norwegian was at the same level. And suddenly I learn that he has passed the theory exam for driving. I ask him: “Hussein, how did you manage?” And he answered me very clearly, and his answer inspired me to further study. He said: “It is not necessary to know Norwegian perfectly; the main thing is to be able to understand the situation on the road. And what is needed for that? Of course, to drive more, to be at the wheel. Learn the signs, pay attention to the markings.”\nThanks to Ivan! He never once refused me practice driving. And he did not mind trusting me with the new car, a Citroën minivan Picasso, automatic. In Ukraine I learned “on a manual,” but I only took a course of 36 hours; I had no extra lessons. In general I did not drive very much, “according to mood.” And I treated the car very carefully, understanding that I “have no right to make a mistake” when at the wheel.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180801/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI received a book on the theory of driving a car and two hefty dictionaries, Rus.–Norw. and Norw.–Rus., as a gift from Ivan, opened the book, and what did I see there? Not a single familiar word! I had the feeling that I was seeing a completely different language. What I learn on the courses is “one thing,” and what is in this book is completely another. In general, as they say in Odessa, “two big differences.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 11. It is never too late to learn."},{"content":"I thought today how one can say in two words about one’s life “before that,” i.e. before arriving in Norway, and already now, living here. So then: “before that,” i.e. in the CIS — HARD! And after, i.e. in Norway — DIFFICULT!\nIn the previous part I wrote a little about the difficulties in everyday life. And yesterday my husband asked what I am writing about now. And then I understood that just as simply as I wrote in my native language, I will not be able to tell him in Norwegian, because he may “understand me wrongly.” Well, of course, I retold schematically what I am writing about, but I feel that I have no right to write about “all the skeletons.” So I will write about myself.\nAt first I thought: “I’ll learn the language, legalise my diplomas, find work\u0026hellip;. and in parallel,” of course, I was putting the house in order, abandoned by the previous mistress. Since in the homeland some people called me a “minimalist.” Well yes! A minimalist! I had lived my whole life in a limited space, had the habit of getting rid of superfluous things and not accumulating junk, so having moved into the house I started actively “clearing it out” with the silent consent of the household. In general, I rake, and “they” throw it on again.\nI understood that before me “they” did not try to look for missing things and details — they simply all jumped into the little car together and\u0026hellip; went to the shop for\u0026hellip;. a little nail or some little wire or for socks\u0026hellip;\nI started thinking how to train an adult dog to its place. In the living room carpets were laid everywhere. And when in the evenings we drank tea at the coffee table and watched the news, our four-legged shaggy friend would walk around the coffee table and actively wave his fluffy tail near my cup. I solved this question very simply: I took away the carpet from under the coffee table, because the floor was slippery for his paws, he stopped going there, and simply sat 3 m away from us on “his” carpet and greatly envied the cat, who had a place on the sofa, next to us! But, as the French say: c’est la vie. (and maybe they don’t even say it any more\u0026hellip;).\nOften our evening tea was interrupted by a phone call from one or both daughters at once, to pick them up from some Norwegian point A. And that is still nothing, if “over tea.” More often it was when Ivan was already asleep\u0026hellip; He had to interrupt his sweet sleep, and mine along with it, and go\u0026hellip;\nNow I “return,” as the English say, “to our sheep,” i.e. “to myself,” they say I-history\u0026hellip; So then, from all sorts of sorrows I was saved by my hobby — knitting, singing in the church choir, and playing the piano. And of course, the swimming pool. To the pool and to the choir one had to go by car to town, again Ivan drove me.\nAt first I thought: half a year will pass and I will be able to exchange my Ukrainian international driving licence for a Norwegian one. But no such luck! Until 2007 it was possible, Norwegians believed in our skilful driving, and then they lost faith and compiled a long list of countries, those arriving from which must take a full course of training and sit an exam for a driving licence. That’s how it is!\n“Learn the words and terms, Ira!” I said to myself, and Ivan bought me for 300 kroner (30 euros) a thick textbook on the theory of driving a car in Norwegian, which became my bedside book for a “bright” future!\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180731/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI thought today how one can say in two words about one’s life “before that,” i.e. before arriving in Norway, and already now, living here. So then: “before that,” i.e. in the CIS — HARD! And after, i.e. in Norway — DIFFICULT!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the previous part I wrote a little about the difficulties in everyday life. And yesterday my husband asked what I am writing about now. And then I understood that just as simply as I wrote in my native language, I will not be able to tell him in Norwegian, because he may “understand me wrongly.” Well, of course, I retold schematically what I am writing about, but I feel that I have no right to write about “all the skeletons.” So I will write about myself.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 10. “my life”"},{"content":"That is the title my brain dictated to me late at night. Well, it was hard for me\u0026hellip; For 18 years, starting from the end of 1989, I had lived independently, raised two sons and brought them up, and had pedagogical experience in my country, and having arrived here, into a family, it seemed to me (and so it was) that I had found myself “out of work.”\nIvan had taken upon himself all the responsibility for the growing generation and for me, arrived from another world, in which I had been an Octobrist, and a Pioneer, and a Komsomol member (I was forced to join in the 10th grade, otherwise they would not have taken me into the institute) and had even managed to become a pensioner. And here I suddenly fall under such masculine, fatherly guardianship. Nothing to do — only walk in the fresh air with him and the dog, ride in the car, and, at my wish, study Norwegian on courses.\nBreakfast he cooked himself. He “boiled” a litre of tea in an electric teapot, made toasts, spread them with butter, always cheese, yoghurt, scrambled eggs with bacon, jam, sometimes herring with boiled eggs (herring with potatoes is eaten only by “us,” from the fraternal CIS). And also for breakfast they have cod roe in tubes and brown cheese of a taste very unaccustomed for us, a “purely Norwegian traditional product.”\nAnd I had arrived with my own taste habits and economy options. After all, the main item of expenditure for the greater part of people in my country is expenditure on food, and I was used to reasonable economy, i.e. cooking and making homemade baking. And here\u0026hellip;, if something is not eaten up, straight into the rubbish bin!!!\nAt first Ivan made sandwiches for the daughters for school, which they did not eat. I started telling him that throwing food away is not good, especially bread. Well, they sort of “listened”\u0026hellip; I then started collecting bread in a paper bag myself and going to the pier to feed the seagulls.\nIn general I tried to put food in order, and when we went to the supermarket I tried to explain to Ivan how much and of what “we need for a week.” With time we “figured out” the food, put it in order, one can say, for the two of us. The daughters did not fit into our regime at all. That is, they did not eat normal, freshly cooked food. They accepted only a modern diet: Coca-Cola, pizza, meatballs in sauce (ready-made tins), chips. Sometimes the younger asked to order food to the house from a Chinese restaurant, and also periodically they ordered hot pizza. The eating of the greater part of the food for them fell on the evening and night. Plus also their friends who stayed overnight.\nIvan mastered the dishwasher to perfection. He had his own ritual: every evening at 9 o’clock he would start cleaning the kitchen. He told me that his mama had trained him to this. In their well-off family there were three brothers, Ivan the eldest, and he, as the eldest, always had his duties, which he carried through his whole life and was not going to shift onto anyone.\nThen I asked: “If in the family they trained you to certain duties, then why do you now not even try to train your children to the elementary?” My question “hung in the air” forever.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180727/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThat is the title my brain dictated to me late at night. Well, it was hard for me\u0026hellip; For 18 years, starting from the end of 1989, I had lived independently, raised two sons and brought them up, and had pedagogical experience in my country, and having arrived here, into a family, it seemed to me (and so it was) that I had found myself “out of work.”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIvan had taken upon himself all the responsibility for the growing generation and for me, arrived from another world, in which I had been an Octobrist, and a Pioneer, and a Komsomol member (I was forced to join in the 10th grade, otherwise they would not have taken me into the institute) and had even managed to become a pensioner. And here I suddenly fall under such masculine, fatherly guardianship. Nothing to do — only walk in the fresh air with him and the dog, ride in the car, and, at my wish, study Norwegian on courses.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway Part 9. My harsh everyday life."},{"content":"At last a written notice arrived about entering into marriage in September. I told my classmates on the courses about the forthcoming event, and they began one after another to give me advice on how to “dress myself up more festively.” And I somehow was not thinking at all about my festive appearance. I was more worried about how Ivan’s daughters would take the news.\nOne girl in the group asked: “And the rings? Have you bought the rings?” M-yes. I immediately recalled an old song with the words “love is a ring, and a ring has no beginning and no end\u0026hellip;.” In general, a good optimistic song. Having listened to the advice of the “experienced,” I told Vanya that we ought to buy rings and go to the hairdresser. No problem! “Everything as people do.”\nAnd informing about the event had to be done only to the elder; the younger, as always, was not “in place.” The elder took the news calmly. The signing was set for 12 noon on Friday. The “sentence of entering into marriage” was read by an official in 3 minutes, and a certificate was issued on A4 paper with a tiiiny stamp.\nWe came out of the Rødhus (literally translated the Red House) — the administration — and thought of going to lunch together in a restaurant, but then a call rang from the elder daughter (she did not know that “it had already happened”) and she asked to be picked up from the gymnasium, taken to a shop to buy tights, because she was going to a party. Well then\u0026hellip; Papa Vanya does not need to be told twice.\nAnd I had the chance to quietly sing Mendelssohn’s march, sitting in the car. For the group on the courses I baked a huge Napoleon cake. So everyone was satisfied!\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180724/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAt last a written notice arrived about entering into marriage in September. I told my classmates on the courses about the forthcoming event, and they began one after another to give me advice on how to “dress myself up more festively.” And I somehow was not thinking at all about my festive appearance. I was more worried about how Ivan’s daughters would take the news.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOne girl in the group asked: “And the rings? Have you bought the rings?” M-yes. I immediately recalled an old song with the words “love is a ring, and a ring has no beginning and no end\u0026hellip;.” In general, a good optimistic song. Having listened to the advice of the “experienced,” I told Vanya that we ought to buy rings and go to the hairdresser. No problem! “Everything as people do.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 8. “at last!”"},{"content":"I think Norwegians do not put the question that way. It is I, recalling the Russian classics, who wrote such a heading. Only yesterday I wrote about the beginning of my life in Norway and about the growing stepdaughters. And\u0026hellip;. already they are grown up! Seven years have passed!\nThe other day I received them in my little apartment. We all sat together on the veranda at the table, and I, at last, began to understand Norwegian, and they were talkative and “relaxed,” possibly for the first time.\nThe elder girl received a higher education in England and now lives and works in Scotland, rents an apartment. The younger has also already finished her studies in Norway. She got a profession, works, rents a house. Wow! Cool!” — you will think, you who read these lines in the “native CIS.” Well yes\u0026hellip;\nBut, as the hero of a Soviet film used to say, “stability is lacking.” And they began to reason in which country it is better to live and work. The elder said that in Scotland you have to live 10 years to get citizenship. She has a weighty reason to continue living in Scotland because of a beloved person. In Norway there is no work at all in her speciality. She studied at a very expensive English university as a computer designer and now depends completely on clients.\nNow this money loan that she received from a Norwegian bank for studies in England she has to pay back monthly over 15 years.\nThe younger also started going through countries and recalling what life advantages there are where. “Well, Finland, for example,” she said. “They teach well in schools there.” I politely kept silent, thinking “you have already finished school” and I “together with you,” convulsively recalling her stormy teenage life.\nThen the younger added that there is Finnish there too! You have to learn it! And in general, if the country is not English-speaking, you will have to learn the language everywhere. And that is hard\u0026hellip; So we continue to live in Norway.\nand a continuation follows\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180722/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI think Norwegians do not put the question that way. It is I, recalling the Russian classics, who wrote such a heading. Only yesterday I wrote about the beginning of my life in Norway and about the growing stepdaughters. And\u0026hellip;. already they are grown up! Seven years have passed!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe other day I received them in my little apartment. We all sat together on the veranda at the table, and I, at last, began to understand Norwegian, and they were talkative and “relaxed,” possibly for the first time.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. Who lives well in Norway?”"},{"content":"The moment of entering into marriage had to be waited for a month and a half, until mid-September. Then I thought, and if there is no “approval” from the municipal officials for our entering into marriage, then what? The visa was given for half a year\u0026hellip; August had already arrived.\nThe school year began for Vanya’s daughters. They went by bus to their schools in different towns. (I give a note for those who have never been in Norway: in the morning and in the daytime school bus runs are well organised, but if for some reason a schoolchild “is late” for the bus, then one has to “think” how to get home or stay overnight with friends).\nThe elder daughter had no such problems. She almost always came home on time, according to the bus timetable, but with the younger, who was 15 years old\u0026hellip;.. she would call papa and report where she was only when she needed to be picked up and brought by car. Her whereabouts after school were within a radius of 30–50 km. And, naturally, we would go for her at any time of day or night and in any weather.\nIvan always suggested going together, and I did not refuse; I even liked it: you sit in the little car, look out the window, study new places and the beauties of Norway.\nAt the end of August I started going to Norwegian language courses again, got acquainted with the group, and every day was filled with something new and interesting and completely “distinct” from that past life of mine in the city of Kyiv.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180721/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe moment of entering into marriage had to be waited for a month and a half, until mid-September. Then I thought, and if there is no “approval” from the municipal officials for our entering into marriage, then what? The visa was given for half a year\u0026hellip; August had already arrived.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe school year began for Vanya’s daughters. They went by bus to their schools in different towns. (I give a note for those who have never been in Norway: in the morning and in the daytime school bus runs are well organised, but if for some reason a schoolchild “is late” for the bus, then one has to “think” how to get home or stay overnight with friends).\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a motorist in Norway. Part 8. “I’m preparing to enter into marriage”"},{"content":"Like in a fairy tale? — almost\u0026hellip; Yes, the nature is like in a fairy tale, but marriage is a serious matter. And in my situation it also implied fellowship with all the members of the family. With the cat and the dog I made friends at once\u0026hellip;.\nWe had two weeks to be alone, while the girls were on holiday in Spain, and to settle organisational questions: register with the police, submit an application for registration of the marriage, and wait for a decision and “permission.”\nWe went to the office, submitted the documents, were told to wait, and on the application the signatures of sponsors were needed. “And who is that?” I asked. In my understanding, sponsors are those who “shell out” money. It turned out these were the signatures of two witnesses. In general, a formality.\nIvan invited his brother and sister-in-law as guests for the weekend. They came, we got acquainted, they signed our application for registration of the marriage, and we took the application to the office again. They said wait — “we will call you.” We wait and enjoy life.\nA week later they call from the kommune: “we need your statements that there are no material claims against the ‘exes’.” Oh\u0026hellip; We drove in the rain to another town, to the kommune, to write a statement.\nOur fate was taking an interesting shape. There was a certain, so to speak, similarity. Both of us had been left by our former spouses. Both of us had two children remaining: I had sons, Vanya had daughters. And both of us had lived in our marriages for 14 years!\nAnd much later I learned from Vanya’s family film archive that when I, in 1991, received a Certificate of Divorce, he, at the very same time, got married wonderfully and solemnly, being a well-off bridegroom at the age of 35, to a young, beautiful girl from sunny Romania.\n“That’s how it happens\u0026hellip;” Yuri Antonov sang in his song. Now I cry and listen to the song\u0026hellip;.\nthere will be a continuation. I promise.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180715/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eLike in a fairy tale? — almost\u0026hellip; Yes, the nature is like in a fairy tale, but marriage is a serious matter. And in my situation it also implied fellowship with all the members of the family. With the cat and the dog I made friends at once\u0026hellip;.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWe had two weeks to be alone, while the girls were on holiday in Spain, and to settle organisational questions: register with the police, submit an application for registration of the marriage, and wait for a decision and “permission.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 7. “And they began to live and live on...”"},{"content":"I flew into Oslo at 6 in the evening. It was a hot July day. That morning Ivan had seen the daughters off to Spain for a holiday. And he had to stay at the airport until evening to meet me. He met me in a new car, a Citroën Picasso Exclusive. (at last I have “formulated” the name, as of today, of my car!)\nThe purchase of a new car was unplanned for him, but in May he had hit (he did not notice because of the bright sun) a small post, and the airbags went off. Repair would have been very expensive; he had to buy a new one. Having warned me in advance that he would drive me in a new car like a queen! Oh! Me, who had ridden a tram all my life!\nSitting in the new, spacious car, I felt a puppyish delight. Now I will have to go back to my distant childhood, to the military town. My parents had friends who often came to us in a Volga — GAZ-21. At that time that was a luxury. While the parents sat at the table, I would go out into the yard and admire that car. I liked everything: how it smelled of petrol, the “running deer” on the hood. And what a delicious colour it had! Tender coffee with milk! The dream car of my distant childhood. It turns out dreaming is useful! Yes indeed! Dreams come true!\nAnd how beautifully Ivan drives! Calmly, confidently, the 300 km to our village, by my first sensations, flew by “in one breath”! Happiness is close\u0026hellip;..\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180713/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI flew into Oslo at 6 in the evening. It was a hot July day. That morning Ivan had seen the daughters off to Spain for a holiday. And he had to stay at the airport until evening to meet me. He met me in a new car, a Citroën Picasso Exclusive. (at last I have “formulated” the name, as of today, of my car!)\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe purchase of a new car was unplanned for him, but in May he had hit (he did not notice because of the bright sun) a small post, and the airbags went off. Repair would have been very expensive; he had to buy a new one. Having warned me in advance that he would drive me in a new car like a queen! Oh! Me, who had ridden a tram all my life!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 6. Toward a new life"},{"content":"I will say honestly: when I start writing a new part of my blog, I never know in advance what today “will come from under my pen.” And such a strange title today suddenly — “I’m preparing the skis!” — came into my head in complete confusion. Under this title I now mean my goal\u0026hellip; marriage. Without particular romance and without “grandiose plans.”\nHaving arrived in the homeland with a broken arm, I understood that, having given Ivan my consent to be with him in “counsel and love,” nothing depended on me any more, only to gather the needed quantity of papers and stamps for departure. Sign up at the embassy, submit all the documents in proper order, and wait. Long? And nobody knows. Maybe even 11 months, or maybe half a year. “The process has begun.”\nI hoped for a quick permission. After all, their ministry ought to respect a conscientious Norwegian taxpayer, which Ivan was! My hopes were justified after three months. They gave me a visa for half a year. During this period I had to decide (or not decide) whether to marry or not.\nAnd on 29 July 2011 “I flew like a fly” to my one and only beloved Vanechka. “There was no doubt about it.” “There was no doubt about it!”\nThere will be a continuation. I promise.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180712/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI will say honestly: when I start writing a new part of my blog, I never know in advance what today “will come from under my pen.” And such a strange title today suddenly — “I’m preparing the skis!” — came into my head in complete confusion. Under this title I now mean my goal\u0026hellip; marriage. Without particular romance and without “grandiose plans.”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHaving arrived in the homeland with a broken arm, I understood that, having given Ivan my consent to be with him in “counsel and love,” nothing depended on me any more, only to gather the needed quantity of papers and stamps for departure. Sign up at the embassy, submit all the documents in proper order, and wait. Long? And nobody knows. Maybe even 11 months, or maybe half a year. “The process has begun.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. “I’m preparing the skis!”"},{"content":"The days flew by quickly despite it being winter and there being a lot of snow. Every day began and ended with movement and travel. By movement I mean the long walks with the collie named Sami three times a day. And about travel by car I have already written in the previous chapter. The outlines of a new life abroad were taking shape. A husband, a house, a dog, a cat, and growing children.\nI will not hide it: I felt an inner discomfort about the children. And when I was “really bad,” I would say to myself: “Auntie! They did not come to you, you came to them! Leave your pedagogical experience in the homeland and just become a beloved woman! Breathe deeper of the fresh air!”\nAnd already the month of February was ending, and on 23 February they announced a holiday on the Norwegian courses, and my visa was running out at the beginning of March, and I had already said goodbye to the teachers and the group at the last class, walked about 100 metres, slipped (under the snow there was ice on the road), fell, and classmates and a woman who ran out of a car started to pick me up. They sat me, half-conscious, in the car, and she drove me to the nearest medical post.\nThere the administrator from the “window” immediately told me the sum to pay — 200 kroner (20 euros) — before the doctor would see me. Luckily Ivan was working in the same town; I called him and he came. The doctor received me and “only looked.” He said I needed to go to hospital for an X-ray, and that was 30 km to the town of Arendal. Ivan paid for the appointment and drove me, frightened and half-unconscious, along the snowy road to the hospital.\nAt the hospital they were not in much of a hurry either. Ivan conscientiously paid for every process “on the spot” with a bank card. It was a fracture of the right arm with displacement. They decided not to operate, but to do traction and put on a cast. We came home late.\nI opened my insurance policy, bought in Ukraine, and called the number given. A polite male voice from Russia asked me several questions and noted that I should have called at once, as soon as my trouble happened, and not in the evening. I thought then that in Ukraine they would not even give me “a scrap of wool.”\nA week later we came to the hospital and they put a beautiful cast on me again, not free of charge. And already on 3 March, with my right arm raised high, in the pose “I vote for peace in the whole world!”, I departed for the homeland.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180711/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe days flew by quickly despite it being winter and there being a lot of snow. Every day began and ended with movement and travel. By movement I mean the long walks with the collie named Sami three times a day. And about travel by car I have already written in the previous chapter. The outlines of a new life abroad were taking shape. A husband, a house, a dog, a cat, and growing children.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part 4. “what had to happen, happened”"},{"content":"At the end of July it will be seven years since I arrived here. I do not count almost three months of a tourist guest visa, when I decided to tie my further life to Ivan.\nAfter the Christmas and New Year holidays I started going to courses in town with enthusiasm, and on the very first day of classes a correspondent of Cambodian origin named Pisyai came to our group, photographed several students, including me, and asked me a question, which I answered “cleverly,” saying I had come at the invitation of a Norwegian friend to study the language, culture, history and customs of Norway. And the next day I found myself on the front page of the town newspaper, which pleasantly surprised me, recalling our saying “live more oddly — you’ll get famous faster.”\nThe first few days Ivan drove me by car and picked me up at noon. And then I started going by bus, to feel more independent. And Ivan had got a permanent job in town as well. Since I came back from classes earlier than Ivan from work, I managed to cook lunch for the whole family (for now I am describing my trial, tourist period of my stay in Norway).\nI understood at once that they would not eat our traditional soups and borscht in this family, so I tried to cook a meat dish and potatoes. The girls politely and silently refused the freshly cooked food. But when Ivan came home from work, he would start bustling in the kitchen, cooking food especially for them. Again in silence they would take the plates to their rooms and “forget” to bring them back to the kitchen.\nAs a rule, in the evening, after walking the dog, Ivan would collect all the dirty dishes, put them in the dishwasher, switch it on for the night, and after that get ready for bed. Since our house was a long way from town and from the schools where the daughters and their friends studied, Ivan constantly had to take them somewhere or fetch them from somewhere and drive friends home. And I knew that for him the most important thing of all was my presence in the car.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180707/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAt the end of July it will be seven years since I arrived here. I do not count almost three months of a tourist guest visa, when I decided to tie my further life to Ivan.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAfter the Christmas and New Year holidays I started going to courses in town with enthusiasm, and on the very first day of classes a correspondent of Cambodian origin named Pisyai came to our group, photographed several students, including me, and asked me a question, which I answered “cleverly,” saying I had come at the invitation of a Norwegian friend to study the language, culture, history and customs of Norway. And the next day I found myself on the front page of the town newspaper, which pleasantly surprised me, recalling our saying “live more oddly — you’ll get famous faster.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part three. My reflections."},{"content":"Well then. When I arrived as a tourist for three months, right after the Christmas holidays I started studying Norwegian on courses and trying to drive a car. Just a little. And it was good that I had the chance to try living in Norway and get used to a completely different way of life.\nAfter all, when you have lived in a city your whole life, you get used to public transport, but here it turned out that for any minor reason the whole family would jump into the car, and papa Vanya — the head of the family — would take his little ones and their friends in any direction and at any time of day or night. And they took me along as an honorary guest as well. Here I am, of course, joking.\nAt that time it is hard for me to say how Vanya’s daughters perceived me. I think “not at all,” “just papa’s guest.” (that is how I think now). I will not describe in my blog the very specific life of teenage girls, but that my arrival was a stress for them, as it was for me — that is beyond doubt. Now I am grateful to them for being polite enough and patient toward me.\nHaving arrived on the eve of the Christmas holidays and the pre-holiday bustle, we practically “never got out” of the car. I had the impression that the girls needed to buy “everything that was for sale” before the holidays in Norwegian boutiques. (the word butikk in Norwegian means shop). And papa Vanya patiently drove and provided everyone with everything.\nAnd I felt like a sheep, modestly trailing through the boutiques, quietly and curiously glancing at Norwegian price tags and, like Kisa Vorobyaninov from “The Twelve Chairs,” uttering (to myself) only one Russian word: “However!”\nOf course I, as an adult woman, wanted to take an active part in preparing the holiday. And I knew exactly for myself where to start. And I had to start with a general cleaning of the house, “clearing” territory for myself, and also cooking edible food. (the main food in the family was ready-made pizza, Pepsi-Cola, chips, ketchup, taco (Mexican tortillas with vegetables).\nIvan tried to be both mama and papa to the daughters. (I immediately recall the phrase from the Soviet film “their mother was Novoseltsev!”). And “any whim” on the daughters’ part, for Vanya’s money, was carried out without question.\nAnd then I appeared, “the aunt from Kyiv,” with my worldview and a rationalization proposal about a “subbotnik” all together “on Saturday morning”; I think in a teenager’s head the word “morning” is not earlier than 2 in the afternoon. Ivan politely suggested it was “better not to start” and continued to perform his household duties for “everyone and for everyone.”\nIt seemed to me then that he had adopted me too, “the little orphan.” Since up to that moment I had lived “in orphanhood” for 18 years, such excessive care both strained me and delighted me at the same time.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;. I promise.😀\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180705/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWell then. When I arrived as a tourist for three months, right after the Christmas holidays I started studying Norwegian on courses and trying to drive a car. Just a little. And it was good that I had the chance to try living in Norway and get used to a completely different way of life.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAfter all, when you have lived in a city your whole life, you get used to public transport, but here it turned out that for any minor reason the whole family would jump into the car, and papa Vanya — the head of the family — would take his little ones and their friends in any direction and at any time of day or night. And they took me along as an honorary guest as well. Here I am, of course, joking.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part two. Turns out it has no title."},{"content":"The well-worn phrase “a car is not a luxury, but a means of transport!” is just right for Norway. I understood this at once, arriving there. My future husband met me at the local airport and drove me straight “into the forest,” into the village of Homborsund. “It was winter, a blizzard was blowing\u0026hellip;” , at midnight, 15 December 2010 I was met by the household: a collie dog, named Sami, the cat Kawai and two girls of 15 and 17.\nI arrived on a tourist visa for 3 months and after the New Year holidays I decided to spend time usefully and go to Norwegian language courses in the city of Grimstad. Buses in Norway run to a timetable and that is good, but to some villages not very often, and that is bad for those who do not drive a car, I understood at once!\nI had an international Ukrainian licence with me, but I had no driving practice, and my then future husband Ivan agreed to help me. On weekends, on an empty narrow and winding road I began to practise. In Norwegian this is called privat øvingskjøring. A private person who teaches you is called ledsager, who must be a full 25 years old — fylt 25 år and must have with him a førekort with 5 years’ driving experience. There must be in the car an extra mirror — extra innvendig speil, and at the back of the car a special sign is attached — rød L, which shows that “a pupil is at the wheel.” Practice driving can begin from 16. But one sits for a licence from 18.\nHaving received a licence, the first 2 years are considered “på prøve” — “probationary.” If they take it from you because of a traffic offence — trafikkforseelser, then you will have to take courses again — ny føreprøve and there will be a ny prøveperiode.\nWhen I studied on courses, there were obligatory theoretical classes and once a question was asked: “how do you understand who a ‘dyktig bilfører’ is?” Well, I turned out to be the eldest of those present in the group and had already passed the theoretical exam, so I began to answer first: a dyktig bilfører has good driving skills — kjøreferdigheter, mestrer trafikken krav — observes the requirements of driving, understands the whole responsibility as a driver, that on the road he is NEVER alone, treats people, animals, nature and everything that surrounds him with respect. During driving everyone must be aktpågivende og varsom — alert and careful, ikke være alkoholpåvirket — without alcohol, ikke være uskikket — unfit by reason of — på grunn av sykdom eller trøtthet — illness or tiredness, and must follow the rules and road signs — må følge trafikkregler og skiltregler.\nAnd now important words and expressions — Viktige ord og uttrykk! HMS: Helse, miljø og sikkerhet — health, environment and safety. Skikket fører — a reliable driver. Sperrefrist for førerkort — “suspension,” withdrawal of the driving licence. Førekort på prøve — that is the first probationary two years of driving. Nullvision consists of etikk, kunnskap, ansvar — ethics, knowledge and responsibility. And the last notion nullutslipp av CO2 — the striving not to pollute the environment with exhaust gases CO2.\nto be continued\u0026hellip;..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180628/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe well-worn phrase “a car is not a luxury, but a means of transport!” is just right for Norway. I understood this at once, arriving there. My future husband met me at the local airport and drove me straight “into the forest,” into the village of Homborsund. “It was winter, a blizzard was blowing\u0026hellip;” , at midnight, 15 December 2010 I was met by the household: a collie dog, named Sami, the cat Kawai and two girls of 15 and 17.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The long story of how I became a car enthusiast in Norway. Part one — INSPIRING"},{"content":"Sometimes I listen to Norwegian radio. Such funny ones. Among themselves they talk, talk, talk “\u0026hellip; about nothing.” Two or three people on the radio try to amuse themselves, and at the same time the radio listeners. It is already almost seven years since I arrived here, and yet the problem of understanding Norwegian exists for me. So I have to listen to the radio in the mornings and Norwegian news in the evenings.\nFor example today in the morning they talked about homosexuality. Supposedly here in the South of Norway tolerance toward sexual minorities is rising. (research is being conducted) and here more research in Oslo showed that in the capital live only 3% homosexuals. Well, I at once “switched on my brains” and counted in my head\u0026hellip; (at school they taught me to count orally). And I got a figure from 3%\u0026hellip; not a small figure — somewhere 24 thousand people! And that is the population of an average Norwegian town.\nThey also reasoned on the theme of adoption of children into families of non-traditional orientation. This I already call an experiment on children. A pity for the children. Children are not rabbits!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180626/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSometimes I listen to Norwegian radio. Such funny ones. Among themselves they talk, talk, talk “\u0026hellip; about nothing.” Two or three people on the radio try to amuse themselves, and at the same time the radio listeners. It is already almost seven years since I arrived here, and yet the problem of understanding Norwegian exists for me. So I have to listen to the radio in the mornings and Norwegian news in the evenings.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. Norwegian radio broadcasts..."},{"content":"The road home to the South of Norway took only 13 hours on quality Norwegian roads. And here my brain recalled such a historical event as the Battle of Poltava of 1709, when the army of Peter the First won a victory over the Swedish army of Charles XII. Of course these historical events we once studied at school and remember little, at any rate I, who was not particularly interested in history.\nSo only now I thought, how did Charles XII from Sweden get to Poltava with infantry and cavalry? First I asked my husband how? He thought and came out with: “well\u0026hellip; by sea\u0026hellip;” — “By which sea?” I asked. And he: “Sweden was always strong with its fleet!” — “Logical, but not quite,” I thought, and began to search on the computer who Charles XII was and why he made his way from distant Sweden to Ukrainian Poltava.\nI will try to set it out briefly. Charles XII crowned himself at 15. From the age of 7 only men-tutors occupied themselves with his upbringing. He was handsome, well-built, physically strong. He was keen on hunting; when he was 11 he “went after bear”! From 17 he was forced to leave Sweden forever, to head the fleet and army in connection with the military threat of neighbouring states. He was younger than Peter I by exactly 10 years.\nI think Charles’s aims were both defensive and aggressive. His first victory over Peter the First he won at Narva. And then Charles decided to advance further into Belorussia, and then into Ukraine and, through Poltava, to reach Moscow. But Petrusha too was “no fool of a fellow” and after the defeat at Narva applied the tactics of partisan war, that is he wore out the enemy, retreating he burned everything in his path, so as to leave the Swedes without provisions. And having reached Poltava, Charles with his army was greatly worn out and the result: about 10 thousand killed and 18 thousand wounded and taken prisoner. And so when Petrusha began to found a city on the Neva “to spite the haughty neighbour,” he used the labour of as many as 19 thousand Swedish prisoners of war! A pity for the people\u0026hellip;.\nThe large Swedish family gathered by the parental nest\nin the expanses of Sweden\nAn old cellar\nForests, mountains, rivers, lakes\nthe youngest generation\nBy the lake\n“far distances\u0026hellip;”\nthe village of Onn\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180619/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe road home to the South of Norway took only 13 hours on quality Norwegian roads. And here my brain recalled such a historical event as the Battle of Poltava of 1709, when the army of Peter the First won a victory over the Swedish army of Charles XII. Of course these historical events we once studied at school and remember little, at any rate I, who was not particularly interested in history.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. How I visited Sweden. Part three."},{"content":"Well, what does he lack in this life? Every morning he comes onto our veranda and with two paws knocks on our glass door! And so today, a Sunday morning. We sit, having breakfast. He knocks. He sees nothing beyond his nose, and I put the bowl of food out on the street today. Our cat has already had breakfast and is calmly resting in her little boudoir.\nI begin a worldly conversation with my husband at breakfast about this tom. The neighbour has created all conditions of life for him: a luxurious cat house on the veranda. In the house there is always tasty food, which he can get by pressing a little button with his paw. But no, he comes to us, begs, finishes after our cat! When we moved, the neighbour complained that he runs away from her. “Well, and what do you want?” I said. “Playboy!” I think she did not understand me.\nSo I say to my husband that our food for some reason he likes more. And he brought me a Norwegian saying “on the neighbour’s side the grass is greener” (gresset er alltid grønnere på den andre siden). I, of course, remembered in our mighty language the saying: “the other fellow’s ram has bigger balls.” And I so wanted to make a word-for-word translation! Forgive me for the vulgarity but it came out in rhyme in Norwegian: “jeitebukk ha større kukk!” (geitebukk har større kukk). Well\u0026hellip; I am not a poet, but I speak in verse\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180617/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWell, what does he lack in this life? Every morning he comes onto our veranda and with two paws knocks on our glass door! And so today, a Sunday morning. We sit, having breakfast. He knocks. He sees nothing beyond his nose, and I put the bowl of food out on the street today. Our cat has already had breakfast and is calmly resting in her little boudoir.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI begin a worldly conversation with my husband at breakfast about this tom. The neighbour has created all conditions of life for him: a luxurious cat house on the veranda. In the house there is always tasty food, which he can get by pressing a little button with his paw. But no, he comes to us, begs, finishes after our cat! When we moved, the neighbour complained that he runs away from her. “Well, and what do you want?” I said. “Playboy!” I think she did not understand me.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. The neighbour’s cat."},{"content":"We settled in a hostel. Each family had a room. Kitchen and dining room were shared. This hostel belongs to some rich Norwegian who periodically flies into the village by helicopter from Norway to hunt and fish.\nThe next day all the relatives gathered in the dining room to remember the kin. My husband Ivan presented a report of the Family Tree of the large Swedish family, and also an amateur film about Grandmother and Grandfather was shown. I confess honestly, it was hard for me to sort out all the relatives, and also in Swedish, but the bright image of Grandmother and Grandfather remained in my heart forever!\nThen there was an excursion around the local places. My husband showed me the place where he came into the world. And he said that on this place stood the house where he was born. I asked again: “A medical point?” And he: “no, an ordinary house.” And I then thought: “and Mama gave birth to me in a maternity hospital!” We also visited the lake where Grandfather fished. An enormous lake. We met not a single person. Only a sign: Do not put up tents and cars! There is a camping 5 kilometres from the village. And also a café where they ordered a banquet.\nWe stayed three days. For me that was quite enough. Back we already drove without overnight stops. I confess honestly I have never felt a thirst for travel. So in three days I managed to miss “my” Norwegian village.\nAnd quite recently someone of the Swedish relatives told Ivan that Norwegian filmmakers had shot a feature film “Welcome to Norway!” About refugees. And how surprised we were to see in this film the native village of Onn (Ånd) and the hostel in which we lived, and according to the plot of the film refugees were placed. If someone among those reading manages to watch this film on YouTube or at least excerpts from the film, then I think you will have some idea of a Swedish village.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180615/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWe settled in a hostel. Each family had a room. Kitchen and dining room were shared. This hostel belongs to some rich Norwegian who periodically flies into the village by helicopter from Norway to hunt and fish.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe next day all the relatives gathered in the dining room to remember the kin. My husband Ivan presented a report of the Family Tree of the large Swedish family, and also an amateur film about Grandmother and Grandfather was shown. I confess honestly, it was hard for me to sort out all the relatives, and also in Swedish, but the bright image of Grandmother and Grandfather remained in my heart forever!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. How I visited Sweden. Part two."},{"content":"My Norwegian husband Ivan was born in Sweden in the village of Onn (Ånn). A boundless village with such a short name. And so in 2016 we had such an opportunity to go to a meeting with relatives in this village. Ivan prepared carefully for this meeting. Over the course of a year he compiled a family tree of all the relatives, starting from 1600! What luck! All records of people’s births are preserved in the church books! And all this is scanned on the computer!\nIvan’s mother, her name was Daga, was the eldest of ten children. To this day seven of the “children” are still alive. Well, and they already have children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In the village live only the youngest children — twins, brother and sister. They are already 68. And their children and grandchildren. 100 people came to the meeting: 85 adults and 15 children.\nWe travelled by car for two days, since we stopped in Lillehammer. This city is famous for the winter olympics, and we also made a stop in Trondheim — one of the largest cities in Norway (and in all Norway there are 4 large cities, but not one of them “reaches” a million inhabitants). Well, and then we drove only 4 hours and found ourselves in the remote village of Onn.\nIn Trondheim we received an SMS from Ivan’s aunt, that we should not forget to buy at IKEA bedding, since we would live in a hostel, and a stock of food from the supermarket, since the nearest supermarket from the village is 20 km. We crossed a weakly marked border and found ourselves in Sweden. On the first day everyone gathered by the parental house. No one lives there now, but inside the modest interior of past summers is preserved.\nI long tried to get the translation from my husband. He says it is a joking expression in rhyme. I understood that in this house they will always feed you and give you to drink!\nto be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180611/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMy Norwegian husband Ivan was born in Sweden in the village of Onn (Ånn). A boundless village with such a short name. And so in 2016 we had such an opportunity to go to a meeting with relatives in this village. Ivan prepared carefully for this meeting. Over the course of a year he compiled a family tree of all the relatives, starting from 1600! What luck! All records of people’s births are preserved in the church books! And all this is scanned on the computer!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. How I visited Sweden."},{"content":"I remember very clearly an incident when I was 9. My sister was about 2 months old. Mama had already taught me how to handle her correctly: how to swaddle, how to take her in my arms, how to give her a drink in case Mama should not be at home. And so I remember it was not early morning, about 11 o’clock, Mama went to the shop and left me with the sleeping sister. Suddenly a persistent doorbell rang. I went to the door and asked: “who?” A woman’s voice was heard: “Boy, open, your papa is not at work!” I thought and said through the closed door: “I am not a boy, but a girl!”\nAt that moment my sister woke, began to cry; I took her in my arms and again went to the door, since the woman was ringing again and demanding that I open the door. I heard another voice; she was not alone. I stood confused by the door with a two-month-old crying child in my arms; they said they had come from Papa’s work because he was not at work!? I did not open, but I was very worried about Papa, where he might be. Papa usually came home in the lunch break, since the plant where he worked was next to the house.\nAnd at last the parents came, Papa for the lunch break and Mama from the shop. I ask Papa: “Where were you? Some aunties from your work came looking for you.” Well of course these were swindlers, perhaps Gypsies, who at all times have a custom of going from house to house. And I had enough resolve not to open to them.\nThe next incident I can now call a “paedophilic hint.” I was in fifth class and I had a public duty — the culture sector. And so in a lesson a “grandfather with a black briefcase” came to us to distribute tickets to the operetta theatre. Those who wanted raised their hands “who wants to go to the theatre.” They counted them and the “grandfather” asked that I be released from the lesson to the teachers’ room, to give me the tickets.\nI sit with him in the teachers’ room, he takes out the tickets, we look at the seats in the tickets, stalls, dress circle. And he begins to praise me and what a pretty girl I am, and what a wonderful girl I am “let me kiss you!” (and I am sitting next to him). Once! And he kissed me on the cheek with his wet lips!!! And I understand that I cannot get up and leave him; he has not yet given me all the tickets. And he keeps saying: “Do you like the theatre? I can take you into the theatre for free and seat you in a separate box, closer to the stage\u0026hellip;.” And again he tries to kiss\u0026hellip; Then I gathered courage and said: “No, enough!” And he let me go.\nI remember that I returned to class, to the lesson, gave the teacher the tickets and said that there was no ticket for me, “there weren’t enough.” She, apparently, noticed my agitation and after the lesson carefully asked: “did he try to kiss you?” I answered: “yes! But I will not go to any theatre!” This teacher was attentive and sensitive and her name was Zinaida Vladimirovna.\nAnd there was one more incident with me at 13. Well\u0026hellip; then I was already a blonde-beauty! I was already meeting a boy and we “saw each other home” after school. And so I had seen him home, I am returning home, in the daytime, a handsome, charming man comes up to me and says that he has already been watching us, but did not dare speak because I was not alone. And now he decided to get acquainted, since I am needed for his work, he is an artist and wants to “paint from me as a model.” He understands that I am underage and must ask permission of my parents to pose for him “you have a beautiful figure, long legs\u0026hellip;.” (his words).\nI, inspired, ran home to Mama and tell her that an artist wants to work with me, to paint a picture. Mama looks at me and says: “You will have to pose naked, do you agree?” And I to her: “Why at once naked?” — “Because a model is drawn nude, but I think models should be of age, and if this man were a real artist, he would not take an underage girl for such work. And this one is simply a rogue!” — said my mama.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180605/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI remember very clearly an incident when I was 9. My sister was about 2 months old. Mama had already taught me how to handle her correctly: how to swaddle, how to take her in my arms, how to give her a drink in case Mama should not be at home. And so I remember it was not early morning, about 11 o’clock, Mama went to the shop and left me with the sleeping sister. Suddenly a persistent doorbell rang. I went to the door and asked: “who?” A woman’s voice was heard: “Boy, open, your papa is not at work!” I thought and said through the closed door: “I am not a boy, but a girl!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba.” The story of how I did not become a victim of crimes"},{"content":"A hard morning with a heavy head from the heat. The Norwegian husband reports. Today there was a “truppenatt”\u0026hellip; I decided to ask again. Do I hear well? Yes, “truppenatt.” The second time it sounded somehow unaccustomed. The word natt — night. Well that I know. But this “truppa”\u0026hellip; what is that? I ask again in English: “Body?” — “Nei!” answered the Norwegian husband and once more repeated “truppenatt”! Well then, I shall have to take up my own investigation of the word!\nLuckily I always have 2 volumes of Berkov’s dictionary at hand, by weight like two bricks, only with very intellectual contents. From there I “draw” my knowledge of Norwegian. Hurrah! I found it! “trope” — that is the tropics! Tropenatt — a tropical night in Norway (above +20C). All the same a book is a source of knowledge!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180604/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eA hard morning with a heavy head from the heat. The Norwegian husband reports. Today there was a “truppenatt”\u0026hellip; I decided to ask again. Do I hear well? Yes, “truppenatt.” The second time it sounded somehow unaccustomed. The word natt — night. Well that I know. But this “truppa”\u0026hellip; what is that? I ask again in English: “Body?” — “Nei!” answered the Norwegian husband and once more repeated “truppenatt”! Well then, I shall have to take up my own investigation of the word!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. 4 June 2018"},{"content":"I think many Soviet people could allow themselves a holiday by the sea. I remember how some reasoned: for example “go south to eat fruit” or “for apricots,” “for cherries” or “for peaches.” Mama had a colleague at the children’s atelier Nona Markovna. So she would say in a tearful little voice: “Oh, will I manage this season to eat a little melon with bread, from poverty\u0026hellip;.” She went to the sea “from poverty” every year.\nWell, and Mama and I went to the sea a couple more times, but we no longer took Papa with us. He worked and even sent us money for the return journey, since Mama took money “just enough” to pay for the apartment in advance and to eat. I remember that when she bought fruit at the sea, she divided it equally among everyone, including herself.\nIn some year in Odessa there was a cholera epidemic. To Yevpatoria “it did not reach.” On the roads there were sanitary posts. The beaches in Yevpatoria emptied, and we remained, because we had paid for the apartment in advance and were waiting for Papa to send us money for the return journey. That was when Mama remembered Nona Markovna’s modest diet, and we ate a little melon with bread on the beach.\nI have already mentioned that Mama for some time worked at the children’s atelier in the Passage on Khreshchatyk. I liked going to her at work, and at the same time taking a walk along Khreshchatyk. When Nona Markovna saw me, she would say: “My God! What a beautiful girl! Can this really be your mother?!” Yes\u0026hellip;. Nona Markovna was not a boring auntie!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180602/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI think many Soviet people could allow themselves a holiday by the sea. I remember how some reasoned: for example “go south to eat fruit” or “for apricots,” “for cherries” or “for peaches.” Mama had a colleague at the children’s atelier Nona Markovna. So she would say in a tearful little voice: “Oh, will I manage this season to eat a little melon with bread, from poverty\u0026hellip;.” She went to the sea “from poverty” every year.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba.” Part 12"},{"content":"Well, not so much about the “khrushchoba.” We are still at the sea in Yevpatoria. There I got a local girlfriend Rita, Aunt Tonya’s daughter, and an adult girlfriend Lyuda, Aunt Tonya’s niece. My parents “entrusted” me to Lyuda and usually we went with her to the wild beach. Lyuda was an advanced student of the then fashionable philology faculty, well-read and pretty. And of course she attracted the glances of young men on the beach. But rarely did anyone decide to get acquainted with Lyuda.\nOne fellow at a distance of about 20 metres from us sang specially for her a song “blue, blue frost, lay on the wires, in the dark-blue sky a blue star, o ooo! Only in the sky, in the dark-blue sky.” And so every day, as soon as we appeared\u0026hellip; Once we come to the beach, and in the distance, on the horizon, white warships have lined up in a row! Beautiful! But it was unclear “in honour of what?” Later from the news we learned of the events in Czechoslovakia. If my memory does not fail me, it was 1968.\nAnd on some beach day two fellows came up to us to get acquainted. One introduced himself as a medical student of the Lvov medical institute. To me, naturally, in a fatherly way, he made the remark “a lot of sun is harmful for health!” to which I answered: “if you are a medic, then treat those who lie in hospital, and not on the beach!” Then he decided to talk with Lyuda about the complicated political situation in the world (and when was it not complicated?), asking the question: “What do you think about the introduction of Soviet troops into Czechoslovakia?” Lyuda answered so uncertainly: “well, they asked\u0026hellip;” And he: “WHO ASKED?” The fellow asked the question 50 years ago\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180531-2/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWell, not so much about the “khrushchoba.” We are still at the sea in Yevpatoria. There I got a local girlfriend Rita, Aunt Tonya’s daughter, and an adult girlfriend Lyuda, Aunt Tonya’s niece. My parents “entrusted” me to Lyuda and usually we went with her to the wild beach. Lyuda was an advanced student of the then fashionable philology faculty, well-read and pretty. And of course she attracted the glances of young men on the beach. But rarely did anyone decide to get acquainted with Lyuda.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” part 11"},{"content":"The story with the poles takes its beginning already somewhere in 2004. My mama was staying with my sister in Denmark and our Danish son-in-law, the wonderful Jakob, made Mama a gift — he bought special poles for so-called Nordic walking. When Mama was returning to Kiev, she checked the poles as luggage at Copenhagen airport. My mama speaks no foreign language. She can only say “Hello.” Her flight was with a transfer in Prague. And I was meeting her at Boryspil. She was supposed to arrive in the daytime at 14:00.\nMy sister saw her off in Copenhagen, rang on the mobile that “everything is in order,” meet her. Well, I met her\u0026hellip;. everyone had already gone through, and no Mama. I turn to “Information,” which does not give information! They said to wait, “perhaps the passenger was held at customs inspection.” I met Mama for four hours, practically without leaving the meeting stand. All the taxi drivers, who usually meet everyone “first,” already remembered me.\nAround six in the evening I again went to information and begged with tears that I had lost Mama! “Information” decided to send me quickly to the second floor to the office of “Czech Airlines.” To the second floor I flew like a bird, almost got a refusal, because “they are already closing and have switched off the computers.” But I said that “I have lost Mama” and they quickly switched on the computer and said: “Your mama is flying\u0026hellip;. Austrian Airlines from Vienna, which will land at 20:30.”\nHaving waited another more than two hours, I noticed a special liveliness by the meeting stand: correspondents, film cameras, cameras. On the same flight a team of hockey players was arriving. They came out with bags and covered sticks and were at once surrounded by correspondents. Well at last my mama also came out\u0026hellip; with covered poles, which look exactly like covered hockey sticks!\nAnd a comic situation arose for Mama when she was waiting for her luggage on the “belt,” saw her approaching poles, grabbed them, and then some wardrobe-like sportsman began “taking them from her,” trying to explain that this was his equipment. For some time they both “clung” to one and the same equipment. The sportsman turned out to be right, it was his stick. Then everything “cleared up” and Mama safely received her Scandinavian poles, with which she still walks in the mornings.\nAnd she had to fly three flights, since the plane from Copenhagen was late, Mama was transferred to a plane flying to Vienna, and then there was already a transfer to a plane to Kiev.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180531-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe story with the poles takes its beginning already somewhere in 2004. My mama was staying with my sister in Denmark and our Danish son-in-law, the wonderful Jakob, made Mama a gift — he bought special poles for so-called Nordic walking. When Mama was returning to Kiev, she checked the poles as luggage at Copenhagen airport. My mama speaks no foreign language. She can only say “Hello.” Her flight was with a transfer in Prague. And I was meeting her at Boryspil. She was supposed to arrive in the daytime at 14:00.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde. How I “came” to Scandinavian poles"},{"content":"31 May. From this heat thoughts jump like fleas. You don’t know where to begin. Here one can tell about one’s not very house-cat. If someone comes to us as a guest, the cat tries to leave the house. She also accompanies me when I go out for a walk to the sea. But when I walk along the boat pier, she remains sitting on the shore (I think she is worried). As soon as I step onto the shore, she a couple of times “says” meow and we go back to the house together.\nIt is very pleasant to see how Norwegians treat my cat carefully and attentively if she happens to be on the road. Of course she is ready to accompany me further, but I decide to “drive” her home. And then I already go walking myself with Scandinavian poles. Although the Scandinavians invented them, somehow I don’t meet such “walkers” in my district. Oh, and in general with these poles there is a “whole” funny story, which is connected with my mama. I promise to write this evening.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180531/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e31 May. From this heat thoughts jump like fleas. You don’t know where to begin. Here one can tell about one’s not very house-cat. If someone comes to us as a guest, the cat tries to leave the house. She also accompanies me when I go out for a walk to the sea. But when I walk along the boat pier, she remains sitting on the shore (I think she is worried). As soon as I step onto the shore, she a couple of times “says” meow and we go back to the house together.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde"},{"content":"The latest news in Norway: I think 30 May is the last day of exchange at a Norwegian bank of 100- and 200-krone notes. In general they started the exchange long ago. “Well done, the guys!” they want to know how much cash there is in the country. There was a “threat” that in Norway there would be no cash. But many Norwegians speak up for “kontant.” I read many comments on FB.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180530-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe latest news in Norway: I think 30 May is the last day of exchange at a Norwegian bank of 100- and 200-krone notes. In general they started the exchange long ago. “Well done, the guys!” they want to know how much cash there is in the country. There was a “threat” that in Norway there would be no cash. But many Norwegians speak up for “kontant.” I read many comments on FB.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde"},{"content":"Mama was “light on her feet.” If she decided to go, we went at once. That is how the first trip to the sea in Yevpatoria came about. We arrived with the whole family on my birthday, 11 August. Acquaintances advised and gave an address at Moinaki (there is such a district with healing muds and a liman).\nHere is how interestingly the locals lived in the holiday season: their best housing, and that was one room in a communal apartment, they rented to wild holidaymakers, like our family, and themselves lived in sheds nearby, and by these sheds they cemented small platforms for benches and a table. It turned out like gazebos twined with grapes. Of course we did not sit in our holiday rooms, but went out into the air and talked with the locals. Some even had televisions in the sheds.\nPapa woke very early and went to buy dairy products, for which one still had to stand in a queue. And then he also made tea for breakfast. I think there was an electric hotplate in the shared kitchen. In short Papa gave us three “girls” the chance to rest well.\nI remember from the local inhabitants Aunt Tonya. We went to her every evening for sittings by the shed. Recalling now her image, I understand that she had a very hard life. Stately, plump, with strong men’s hands and with a tiiiny tattoo, I think, at the base of the thumb. Only one letter \u0026hellip;. I don’t remember which.. Aunt Tonya never smiled. My mama was talkative, so Aunt Tonya had to listen to her. And Papa went to play dominoes with the locals.\nAnd once my mama was telling Aunt Tonya something about Papa (I think some of her woman’s discontent) And Aunt Tonya quietly, “in all seriousness” said: “give HIM to me!” Of course I learned of this “incident” when I myself was already married. Mama told that these words sobered her forever! She began to look at Papa with different eyes.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180530/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMama was “light on her feet.” If she decided to go, we went at once. That is how the first trip to the sea in Yevpatoria came about. We arrived with the whole family on my birthday, 11 August. Acquaintances advised and gave an address at Moinaki (there is such a district with healing muds and a liman).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHere is how interestingly the locals lived in the holiday season: their best housing, and that was one room in a communal apartment, they rented to wild holidaymakers, like our family, and themselves lived in sheds nearby, and by these sheds they cemented small platforms for benches and a table. It turned out like gazebos twined with grapes. Of course we did not sit in our holiday rooms, but went out into the air and talked with the locals. Some even had televisions in the sheds.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba.” Part ten. “I am going to the sea”"},{"content":"Since Mama sewed well, she also knew how to dress well. But with shoes and accessories there was always a problem in the Soviet Union, yet Mama “managed” to solve this too herself without Papa’s interference. Once she expressed to Papa her discontent that he earned rather little money; he answered her thus: “what should I do, go steal?” He did not hide money, brought his pay home and, of course, did not go into our “girlish concerns.” And Mama could “in one go” splash money on Italian shoes or an imported bag. Then she tried not to show him the new thing, so that he would know less and sleep soundly.\nI remember a very funny incident with Mama’s scarce purchases. I write and laugh! Once she came upon imported bags. She bought three at once. One household, two women’s handbags for herself and me. And she spent a whole 30 roubles! What is 30 roubles at that time? That is a ticket on the Kiev–Moscow train in a compartment carriage there and back.\nPapa had not yet come from work and we three (my sister was then about 5), in the kitchen, examined these bags and quietly rejoiced. And so as not to upset Papa, Mama decided to hide the bags in the pantry. In the evening I heard how my sister quietly reported to Papa that Mama had bought 3 bags! Now I understand he did not go much into the “incoming information.” Well, and I was indignant at her “betrayal,” at once told Mama that the little one had given away the secret. We called her to the kitchen and say: “well, why did you tell Papa?” And she quietly answered “well he won’t tell anyone!”\nTo be continued..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180527-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSince Mama sewed well, she also knew how to dress well. But with shoes and accessories there was always a problem in the Soviet Union, yet Mama “managed” to solve this too herself without Papa’s interference. Once she expressed to Papa her discontent that he earned rather little money; he answered her thus: “what should I do, go steal?” He did not hide money, brought his pay home and, of course, did not go into our “girlish concerns.” And Mama could “in one go” splash money on Italian shoes or an imported bag. Then she tried not to show him the new thing, so that he would know less and sleep soundly.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” part nine"},{"content":"Soon it will be a year since I got a driving licence and drive a car. The textbook on driving theory in Norwegian is almost my bedside book. So at leisure I like to look through road signs and situations. Here is what surprised me in this textbook for those who love speed, information for thought: Husk! Hvis du øker farten fra 70 km/t til 80 km/t, så vil du bare vinne ett minutt per mil. In Russian it sounds like this: remember! If you increase speed from 70 to 80 km/h, you will gain only one minute per mile. Distance in Norway is measured in miles. And one Norwegian mile equals 10 km.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180527/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSoon it will be a year since I got a driving licence and drive a car. The textbook on driving theory in Norwegian is almost my bedside book. So at leisure I like to look through road signs and situations. Here is what surprised me in this textbook for those who love speed, information for thought: Husk! Hvis du øker farten fra 70 km/t til 80 km/t, så vil du bare vinne ett minutt per mil. In Russian it sounds like this: remember! If you increase speed from 70 to 80 km/h, you will gain only one minute per mile. Distance in Norway is measured in miles. And one Norwegian mile equals 10 km.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde"},{"content":"And they still want me to agree to their mailing! “Who, who? — MAU!!! International Airlines of Ukraine! I have a question: “when will you feed?” Last time I flew, having a ticket on KLM, and ended up on MAU. And we even flew into Stockholm instead of Amsterdam! I had to “from hunger” eat a month’s supply of gingerbread on the plane! “What kind!”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180526-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAnd they still want me to agree to their mailing! “Who, who? — MAU!!! International Airlines of Ukraine! I have a question: “when will you feed?” Last time I flew, having a ticket on KLM, and ended up on MAU. And we even flew into Stockholm instead of Amsterdam! I had to “from hunger” eat a month’s supply of gingerbread on the plane! “What kind!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde."},{"content":"In the morning I amuse myself at an anonymous question on FB. “Oh, what to do, men look at me at work?” Well, what to do, what to do? — “Keep working!”\nAnd if seriously, I have some reflections on this. I understand that our young women in Norway are not very interested, and perhaps have no time, to watch Norwegian news every evening. And there it is sometimes interesting-informative for us “who have arrived.” Quite recently they (the news) chewed over a theme for about two weeks (they have such a habit, if they talk about something, then for a long time), that is they analyse thoroughly. And they have someone to “analyse.” Of course the Americans. There after all there are many star-struck ladies of all ages whom still in the last century debauched rich uncles had. And now these ladies sleep poorly, call for help most likely “all the curious public,” and also lawyers (but that is expensive!), in order to get more money.\nSo Norwegian news was also very concerned about this problem, and not only the news, but also Norwegian party people! There are quite a few of them for a small country — a whole 7 of them! Oh, what was going on in the parties until recently! It turns out some unconscious party members were engaged in non-party affairs! Yes indeed! They made advances!!! To their own comrades (of the female sex)! The responsible Norwegian media branded them, branded them! And not only\u0026hellip; I too expressed my “discontent”\u0026hellip;\u0026hellip; to the sleeping cat. I was too shy with my husband. What if he misunderstands me.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180526/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn the morning I amuse myself at an anonymous question on FB. “Oh, what to do, men look at me at work?” Well, what to do, what to do? — “Keep working!”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd if seriously, I have some reflections on this. I understand that our young women in Norway are not very interested, and perhaps have no time, to watch Norwegian news every evening. And there it is sometimes interesting-informative for us “who have arrived.” Quite recently they (the news) chewed over a theme for about two weeks (they have such a habit, if they talk about something, then for a long time), that is they analyse thoroughly. And they have someone to “analyse.” Of course the Americans. There after all there are many star-struck ladies of all ages whom still in the last century debauched rich uncles had. And now these ladies sleep poorly, call for help most likely “all the curious public,” and also lawyers (but that is expensive!), in order to get more money.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde"},{"content":"I want to “return” to the story about Mama in this one-room apartment. All the same it was hardest for her. I have already written that she finished the technical school of light industry in Moscow, she sewed excellently, but, arriving in Kiev, she did not at once find work in her specialty and, of course, she had to earn extra, take orders and not only orders! She completely “clothed” us, two girls! After all in Soviet shops there was practically nothing! But there were fabrics. Mama knew how to buy and measure so much fabric that there would be no leftovers and it turned out, of course, housewifely, profitable.\nBut how she “managed” to sew and live in one room is beyond comprehension! This craft of hers was good for everyone, but bad for herself. It turned out that she was always under strain. Even when she went to Moscow to her parents, Grandmother at once gave her a sewing assignment and she had no chance at all to go to the theatre or meet girlfriends.\nFor example I will tell how she remade a coat. Formerly they used very high-quality natural all-wool fabrics. I remember their names: drap, ratin, boston. There was such an old expression “to get a coat,” that is to buy or order one sewn at an atelier. And a coat was considered a good acquisition. And they wore it a long time. And then they also remade it for someone in the family or “turned it.” That word too is not used in modern language. In that word a huge volume of work is hidden.\nI can list what the craftswomen did with old coats. First one had to unpick the coat with a straight razor or a blade, then wash the pieces, dry them and decatise them, that is stand-steam them with a heavy iron. The iron weighed 5 kg. After that the pieces of fabric acquired their original look and were ready for cutting, and the reverse side of the coat could become the face. That is what was called turning. Arriving on holiday in the Moscow region, they loaded my mama with this.\nThere was a period in her life, before she got this khrushchoba, when she fell seriously ill on nervous grounds. It showed itself as shortness of breath — she could not take a breath! (after all we don’t notice how we breathe.) And for her, in order to take a breath, she had to lean on the table with both hands. I remember she went to Podol to a water-cure clinic. Then this state of hers passed. Once she was sitting in the queue at the water-cure clinic and got talking with a young man about her “illness.” And he gave her the advice “not to tell anyone about it” and your illness will pass. And so it happened as he said!\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180525-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI want to “return” to the story about Mama in this one-room apartment. All the same it was hardest for her. I have already written that she finished the technical school of light industry in Moscow, she sewed excellently, but, arriving in Kiev, she did not at once find work in her specialty and, of course, she had to earn extra, take orders and not only orders! She completely “clothed” us, two girls! After all in Soviet shops there was practically nothing! But there were fabrics. Mama knew how to buy and measure so much fabric that there would be no leftovers and it turned out, of course, housewifely, profitable.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” part eight"},{"content":"So I decided to write a diary. I think I will write in parallel with the “khrushchoba,” that is with past life. As they sing in the song “the very best day dropped in yesterday\u0026hellip;”\nWhat strange scales in our shower, combined with the toilet! For some reason they first show me the air temperature outside (I have already determined myself that it is hot), then a diagram of who knows what, suddenly the mysterious for me CO 2 lights up, then the percentage content of fats (whose? perhaps of those products that are in the refrigerator?). So what is this? Psychological preparation for my weight? Nothing of the sort! I think they determine the mood of the one being weighed and decide\u0026hellip;. not to show the weight at all! “Well, to what lengths technology has gone!”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180525/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSo I decided to write a diary. I think I will write in parallel with the “khrushchoba,” that is with past life. As they sing in the song “the very best day dropped in yesterday\u0026hellip;”\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhat strange scales in our shower, combined with the toilet! For some reason they first show me the air temperature outside (I have already determined myself that it is hot), then a diagram of who knows what, suddenly the mysterious for me CO 2 lights up, then the percentage content of fats (whose? perhaps of those products that are in the refrigerator?). So what is this? Psychological preparation for my weight? Nothing of the sort! I think they determine the mood of the one being weighed and decide\u0026hellip;. not to show the weight at all! “Well, to what lengths technology has gone!”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Diary of a natural blonde."},{"content":"Of course I don’t remember in what year the World Cup was held in Brazil. The “Golden Goddess” cup was being contested. Our beloved KVN television, first issue, was set in the hallway on a high nightstand right opposite the door to the toilet combined with the bath, at a distance of half a metre (the width of the corridor was 1 m). This was the only place where one could watch television, sitting on a little homemade stool, with one’s head thrown back.\nJust then Aunt Zina (with her ample forms) and skinny Uncle Misha were staying with us, and besides they were passionate fans! How did they fit? Those reading these lines, switch on your imagination\u0026hellip; well, one person remained sitting on the little stool, I think it was my papa, the door to the toilet remained open, there they put a kitchen stool (it was higher than the homemade little stool) and one more person settled on the toilet lid and \u0026hellip;., as it were, watched TV, peeking from the side, “from the loo.” For those reading and not knowing the KVN brand of TV I will write the screen size: approximately 18 by 18 cm. Now it is a mystery to me how one could make out a football game there. But they watched, shouted “goal!”, and the rest had to hold their need until the end of the match, so as not to anger the fans!\nSince I am telling about the first Soviet television, I want to remember those people who were shown on TV in that distant time. The first announcer of Ukrainian television was the wonderful, charismatic (as they say now) Olga Danilenko. Of course I remember well Tarapun’ka and Shtepsel — “regulars” of the Ukrainian stage and people’s favourites and \u0026hellip;. Did Panas, who hosted the programme “Good night, children!” Each of his little tales ended with a wonderful little song in Ukrainian: “Let you dream, children, Grandfather’s tale, in which there is a happy ending. Let father’s strength and mother’s tenderness go to little hearts\u0026hellip;”\nGood night! To be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180524/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eOf course I don’t remember in what year the World Cup was held in Brazil. The “Golden Goddess” cup was being contested. Our beloved KVN television, first issue, was set in the hallway on a high nightstand right opposite the door to the toilet combined with the bath, at a distance of half a metre (the width of the corridor was 1 m). This was the only place where one could watch television, sitting on a little homemade stool, with one’s head thrown back.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” Part seven. Our beloved television"},{"content":"“Summer, summer, summer\u0026hellip;.” Hot summer in Kiev. I remember only hot summer. And\u0026hellip;., of course, guests from the capital of “our Motherland.” Papa’s cousin Aunt Zina with a child of 6 and with her husband Misha. They came for a whole month on holiday to us in the one-room apartment. They announced by telegram: “meet the first Moscow–Kiev train, carriage \u0026hellip;., 9 in the morning.” They announced their arrival “categorically”: We will come to you! That is, they “did not require” an invitation from us. Simply, we will come to you on holiday to rest. They did not worry much about how they would fit! “Let the hosts think!” And what will they eat? — “Well, in Kiev there’s plenty of fruit! — “For fruit you have to walk to the market or ride, not in empty public transport.” Now I think, how did my mama endure all this?\nAunt Zina was a plump, noisy, optimistically set for holiday woman of about forty. She worked as a physiotherapist doctor at a polyclinic in the city of Fryazino. She told how everyone in the city respected her, everyone greeted her\u0026hellip;. Uncle Misha, her husband, was a quiet, modest, small working man. But his tattoo was not modest at all — on the inner side of the right forearm — a naked woman. (I was then about 10 when I noticed it, and it greatly puzzled me, but I did not dare ask.) I want to give some explanations for young people. After all in those times tattoos were done only “on a special occasion, in certain places, namely, in prison and in the navy!” I think Uncle Misha all the same served in the navy, and did not sit.\nIn all, in our khrushchoba 7 people fitted. On the balcony Papa made a board flooring; from rain and weather a homemade canvas awning was “stretched,” and the balcony itself was enclosed with metal sheets (they, of course, in summer heated strongly in the sun). Well, nothing! At least on the balcony one could place as many as 4 sleeping places “jack-style.”\nMorning with Aunt Zina began “loudly,” with the search for Marinka’s pants! I understood that Uncle Misha was “responsible” for Marinka’s pants, because Aunt Zina loudly issued the phrase: “Mishaaa, where are Marinka’s pants?” The further morning procedures of the large family I remember vaguely. First of all one had to feed my younger sister breakfast. She did not want to eat. Then Aunt Zina took the initiative into her hands and began to feed her with verses: “A lady was checking in luggage: a sofa, a suitcase, a holdall, a picture, a basket, a cardboard box and \u0026hellip; a liiiittle dog!” \u0026hellip; my sister ate one spoon of porridge\u0026hellip;. then clearly pronounced at her 2.5 years: “I don’t want to eat any more and I won’t!” Noisy preparations continued for the beach. Mama stayed at home to cook dinner and go to the market.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180523/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e“Summer, summer, summer\u0026hellip;.” Hot summer in Kiev. I remember only hot summer. And\u0026hellip;., of course, guests from the capital of “our Motherland.” Papa’s cousin Aunt Zina with a child of 6 and with her husband Misha. They came for a whole month on holiday to us in the one-room apartment. They announced by telegram: “meet the first Moscow–Kiev train, carriage \u0026hellip;., 9 in the morning.” They announced their arrival “categorically”: We will come to you! That is, they “did not require” an invitation from us. Simply, we will come to you on holiday to rest. They did not worry much about how they would fit! “Let the hosts think!” And what will they eat? — “Well, in Kiev there’s plenty of fruit! — “For fruit you have to walk to the market or ride, not in empty public transport.” Now I think, how did my mama endure all this?\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the khrushchoba” part six “...everyone come visit us”"},{"content":"We moved into the khrushchoba in the summer of 1962. That khrushchoba house still stands there and I think a few old-timers still live there. It is located right opposite Glory Park in Kiev, where the obelisk to the Unknown Soldier stands. At that time the park was very cosy, “homelike,” and in their free time the inhabitants of our house could walk in the park.\nI remember one propaganda stand that stood at a side entrance to this park. Now they have put a little monument there of an exhausted hungry girl\u0026hellip; so on this stand a diagram was drawn of the planned growth of the well-being of a Soviet family, starting from 1961–1962 and ending (graphically a family of three was drawn) \u0026hellip;.. with 1980, the complete building of communist society!\nAnd every time I went to walk in this park, I “ran into” this stand and “noted” in my child’s head: Aha! In 20 years communism will come! And I will live in communism! What that was, of course, I did not know. Once I asked Papa “what does that mean?” I think I caught him “off guard.” He began with the fact that under communism there will be no money and we will be able to go into a shop and take what we wish. “Hmm,” I thought. “Like that? Everything and a lot?” I asked Papa. (then the shops had half-empty shelves) “Well, why ‘a lot’? You will be able to take what you really need.” Of course in 1980 communism did not come, but instead I gave birth to a son!\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180522-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWe moved into the khrushchoba in the summer of 1962. That khrushchoba house still stands there and I think a few old-timers still live there. It is located right opposite Glory Park in Kiev, where the obelisk to the Unknown Soldier stands. At that time the park was very cosy, “homelike,” and in their free time the inhabitants of our house could walk in the park.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI remember one propaganda stand that stood at a side entrance to this park. Now they have put a little monument there of an exhausted hungry girl\u0026hellip; so on this stand a diagram was drawn of the planned growth of the well-being of a Soviet family, starting from 1961–1962 and ending (graphically a family of three was drawn) \u0026hellip;.. with 1980, the complete building of communist society!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” part five — this strange word “communism”"},{"content":"My memories sometimes intertwine now with life in the apartment, now in the barracks. I think in the early 60s that generation of people who had survived after the war strove with all their strength for a peaceful, cosy life, and the piano, I would now call it, became a symbol of that peaceful life and of introducing the rising generation to art. After all they said so: if the child does not become a musician, at least he will play “for himself”!\nI remembered our neighbours in the barracks: they “after us” also acquired a piano for their child. A grandmother from the village came to stay with them. And once in their family there was a scandal (here I am already writing Mama’s memories). The scandal went as far as divorce and the division of their modest property. But then that very visiting “silska baba” intervened (as you understand, someone’s mama, mother-in-law or mother-in-law — now it doesn’t matter). She said: “AND HOW WILL YOU DIVIDE THIS TOY?” This question so affected those who were divorcing that they decided not to divorce. So the piano served to strengthen the Soviet family, which was, by definition, “the cell of society.” And what did the cell of society do then? — They were building communism! \u0026hellip;\u0026hellip;. all right, I’ll go drink coffee\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180522/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMy memories sometimes intertwine now with life in the apartment, now in the barracks. I think in the early 60s that generation of people who had survived after the war strove with all their strength for a peaceful, cosy life, and the piano, I would now call it, became a symbol of that peaceful life and of introducing the rising generation to art. After all they said so: if the child does not become a musician, at least he will play “for himself”!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba” part four: a little more about the piano"},{"content":"Having moved into the apartment, I for a time dropped playing the piano. At that time neighbours were closely bound to one another, since they worked and served at one plant. Well, and of course the children were friends and were not friends. Following the example of my parents, some neighbours also bought pianos for their children (the Chernigov factory of musical instruments had begun to produce them). The plant club was next to our house, and I got the chance to learn to dance. The accompanist was an elderly man. His name was Karl Konstantinovich.\nSeeing that I was not indifferent to playing the piano, he offered me his private lessons. Mama gladly agreed, since she could no longer take me anywhere; my sister was to be born. Several more people from our house asked Karl Konstantinovich to work with the children, but he did not work long, refused everyone and left only me. Now I understand that I was very lucky with him! Outwardly he resembled the then popular actor and singer Georg Ots. I think Karl Konstantinovich was a descendant of “Russian Germans.” Punctual, disciplined, cultured, a unique person! I think he was nearly 70 and he came to our home twice a week.\nFor his lessons he took only 15 roubles a month! (for reference: a cleaner’s wage in the Soviet Union was 45 roubles a month, a technician’s 80 roubles, an engineer’s from 90 to 110 roubles, my papa’s military pension was 95 roubles and by law he could earn no more than his pension, that is 95 roubles. And if Papa earned more, they deducted it from the pension).\nWhen my sister was born, my grandmother came from Bolshevo to help a little around the house. And when she saw Karl Konstantinovich, she began to “chant” to me: oh, what a good teacher you have! And so, when he came the next time to work, I, with my child’s directness, say: “Karl Konstantinych, I’ll tell you a secret now — my grandmother has fallen in love with you!” (and Grandmother was in the kitchen and heard “this news”) In short, they both felt awkward from what I had said. Grandmother later retold it to the parents, lamented “how could I say such a thing!”\nKarl Konstantinych gave me the opportunity of independent choice of musical works, taught very calmly, did not jerk my hands, as at music school. And so I studied piano for 6 years. Then my sister had already grown, and they took her to lessons at the music school at the Conservatory. So, although the piano took up a lot of space in our little room, it played no small role in our further development. And my sister learned so well that she became a professional musician. And I resumed my musical skills many years later, living in Norway, and continue to play “by ear.”\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180521/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eHaving moved into the apartment, I for a time dropped playing the piano. At that time neighbours were closely bound to one another, since they worked and served at one plant. Well, and of course the children were friends and were not friends. Following the example of my parents, some neighbours also bought pianos for their children (the Chernigov factory of musical instruments had begun to produce them). The plant club was next to our house, and I got the chance to learn to dance. The accompanist was an elderly man. His name was Karl Konstantinovich.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba.” Part three"},{"content":"In this chapter I shall have to “return” to the barracks, because from there comes the beginning of my musical life. I was about 5 when my parents, and also Grandmother and Grandfather who lived in the Moscow region and relatives in Moscow, applying incredible efforts, bought a piano and sent it to Kiev. I remember well how I met, by the barracks, a truck in whose body stood an enormous wooden crate\u0026hellip;. Can I now describe what I felt then? Joy, excitement, happiness, shock?!\nI thought then that all the neighbours were glad too. The first night I could not fall asleep. When everyone was already asleep, I got up, slightly opened the piano lid and quietly touched the keys\u0026hellip; No, no, I woke no one! I only touched\u0026hellip;, and then I smelled. The piano smelled of fresh varnish. The next day I already did not leave it. I tried to play and pick out melodies “by ear.” My piano became a sight of our settlement, and also the pride of the whole family. I remember Mama said that the cost of the piano was 2 of Papa’s salaries. That impressed me, and I asked how we would live now and what we would eat. Mama sighed heavily\u0026hellip; and was silent.\nOnce an “uncle” came to visit who supposedly understood music, and the parents naturally boasted, saying, look, the daughter can pick out melodies “by ear,” and I gladly played him something. And suddenly he began so categorically to declare that a child should not play “by ear”! This supposedly contradicted the rules of piano playing (the word “fortepiano” I heard for the first time from this uncle), that first one must learn the notes, play only from notes, enter a music school. And such playing “only spoils the child.” It was hard for me to understand his words, how this could spoil me.\nAnd so, when I turned 7, I entered music school number 4 in the preparatory class. At that time there was a careful selection for music school; they sat an exam. One had to perform 2 songs, listen to how the examiner clapped his hands and repeat, sing the note that the examiner played. They “let” children into the auditorium one by one and conducted such an “execution” (I cannot call it otherwise!).\nThey asked me what I would sing. I announced: “A song about love. From the film Thirst”\u0026hellip;. Here are the words of that song: “The night was with downpours and the grass in dew, about me they all said ‘happy.’ And I myself believed against my heart, we are two banks of one river.” Two men-examiners sat at the table opposite; it was hard for them to hold back laughter and they covered their faces with their hands. And the woman-examiner continued to “torture” me: “And what other little song will you perform for us?” The second little song was from the film Lights on the River. This was already a girl’s little song: “I’ll get up early in the morning, in the morning, I’ll tidy everything in the house, tidy. I’ll sweep the floors, wash the dishes\u0026hellip; I’ll manage to do everything\u0026hellip; I get fives, I get them. And I’m not afraid of the boys, not afraid. I can dive from a steep bank, if I want I’ll overtake anyone\u0026hellip;”\nThat “I’ll manage to do everything” went through my whole later life. This was my first exam, and when I came out, saw Mama, I burst into tears, said that two uncles like bears had laughed at me! They accepted me! They told Mama the child had absolute pitch.\nTwice a week an angry but beautiful aunt taught us to write notes in pencil in a special notebook For notes and to remember how these notes sound on the keyboard. It was very tense and boring to sit in the lesson and listen to how she poked at the piano one note at a time, then could “raise” any pupil and ask what note she had just played.\nAnd then the individual piano lessons. One of the first works of the composer Kabalevsky “Now a birch, now a rowan, a willow bush over the river, native land, forever beloved, where else to find such a one?” — I played, a little, diligent girl, through tears\u0026hellip; The teacher beat the time with her foot, sometimes with her hand jerked me by the right elbow, barked that I should watch my hands, not drop the elbows! (this was extremely important, the correct placement of the hands, of course, not for me, but for the teacher!) And for me\u0026hellip; If I began to think about how my hands were placed, I could not play at all! But at home, when no one interfered, I could play with closed eyes, standing, dancing\u0026hellip;\nThis terrible preparatory class lasted a whole year. At the end they already arranged an entrance selection exam into first class, but I don’t remember it. They accepted me into first class of the music school for \u0026hellip;.. violin. My mama was indignant, overflowing with emotion. She tried to explain to the director that all our lives we had dreamed of playing the piano. That we have this wonderful musical instrument, which takes up a lot of space in our only room. All in vain! The administration had its own quotas. I think they took children “without an ear” for piano. On the piano one can be “without an ear,” not deaf, of course. Play from notes, be diligent, develop technique. But the violin is the queen of music! (that is what they told my resisting mama)\nI remember I was “not against” beginning to play the violin. But my ultimatum mama said: “either the piano, or we drop music school!” \u0026hellip;. So we dropped it! That year we moved to the khrushchoba together with the piano.\nBut to be continued!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180520-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn this chapter I shall have to “return” to the barracks, because from there comes the beginning of my musical life. I was about 5 when my parents, and also Grandmother and Grandfather who lived in the Moscow region and relatives in Moscow, applying incredible efforts, bought a piano and sent it to Kiev. I remember well how I met, by the barracks, a truck in whose body stood an enormous wooden crate\u0026hellip;. Can I now describe what I felt then? Joy, excitement, happiness, shock?!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba.” Part two — “The piano”"},{"content":"Still, why did I end up in the kitchen? Most likely because in the room the place of honour was occupied by my beloved piano — the most valuable possession of our family! I think, by the chronology of events, this was the second valuable, naturally scarce, acquisition still when we lived in the officers’ barracks. “First place” among valuable acquisitions was occupied by a carpet! Mama called it Festival, since it was bought in 1957 in Moscow after the first Moscow International Festival of Youth and Students.\nIn those times carpets were not laid on the floor, but hung on the walls. I remember it was bright, all-wool, and very heavy. Having moved to the khrushchoba, we laid it on the floor, and so this carpet served us “faithfully and truly” for many many Soviet and even Non-Soviet years, until I in the 2000s, because of a hard material situation, “let” into my apartment tenants with a small child, by whom it was successfully peed on to such a degree that it had to be thrown out\u0026hellip;\nOf course I tried with all my strength to resuscitate it, using all possible detergents. It did not lose its original brightness in the least, but the smell of children’s urine was “unkillable.” We had to part with the rare carpet without regret.\nAnd now\u0026hellip;\u0026hellip; no! Not a coffee pause. Today is Sunday. You may wish me “happy sailing” \u0026hellip;. in the pool.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180520/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eStill, why did I end up in the kitchen? Most likely because in the room the place of honour was occupied by my beloved piano — the most valuable possession of our family! I think, by the chronology of events, this was the second valuable, naturally scarce, acquisition still when we lived in the officers’ barracks. “First place” among valuable acquisitions was occupied by a carpet! Mama called it Festival, since it was bought in 1957 in Moscow after the first Moscow International Festival of Youth and Students.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Again about the “khrushchoba”! Part one and... now it is hard to foresee how many there will be..."},{"content":"With what incredible force they pull me into that “happy far-off.” Of course happy! There was nothing to compare with, only with that barracks in which my early childhood passed. How was I to know that somewhere someone nearby lived better than we. And yet there were such people! Next to our plant house there were also “departmental,” as they were then called, houses of the Council of Ministers and the Central Committee of the Communist Party. With improved layout: dining room, bedroom, children’s room\u0026hellip; And I knew only “my kitchen, which only at night turned into my personal room.”\nOf course I was a “night owl,” that is I fell asleep late, which greatly strained my parents. In my kitchen there was a door, and then from the kitchen immediately there was a 17 sq. m room, where for “some reasons unknown to me” the parents could not fall asleep, because I could allow myself, at the most unsuitable moment for them, to walk past them to the toilet! Now I understand that the parents had no personal life at all because of me, a stupid teenager!\nThe little sister also added pepper already to “my personal life.” I explain: she could run around the yard all day and not ask for food, and before sleep she would start yelling “MAMA, give me soup!” (the pot of soup would not fit in the refrigerator and they took it out onto the balcony for the night). So Mama would go onto the balcony, bring the pot of soup into my kitchen, heat it on the gas stove, and then feed “our offspring”! At that moment I thought I would burst with anger! I told Mama everything I could tell! I said that you, parents, don’t know how to bring her up, don’t do in time what is needed, allow “this little monkey” to sit on your necks with her legs hanging. To which Mama patiently answered: “if a child wants to eat, he must be fed!”\n\u0026hellip;. there will be a continuation!\u0026hellip; but tomorrow..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180519/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eWith what incredible force they pull me into that “happy far-off.” Of course happy! There was nothing to compare with, only with that barracks in which my early childhood passed. How was I to know that somewhere someone nearby lived better than we. And yet there were such people! Next to our plant house there were also “departmental,” as they were then called, houses of the Council of Ministers and the Central Committee of the Communist Party. With improved layout: dining room, bedroom, children’s room\u0026hellip; And I knew only “my kitchen, which only at night turned into my personal room.”\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Oh, these memories!"},{"content":"Mama always had a very strong influence on me! I had to submit. As soon as my sister was born, I became an adult at 9! She grew as a restless child, and our whole life “spun” in one room, a five-metre kitchen and a toilet combined with a bath. The parents had no bed; there was a topchan — that is a spring mattress with a wooden frame. It was set on bricks. Well, there was nowhere to buy a bed, nowhere! There was only a huge, boundless country of total shortage.\nI slept in the kitchen, on a folding armchair. By day it “served” the whole family, and at night, when I unfolded it, it butted against the gas stove, and while I slept and grew, my legs also grew and\u0026hellip; by the 10th graduating class they too began to butt against the gas stove. In the kitchen there was another “sight” — a gas water heater of impressive size for heating water. And when hot water was needed, it hummed terribly. My sister slept in the room in a child’s cot until first class. Luckily she was a very miniature girl!\nI want to “return” to the story about Papa. He served in the Soviet Army for 30 years! He went into retirement and received a one-room khrushchoba, continued to work at the plant Arsenal-2. (This was that plant which stood opposite the Lavra.) And at the plant there was enrolment in an evening school to obtain a complete secondary education. And Papa decided to study one more year at evening school and get a certificate (I have already written that he was called into the Army before the war and then he had “no time for study”!) At that moment he was already 49!\nI remember well how he sat exams: in one night he would read the textbook, and in the morning he would go to sit the exam and sit it\u0026hellip; with “excellent”!!! How surprised my mama was, who all her life had considered him a “half-educated man.” And Papa was a modest, honest, responsive, decent Human being!\n\u0026hellip;. to be continued\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180518-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMama always had a very strong influence on me! I had to submit. As soon as my sister was born, I became an adult at 9! She grew as a restless child, and our whole life “spun” in one room, a five-metre kitchen and a toilet combined with a bath. The parents had no bed; there was a topchan — that is a spring mattress with a wooden frame. It was set on bricks. Well, there was nowhere to buy a bed, nowhere! There was only a huge, boundless country of total shortage.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"We do not value what we have"},{"content":"I wrote such a heading because when I became a teenager, Papa was no longer for me the beloved, dear one whom I could not wait for from work, did not sleep if he came late\u0026hellip; All that remained in childhood. I already had a sister. At that time she was considered a “late” child. She was born when Mama was 36 and Papa 45.\nBefore her birth they “improved” our housing conditions. We moved into a separate one-room apartment, bathroom combined with toilet, on the fourth floor. And the hardest moment of that life was Papa’s going on pension. Or rather, “they went him” or as they say now “they set him up.” This affected our material situation, and Mama’s attitude to Papa, how shall I put it more softly now\u0026hellip; changed\u0026hellip;. not for the better. Well, and I took Mama’s position and “struck the same pretentious poses as she did!” (Lord! If you knew, those reading these lines, how ashamed I am now, how bitter, how hurt I am at my stupid behaviour!)\nThe family was conditionally divided: Mama and I, and the “unconscious” four-five-year-old little sister was “Papa’s.” Papa continued to work at the plant, already had a fixed working day and could devote his free time to the little daughter, who adored him and protected him from our “attacks.”\nI remembered a “flagrant case.” Once Papa and my sister went for a walk in the centre of Kiev. (In those times Khreshchatyk really was a promenade for Kievans and guests.) And somehow they were long in returning. We began to worry\u0026hellip; (there were no telephones!). They came home late; Papa was drunk with a broken bridge of the nose! From the explanations of the four-year-old sister we understood that he stumbled coming out of the trolleybus and fell in such a way as not to hit her!\nOur indignation knew no bounds: “how dare he, drunk!” almost killed the child! Mama and I withdrew to the kitchen and could not calm down\u0026hellip; When complete silence had already set in, we decided they had fallen asleep, open the kitchen door and see\u0026hellip; Papa sleeping and the little sister not sleeping, sitting by his head, having pressed her little handkerchief to the bridge of his nose, and with the other little hand stroking his head\u0026hellip;\n\u0026hellip;\u0026hellip; continuation tomorrow\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180518/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI wrote such a heading because when I became a teenager, Papa was no longer for me the beloved, dear one whom I could not wait for from work, did not sleep if he came late\u0026hellip; All that remained in childhood. I already had a sister. At that time she was considered a “late” child. She was born when Mama was 36 and Papa 45.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBefore her birth they “improved” our housing conditions. We moved into a separate one-room apartment, bathroom combined with toilet, on the fourth floor. And the hardest moment of that life was Papa’s going on pension. Or rather, “they went him” or as they say now “they set him up.” This affected our material situation, and Mama’s attitude to Papa, how shall I put it more softly now\u0026hellip; changed\u0026hellip;. not for the better. Well, and I took Mama’s position and “struck the same pretentious poses as she did!” (Lord! If you knew, those reading these lines, how ashamed I am now, how bitter, how hurt I am at my stupid behaviour!)\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My “unauthoritative” papa"},{"content":"I talked today with my institute girlfriend. I say: “Come on, remember how we studied there at our cultural institute? Do you remember Elena Semyonovna Pozina?” — “She is unforgettable!” answered my friend. “She always had beautifully coloured lips, she wore a green suit, I remember I answered poorly at her exam and Elena Semyonovna said that it was precisely this material she had explained sequentially, and you, unfortunately, ‘did not listen, but only looked at me.’” Well, Elena Semyonovna was right, if my friend to this day remembers what colour her suit and lipstick were!\nBy the way, I will now say “one smart thing”: here you sit at a lecture, listen attentively, well, and what is your percentage of “assimilation” at this lecture in an hour and a half? Eh? — only 3%. That is scientifically proven. But at the present moment I have from the lectures of the respected Elena Semyonovna no percentage left at all\u0026hellip; somehow I grew sad.\nI want to try to develop one theme that concerns everyone who studies or studied “a little of something somehow.” When I was about 14, my papa once said to me: “You don’t know how to study!” ? (and I studied well and excellently, sometimes). And he continued: “when you read, you don’t know how to pick out the main thing from the material read, as if you look at the book, and see \u0026hellip;\u0026hellip; in short, you see nothing.” I remember I then “took offence.” After all, how smart we all are at 14–15! And these “ancestors” are no authority for us! But Papa was right; he turned out to be a living example for everyone of how to study CORRECTLY. Tomorrow I will write.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180517/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI talked today with my institute girlfriend. I say: “Come on, remember how we studied there at our cultural institute? Do you remember Elena Semyonovna Pozina?” — “She is unforgettable!” answered my friend. “She always had beautifully coloured lips, she wore a green suit, I remember I answered poorly at her exam and Elena Semyonovna said that it was precisely this material she had explained sequentially, and you, unfortunately, ‘did not listen, but only looked at me.’” Well, Elena Semyonovna was right, if my friend to this day remembers what colour her suit and lipstick were!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Not my student memories"},{"content":"Every time, beginning to write a new chapter, I have to invent a heading. And that is hard for me. Well, all right. How right our Storm of the Revolution was, having said such words about a woman’s lot, which in the future could befall most of us!\nI remembered our class lady-curator Nadezhda Ivanovna. Of course, “Baba Nadya”! She spoke German perfectly, I think from the time of military operations, but she had a very simple appearance, for which she got a simple nickname. Once our group decided to organise an evening meeting with cadets of KVIRTU in an institute auditorium.\nSince at that moment I was already married, I was present at the meeting only briefly and did not catch the culminating moment of “tea-drinking of strong drinks” and the seclusion of some couples in whom love arose at first sight. But “the people” complained that Baba Nadya “spoiled everything”: she ran after everyone, did not let couples seclude themselves, in short, “behaved badly and because of her the evening ‘was not languid.’” Do not forget that Baba Nadya was a member of the Communist Party and a great moral responsibility for every student was laid on her!\nElena Semyonovna Pozina\u0026hellip;. — teacher of the history of foreign countries, starting from dinosaurs and ending with the 19th century. We trembled, quaked before every exam; we did not dare invent a nickname! I remembered her words about the Great Patriotic War: “for your generation the war is something distant-distant, but in that war every family suffered an irreplaceable loss of kin and close people!”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180515/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eEvery time, beginning to write a new chapter, I have to invent a heading. And that is hard for me. Well, all right. How right our Storm of the Revolution was, having said such words about a woman’s lot, which in the future could befall most of us!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI remembered our class lady-curator Nadezhda Ivanovna. Of course, “Baba Nadya”! She spoke German perfectly, I think from the time of military operations, but she had a very simple appearance, for which she got a simple nickname. Once our group decided to organise an evening meeting with cadets of KVIRTU in an institute auditorium.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"From session to session students live... merrily”"},{"content":"I will leave for a time that hard period of restoring English in my “clogged and atrophied from post-Soviet life brain” and return to the period of my happy student youth. I studied at the library faculty of the Kiev Institute of Culture from 1973–1977. I will try to pull from memory some interesting moments of my life then.\nI did not “just so” title this part of the narrative in Ukrainian, because it can be called a quotation. I think in the last year we had such a subject in our specialty as “Bibliography of a foreign language.” The subject was taught by Lyubov Zavadskaya. \u0026hellip;So it was precisely Zavadskaya who more than once stressed to us how important it is to study foreign languages. I think she was a very educated person (in youth I did not think much about this). Much later I came across the book “Myths of Ancient Greece” with a wonderful translation by Lyubov Zavadskaya into Ukrainian. And since I have remembered her now, I want to say that there were people in Soviet times who made no small contribution to the development of Ukrainian culture and the Ukrainian language.\nAnd all subjects at the Institute of Culture were taught in Ukrainian, except Russian and Soviet literature. I remember exactly the period of Russian Soviet literature was taught by Maria Ivanovna Chernushchenko. Marivanna was the kindest and “shukher-est” person in the world! Students’ lateness to lectures was strictly punished in the dean’s office. So, when Marivanna was the duty teacher in the morning, meeting late students, she did not make lists and did not report to the dean’s office, but only conspiratorially repeated “girls, girls, quickly, quickly to the auditoriums!” She wore a “high hairstyle,” which our girls nicknamed the Personal Nest!\u0026hellip;\u0026hellip;. at this point I am crying with laughter, where does this brain of mine “remember everything”?!\nIt was obligatory to read several volumes of A. M. Gorky’s book “Klim Samgin.” Marivanna warned us at every lecture. I remember only that I did not even open that book. And Marivanna warned us that the work was difficult and long and by the exam it had to be read in good time. And when on someone’s desk, during a lecture, she noticed this book, she would come up, take it like a treasure and say with feeling: “There! Klim Samgin! Read Klim Samgin!”\nI also remember the teacher of history of the Soviet period. Unfortunately only the nickname “Storm of the Revolution.” Why did we call her that? During her lecture she walked with a sweeping gait between the rows of our cramped auditorium, at the same time emotionally telling how the “storm” of “not one” revolution seized the whole country! And I also remembered her woman’s advice to all the students: “so then, girls, use the opportunity to go now to theatres, cinemas, museums! For such a time may come when you, at the end of the day, will not be able to remember ‘Did I wash my face today?’”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180514/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI will leave for a time that hard period of restoring English in my “clogged and atrophied from post-Soviet life brain” and return to the period of my happy student youth. I studied at the library faculty of the Kiev Institute of Culture from 1973–1977. I will try to pull from memory some interesting moments of my life then.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI did not “just so” title this part of the narrative in Ukrainian, because it can be called a quotation. I think in the last year we had such a subject in our specialty as “Bibliography of a foreign language.” The subject was taught by Lyubov Zavadskaya. \u0026hellip;So it was precisely Zavadskaya who more than once stressed to us how important it is to study foreign languages. I think she was a very educated person (in youth I did not think much about this). Much later I came across the book “Myths of Ancient Greece” with a wonderful translation by Lyubov Zavadskaya into Ukrainian. And since I have remembered her now, I want to say that there were people in Soviet times who made no small contribution to the development of Ukrainian culture and the Ukrainian language.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Learn, girls, foreign languages!”"},{"content":"The main thought, I think, I have already conveyed to the reading public. Listening must be put in first, honourable place in the study of a foreign language. Precisely now this is available to everyone: films, cartoons, songs and the words to songs can be found on the computer. By the way, about songs. Now it has somehow become unpopular to sing songs, or, if they do sing, one sometimes wants to cry. I mean learning songs in a foreign language for oneself. Well, all right! I will not give advice.\nI remembered another very funny incident from my life. It so happened that after school I dropped English. Two years of work after school gave me advantages in entering a humanities institute, namely the Institute of Culture, where we studied at the same time as the future famous “singing rector,” who at that time did not sing, but showed himself in public activity. And I showed myself only in private life, having entered into marriage with my first husband in secret from my parents. Oh, I got distracted!\nI resumed the study of English when I was already over 40. I entered the second year of the First State English Language Courses. By then there were more textbooks. I got cassettes with recordings, which I listened to every day, mainly in the kitchen. I listened and quietly wept. I could remember nothing! “My name is Natasha Petrova” — came from the cassette. “My name is Natasha Petrova” — my elder son would repeat, joking, not understanding why I was so tense, at the same time trying still to do something in the kitchen. At that time I no longer had a personal life, but I had a life of survival\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180513-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThe main thought, I think, I have already conveyed to the reading public. Listening must be put in first, honourable place in the study of a foreign language. Precisely now this is available to everyone: films, cartoons, songs and the words to songs can be found on the computer. By the way, about songs. Now it has somehow become unpopular to sing songs, or, if they do sing, one sometimes wants to cry. I mean learning songs in a foreign language for oneself. Well, all right! I will not give advice.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part five How I studied foreign languages"},{"content":"Since I write everything from memory, I may allow some slight inaccuracies. The first textbook that left an indelible impression in my memory and later influenced my late teaching career (I have already written that by the will of fate I became an “Englishwoman” at school at the age of 45). In 1967 a textbook came out by a real Englishman, Richard Richardovich Dixon. Now we all know that abroad they do not use patronymics, so it sounds funny.\nNaturally my favourite teacher recommended that everyone interested in English buy it. I bought this little book, in a flimsy paper binding, for 1 rouble 20 kopecks in a bookshop in the Passage on Khreshchatyk.\nWhat was the genius of this textbook? It included 1200 of the most common English words and 15 everyday topics. And\u0026hellip; almost every new topic included in sequence a new section of the “hated” grammar! And also under each word of the key sentence there was a transcription, which was also not simple for beginners to master. But, again, there was no sound accompaniment, that is tape recordings.\nWhy do I recall this with regret? I confess, I missed precious young time, when “the ears are in place.” I explain what I myself learned not so long ago at a lecture at the Pedagogical University: when a child is little, he has the ability to hear both native speech and foreign speech 100%, and an adult over 50 hears and distinguishes foreign words only 7%. And not because “we are deaf,” but simply that ability to perceive foreign speech is lost! That is what I encountered, beginning to study Norwegian at the age of 57.\nAnd now\u0026hellip;.. I announce a coffee pause!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180513/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSince I write everything from memory, I may allow some slight inaccuracies. The first textbook that left an indelible impression in my memory and later influenced my late teaching career (I have already written that by the will of fate I became an “Englishwoman” at school at the age of 45). In 1967 a textbook came out by a real Englishman, Richard Richardovich Dixon. Now we all know that abroad they do not use patronymics, so it sounds funny.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part four How I studied foreign languages"},{"content":"At school we almost had no listening. (listening in English). And where would it have come from? Sometimes Riola Mikhailovna could bring a modest record player with a worn record. “How do you do? How are you? I get up at seven o’clock every morning. I wash and dress myself and do my morning exercise, then I have breakfast and go to school” — came from the record. Perhaps it was English speech, and perhaps not. Simply good English pronunciation of a Soviet person.\nAnd how important it is at the initial stage to try to understand a foreign language. But\u0026hellip;, what was, has passed. I consider that I could not develop in myself so-called automatic hearing, and that is not my fault. But I succeeded in another thing: I learned to write quickly and correctly. Riola Mikhailovna showed on the blackboard the classical writing of English words: “without lifting the hand.” Now, of course, no one uses this. And then it was great! Fast, beautiful, in English!!!\nShe also taught us to read texts fluently, with intonation (arrow up — voice “up,” arrow down — we finish the sentence, we lower the voice). At the end of ninth class an exam was coming. I was ready 100%. But I had to wait for those who were very strong in English. They sat first, and they kept me “for dessert.” Well, the usual thing, they were waiting for the commission from the district education department! “Show” we always needed like a gulp of air!\nAnd Yurka Vertebny, my classmate, learned English poorly, but he made cribs well! He also nudged me to prompt him while he was preparing to answer! Some “inventor”! In a little pocket English-Russian dictionary the size of a palm, he managed neatly to make a page-by-page alphabet, cutting and writing at the needed page an English letter! Well, I don’t know if those reading these lines have understood me correctly, but this wonderful little dictionary he gave me after the exam, and I still keep it! Such things happen!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180512-1/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eAt school we almost had no listening. (listening in English). And where would it have come from? Sometimes Riola Mikhailovna could bring a modest record player with a worn record. “How do you do? How are you? I get up at seven o’clock every morning. I wash and dress myself and do my morning exercise, then I have breakfast and go to school” — came from the record. Perhaps it was English speech, and perhaps not. Simply good English pronunciation of a Soviet person.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part three “How I studied English”"},{"content":"Riola Mikhailovna turned out to be the person in whose person I could somehow imagine “foreign life.” I still remember her clothes\u0026hellip;.. not outfits!, but precisely elegant clothes. Every lesson she looked “anew” wonderful!\nI remember exactly, we did not learn dialogues. But we learned topics. Of course the first topic was called “About myself.” The topics had to be learned by heart, which I did with success. One topic stuck in my memory for life. It began like this: “People of good will, all over the world, want peace. They say: ‘No war’” (People of good will, all over the world, want peace. They say: “No to war”). I learned that topic more than 50 years ago! And the topic has not lost its relevance to this day.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180512/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eRiola Mikhailovna turned out to be the person in whose person I could somehow imagine “foreign life.” I still remember her clothes\u0026hellip;.. not outfits!, but precisely elegant clothes. Every lesson she looked “anew” wonderful!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI remember exactly, we did not learn dialogues. But we learned topics. Of course the first topic was called “About myself.” The topics had to be learned by heart, which I did with success. One topic stuck in my memory for life. It began like this: “People of good will, all over the world, want peace. They say: ‘No war’” (People of good will, all over the world, want peace. They say: “No to war”). I learned that topic more than 50 years ago! And the topic has not lost its relevance to this day.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part two “How I studied foreign languages”"},{"content":"I decided for a time to tear myself away from “my native Moscow region” and “smoothly” move to the present moment. It seems not much previous material has been written, but I experienced enormous emotional tension. I will try now to recharge, telling a favourite theme.\nI began studying English at ordinary Kiev school number 90, which is now considered not very ordinary, with a “cool slant.” Our 5-B class was divided into two groups: English and German. I remember I was offended, landing in the English group (I wanted to study German). Apparently I was strongly influenced by Soviet films about intelligence officers who spoke German fluently.\nOur English teacher was called Riola Mikhailovna Pyatkovskaya. For some reason some of the boys called her Ariola. Riola Mikhailovna was very different from the other Soviet teachers in her impeccable outward “foreign” appearance and strict intelligentsia manners. \u0026hellip;.And everything in her was wonderful!\nWell, I don’t know, but at the beginning I tensed up, “puffed myself up” and quietly began to hate her lessons. How could I have known then that many years later fate would throw me into work at a school and I, beginning my teaching career at 45, would rely on her priceless experience of teaching a foreign language! “Inscrutable are the ways\u0026hellip;”\nThe first and important assignment I proudly ignored. We were supposed to start a vocabulary notebook for new English words. Riola Mikhailovna recommended getting a thick notebook (you still had to go to the stationery shop for the notebook!), then divide each page into three equal parts, write the new words with transcription and preferably (obligatorily) glue on a picture of the new word or draw it, if there was no picture, write the translation.\nNow I will try to describe Riola Mikhailovna’s anger: “Stand up!\u0026hellip; Where is the dictionary? Are you a pupil? Are you a Pioneer?” (At this she nervously touched my red Pioneer scarf.) “If you are a Pioneer, why do you allow yourself such liberties?” I sat down and burst into tears\u0026hellip; I think Riola Mikhailovna then received no less stress from what she had said.\nThe next lesson I came in full battle readiness: a dictionary with glued-on pictures of the first English words a cat, a dog, a boy. The pictures had to be cut from an old primer\u0026hellip; Well, at that time we had NO additional aids for studying English, so we had to somehow manage with so-called visual material. That is very important at the initial stage of study: to learn words from pictures and “build” sentences. Riola Mikhailovna did this well. 45 minutes of her lesson flew by instantly. She worked only standing, masterfully changing assignments, and pictures with them.\n“What do you have for breakfast?” — with excellent English pronunciation Riola Mikhailovna would ask me, showing a picture with an abundance of tasty food. And I with all my strength tried to lie beautifully in English that “Every morning, before going to school I have breakfast. I have bread and butter, I have a glass of milk, I have orange juice, I have egg and porridge, I have a cake!” And to myself I thought: if I gobbled all that, I would burst!\nIn life no one pressed me with breakfast. At best it was bread with butter and tea (Georgian). And I got ready for school quickly, because I had to drag my younger sister to kindergarten, put slippers on her in the cloakroom, wipe her bitter tears, because she yelled the whole way, and since we by then had “improved” our conditions with the help of the famous Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, having moved from the barracks to a one-room “khrushchoba” on the fourth floor without a lift. So every morning I literally “dragged” my beloved little sister from the fourth floor, with howls that the neighbours heard.\nAnd in English lessons, after the one and only dressing-down from Riola Mikhailovna, telling “what a wonderful caloric English breakfast I have,” I felt like a well-fed English lady!\nAnd now I announce a Coffee Pause for those reading and for myself “writing.”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180511/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI decided for a time to tear myself away from “my native Moscow region” and “smoothly” move to the present moment. It seems not much previous material has been written, but I experienced enormous emotional tension. I will try now to recharge, telling a favourite theme.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI began studying English at ordinary Kiev school number 90, which is now considered not very ordinary, with a “cool slant.” Our 5-B class was divided into two groups: English and German. I remember I was offended, landing in the English group (I wanted to study German). Apparently I was strongly influenced by Soviet films about intelligence officers who spoke German fluently.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"How I studied foreign languages"},{"content":"10 May 2018\nVictory found Mama in a paper sack. I have already written that throughout the hard war years she had to work around the clock, being a teenager. But by the end of the war she was already of age.\nIn the four-storey building of the post office at Yaroslavsky Station in the city of Moscow during the war they worked 24 hours!!! hungry teenagers, women of all ages and rare men on whom, as they said then, a “reservation” had been placed. And at 4 in the morning on 9 May over all the loudspeakers and speakers this long-awaited word VICTORY was announced.\nYesterday Mama told me: “on all four floors there stood a terrible roar of sobbing! No one could laugh from joy, they only shouted and wept\u0026hellip;.” Oh, how exhausted they all were!!!\nI remembered myself as a little girl. When I cried from my misfortunes, when I had to be treated with those hated mustard plasters, Mama always reminded me of the war: “And how about people in the war? In hunger, in cold, without light and heat? Yes, you feel bad now, you are ill, but you are not alone, I am with you, I support you, and you mustn’t whimper, you must fight for yourself!”\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180510/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e10 May 2018\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eVictory found Mama in a paper sack. I have already written that throughout the hard war years she had to work around the clock, being a teenager. But by the end of the war she was already of age.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIn the four-storey building of the post office at Yaroslavsky Station in the city of Moscow during the war they worked 24 hours!!! hungry teenagers, women of all ages and rare men on whom, as they said then, a “reservation” had been placed. And at 4 in the morning on 9 May over all the loudspeakers and speakers this long-awaited word VICTORY was announced.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Victory!"},{"content":"9 May, 9 in the morning. Putin is delivering a speech; I seem to be listening attentively\u0026hellip; they did not capitulate, they held out, they won\u0026hellip; and in my head only one thought: they flooded the country with blood.\nMama recalls: at the Bolshevo school the boys of the tenth graduating class of 1941 went to the front\u0026hellip; All perished. Grandfather used to tell: it was very important to be strong, well physically prepared, to be able to “protect yourself in field conditions, and that meant — dig in quickly,” that is create around yourself a “fortification” of small mounds of earth with a small sapper’s spade. Whoever could not do this became a direct target for the enemy.\nI cannot fail to write on this Day about my father. Aleksandr Mikhailovich “was lucky.” He was called into the Red Army in 1938. His education was incomplete secondary, which meant 8 or 9 classes of secondary school. In the Army he received the specialty of optics technician, and so he served in the artillery, was head of the optical section of the repair workshop of the 62nd Army of the First Far Eastern Front. He was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, 2nd class. Fate was kind to him; he finished the war in the Far East and continued to serve after the war.\nBut his two brothers — no. In the first days of the war they found themselves in the thick of events near Smolensk. One brother went missing, and the other died in a bombing on the railway while loading equipment.\nTo my shame, I thought for the first time now about Papa’s mother, my grandmother Polina Vasilyevna Vukolova. How much she had to live through!!! The thing is that I never knew, and never asked Father about, my grandfather. Only now did I ask Mama about him. She said there are suspicions that he fled, disappeared without a trace in 1937, sensing the danger of arrest.\nMy grandmother, Papa’s mother Polina Vasilyevna, lost her husband before the war, two sons at the beginning of the war, remained under occupation, was chair of the collective farm and was sentenced by the fascists to execution by hanging, remained alive thanks to partisans who arrived in time. Only a few words have I written now about the kin thanks to whom I live, and it turns out that behind these “few” words is the tragic life of more than one generation of people close to me! Blessed memory to All!\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180509/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e9 May, 9 in the morning. Putin is delivering a speech; I seem to be listening attentively\u0026hellip; they did not capitulate, they held out, they won\u0026hellip; and in my head only one thought: they flooded the country with blood.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMama recalls: at the Bolshevo school the boys of the tenth graduating class of 1941 went to the front\u0026hellip; All perished. Grandfather used to tell: it was very important to be strong, well physically prepared, to be able to “protect yourself in field conditions, and that meant — dig in quickly,” that is create around yourself a “fortification” of small mounds of earth with a small sapper’s spade. Whoever could not do this became a direct target for the enemy.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part three “Thank you, Grandfather, for the Victory”!"},{"content":"To be honest, in Grandfather’s lifetime I never once asked about his decorations. And quite recently, a few years ago, I managed to obtain from the military archive a copy of the award sheet: two medals For Valour and the Order of the Patriotic War, 2nd class.\nI quote the extract: “25 January 1945, in the battle for the town of Els/Germany/, under strong enemy rifle and machine-gun fire, advanced his crew forward and with accurate fire from his mortar destroyed an enemy machine gun located in a trench in front of a separate house; transferring fire onto the trenches, silenced a second enemy machine gun that was hindering the advance of our infantry.\nIn this battle Comrade Dorofeev with his crew destroyed up to 20 enemy soldiers and officers. For skilful direction of the fire of his mortar and for courage, Junior Sergeant Dorofeev is worthy of a government award — the Order of the Patriotic War, 2nd class.\nCommander of the Red Banner rifle regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Tverdokhlebov. 5 February 1945.”\nUnfortunately the photocopy is not clear and it is very hard to make out the details. It is written that he was lightly wounded twice. I know that headaches tormented him after the war. He took tablets called “Troichatka,” that is the composition included 3 preparations. I think they were painkillers, vasodilators and sedatives.\nIt is easy to write\u0026hellip; “lightly wounded,” but the consequences in peacetime were heavy: deafness in one ear, periodontitis and, as I already mentioned, headaches. Of trophies I remember only two German very sharp, “dangerous,” as they said then, razors.\nHe was wounded by a splinter in the head, and apparently hair did not grow, or grew unevenly, but he shaved his head himself, without help from others, and said that I should not peek. And I so wanted to peek! I remember clearly the fragment of a mirror that he set on an old nightstand, and another mirror he held with one hand so as to see the back of his head, shave and not cut himself. Before shaving he “stropped” the razors on a soldier’s leather belt. And of course he used boiling water in an aluminium mug.\nToday I asked Mama about letters from the front. “Yes,” she says, “he wrote, but Mother never once answered\u0026hellip;” (I have given my mama’s words word for word). Grandfather’s letters have not been preserved\u0026hellip;\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180508/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eTo be honest, in Grandfather’s lifetime I never once asked about his decorations. And quite recently, a few years ago, I managed to obtain from the military archive a copy of the award sheet: two medals For Valour and the Order of the Patriotic War, 2nd class.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI quote the extract: “25 January 1945, in the battle for the town of Els/Germany/, under strong enemy rifle and machine-gun fire, advanced his crew forward and with accurate fire from his mortar destroyed an enemy machine gun located in a trench in front of a separate house; transferring fire onto the trenches, silenced a second enemy machine gun that was hindering the advance of our infantry.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Part two “Thank you, Grandfather, for the Victory!”"},{"content":"Now is not the time to continue yesterday’s theme, but I will return to it. I don’t know about you, but every time I feel irresistible emotion and tears in my eyes at the approaching holiday of 9 May. Today I will remember my grandfather on Mama’s side.\nMy grandfather Dorofeev Sergei Sergeyevich was born on 31 March 1901 in the settlement of Bolshevo, 40 km from Moscow. He finished a parish school — that is only 4 classes. For that time, I understand, it was not a bad education. He wrote very correctly, drew beautifully, unfortunately only on scraps of paper, when I, quite little, asked him. I remember he could in a few minutes draw a skier coming down a hill. It seemed to me then that all adults drew well only because they were adults.\nThanks to his beautiful handwriting and literate writing, in the 1920s he served in the Baltic Fleet in Petrograd, at headquarters. Together with him served as a clerk Nikolai Kuznetsov. Yes, yes, exactly that Nikolai Kuznetsov who later became an admiral. I was already a teenager when I saw at Grandfather’s a book of memoirs of Admiral Nikolai Kuznetsov. The book perhaps appeared somewhere at the end of the 60s.\nAnd then he said to me: “You see this book. We began service together; he called me to continue studying at evening school, where he himself went after duty. And I had other interests, to run after the girls at the tobacco factory for a cigarette. And the result you see yourself: he is an admiral, and I am a stoker\u0026hellip;”\nHe worked in the boiler room at a scientific-military institute (the name is not exact), which was between Mytishchi and Bolshevo, all his postwar life until he was 77! And he went on night shifts, and early morning ones. I remember how he got ready for work. First of all, he carefully cut food for the cats into little “cubes.” That was sacred! In the house at that period, from about 1965, he kept no animals. And at work they waited for him\u0026hellip;.. cats!\nI want to remind you that there was no special food for animals in the Soviet Union. Before the war they kept livestock (domestic animals). Mama recalls that Grandmother “did not touch” the household — she worked at a weaving factory and also did public work. So the heavy work around the house was done by Grandfather, and Mama and Mama’s sister Vera were helpers. And if they did not want to help, they got a clip round the ear from their mother.\nI know that he could not kill animals. They specially invited someone “from outside.” Before the war Grandfather had a trained hen. Every day, at a time “set by her herself,” she went out the gate, into the street, walked a considerable stretch of the way and met Grandfather from work. Back he carried her in his arms. Such things happen!\nAnd now I thought\u0026hellip;. this man had to go to the front at 40 to kill\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180507/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eNow is not the time to continue yesterday’s theme, but I will return to it. I don’t know about you, but every time I feel irresistible emotion and tears in my eyes at the approaching holiday of 9 May. Today I will remember my grandfather on Mama’s side.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMy grandfather Dorofeev Sergei Sergeyevich was born on 31 March 1901 in the settlement of Bolshevo, 40 km from Moscow. He finished a parish school — that is only 4 classes. For that time, I understand, it was not a bad education. He wrote very correctly, drew beautifully, unfortunately only on scraps of paper, when I, quite little, asked him. I remember he could in a few minutes draw a skier coming down a hill. It seemed to me then that all adults drew well only because they were adults.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Thank you, Grandfather, for the Victory!” part one"},{"content":"This DNA test makes one think. And my husband also suggested I create a family tree. Well, I tried to fill in the table. It doesn’t work\u0026hellip; I know only Grandmother and Grandfather on Mama’s side. I talked with Mama on the telephone today and tried to find out at least something. She says she doesn’t remember. She remembered only the patronymic of her mother-in-law — my grandmother on Papa’s side. Well, thanks for that too!\nBut my husband has an enormous family tree, which he compiled two years ago, preparing for a meeting with relatives in his native Swedish village Ånn (Onn is the Russian name). He then did colossal work on the computer from records in church books; I think he reached the year 1500. I still remember I said to him (joking) that if you search so thoroughly, you’ll “reach” the dinosaurs with your relatives!\nHe even put me in his tree! I tried to bring him to reason, that a wife is not a relative. But he decided in his own way. I confess, I was flattered.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180506/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eThis DNA test makes one think. And my husband also suggested I create a family tree. Well, I tried to fill in the table. It doesn’t work\u0026hellip; I know only Grandmother and Grandfather on Mama’s side. I talked with Mama on the telephone today and tried to find out at least something. She says she doesn’t remember. She remembered only the patronymic of her mother-in-law — my grandmother on Papa’s side. Well, thanks for that too!\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Continuation"},{"content":"5 May 2018. Today my astonishment is boundless! In the USA there is a laboratory that determines a person’s origin by DNA. In short, in the computer there is such a name, My Heritage. So the first to determine his origin was my husband Ivan. At first I treated this distrustfully.\nI will describe the mechanism of the “procedure”: first they send a special envelope with little test tubes, sterile cotton swabs, instructions. And you take from the cavity of the cheek (the saliva should be “hungry,” on an empty stomach). Then you seal everything according to the instructions and send it by post. Somewhere in a month the result.\nHis result did not greatly surprise me: it is given in percentages of the places he comes from. That is Scandinavia 80%, Finland 14% and 6% the Baltics. In a word, a Viking.\nBut when I decided to find out my DNA, here a complete surprise awaited me. Yesterday the result “arrived” by e-post: 66.1% the Baltics, 17.7% Eastern Europe, 16.2 the Balkans (that is the territory of the former Yugoslavia) and even 1% from the territory of the peoples of the North. Well, and who am I?\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180505/","summary":"\u003cp\u003e5 May 2018. Today my astonishment is boundless! In the USA there is a laboratory that determines a person’s origin by DNA. In short, in the computer there is such a name, My Heritage. So the first to determine his origin was my husband Ivan. At first I treated this distrustfully.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI will describe the mechanism of the “procedure”: first they send a special envelope with little test tubes, sterile cotton swabs, instructions. And you take from the cavity of the cheek (the saliva should be “hungry,” on an empty stomach). Then you seal everything according to the instructions and send it by post. Somewhere in a month the result.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"“Who am I?”"},{"content":"Today is 4 May 2018. Wow! I have lived to see it! All the way to the 21st century! Since yesterday I sent out invitations to my blog, I shall have to “answer for my talk” and write every day.\nToday’s event is the 30th birthday of my daughter-in-law Tina. She is Danish. How my elder son found her “remains a puzzle” for me. Or did she find him? In short, the virtual became real. It happens\u0026hellip; I sent a little gift in good time. The other day they reported that “thank you, we received it! But we won’t open it until the birthday.” That is willpower! I don’t remember myself like that.\nIf I received something, I opened it and ate it at once. I most of all loved edible gifts! I would talk myself into “hide it farther away!” Well, I hide it\u0026hellip; Then what? Then you walk around, suffering. That pleasure convolution in my brain “drills a hole.” That’s how it was! Now it’s a bit easier\u0026hellip; I grew up at last.\nAnd in the distant year 1969, 4 May was another sad-happy event. My younger sister was 6. She went to kindergarten, and on that day, at the kindergarten, she had an attack of treacherous appendicitis. A low bow to the kindergarten teacher Nadezhda Nikolayevna, who in time, without delay, called an ambulance, after her shift ran to our home, in the daytime (the parents had not yet come from work; I was at home) and reported which hospital the child was in. “Yes! There were people in our time\u0026hellip;” But there were no telephones.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180504/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eToday is 4 May 2018. Wow! I have lived to see it! All the way to the 21st century! Since yesterday I sent out invitations to my blog, I shall have to “answer for my talk” and write every day.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eToday’s event is the 30th birthday of my daughter-in-law Tina. She is Danish. How my elder son found her “remains a puzzle” for me. Or did she find him? In short, the virtual became real. It happens\u0026hellip; I sent a little gift in good time. The other day they reported that “thank you, we received it! But we won’t open it until the birthday.” That is willpower! I don’t remember myself like that.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Briefly about today"},{"content":"My mama was so impressed that on her return she said a phrase I cannot write word for word, but I will write a “nice” translation: “We would have to run to catch up with them and \u0026hellip; we wouldn’t catch up!” And she added a “term”: 200 years will pass\u0026hellip; and\u0026hellip; She started a general clean!\nI remember one of Mama’s gifts, chosen by her and paid for by the Danish son-in-law: sandals! How surprised she was when in a Danish magazine she saw the Queen in exactly the same sandals! What a coincidence of tastes!!! She was very touched by this gift. Our Danish son-in-law Jakob treats my mama with great respect, calling her affectionately BabUshka, putting the stress on the sound “u.” It comes out very funny.\nI decided to stop at this episode. The thing is that these stories were written a little earlier and printed on my Facebook page. And it was a pleasant surprise for me that many read them with interest. Mama is now 91. She lives in Kiev, tries to be active and independent. She was very surprised when she read about herself; emotions overwhelmed her, and she asked me how I could remember about her what she herself had already begun to forget. How to explain it? I simply remember.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180503/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eMy mama was so impressed that on her return she said a phrase I cannot write word for word, but I will write a “nice” translation: “We would have to run to catch up with them and \u0026hellip; we wouldn’t catch up!” And she added a “term”: 200 years will pass\u0026hellip; and\u0026hellip; She started a general clean!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI remember one of Mama’s gifts, chosen by her and paid for by the Danish son-in-law: sandals! How surprised she was when in a Danish magazine she saw the Queen in exactly the same sandals! What a coincidence of tastes!!! She was very touched by this gift. Our Danish son-in-law Jakob treats my mama with great respect, calling her affectionately BabUshka, putting the stress on the sound “u.” It comes out very funny.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"She was impressed... Episode eleven"},{"content":"In Soviet times there was a poster: “Fly by Aeroflot airplanes!” I am trying to remember what was depicted on it\u0026hellip; I don’t remember! I’ll have to “draw” it. Most likely in the foreground there was a white-toothed blonde stewardess in a little cap, and in the background an airplane with the inscription Aeroflot.\nI wrote the word “poster,” because we had no advertising, and that word, “advertising,” appeared, I suppose, when there was nothing left in the country to advertise. But this one, which I will now quote in Ukrainian, really was advertising-like advertising! Enormous, hung on the end of an old building, opposite Kiev’s Dynamo stadium.\nThe advertisement proclaimed, and a blind person could see it: “Pyite druzi vitaminy, naturalni, svizhi soky, i rumyantsem neominno zapalayut vashi shchoky!” Drink, friends, vitamins! Natural, fresh juices, and a blush will certainly adorn your cheeks! A rosy-cheeked toddler held a glass of tomato juice\u0026hellip;. I remembered this clearly; it was the flowering of my youth, and I often visited the open (open-air) Dynamo pool, which in the 90s “successfully dried up.”\nLet us return to airplanes. Personally I never dreamed of flying in airplanes. But my mama! (Here I make a mysterious pause.) “Up the hill tra-ta-ta and down the hill tra-ta-ta!” If she had had such an opportunity, she would have flown. Well, it is never too late to fly either\u0026hellip; And so her first flight she made as a woman “not of Balzac’s age,” at 72\u0026hellip; and \u0026hellip; straight to Copenhagen, but via Moscow (my younger sister lived in Denmark, married).\nOf course, before the trip she completely renewed her wardrobe. I have already mentioned that Mama sewed excellently! My worries as the one seeing her off cannot be described in words! It seemed to me then that Mama was flying into space! At the moment of parting I asked: “Mother, did you at least take money with you?” — “What money?” — “Well, dollars,” I answer. “Yes, I have some, 5 dollars..” — I “??!! Take my 20, you have a transfer in Moscow!”\nThe habit of travelling almost without money, or with a small sum, she had kept from Soviet times. And the dollar for her was an abstract notion. But having arrived in Moscow she understood the power of a dollar bill: surrounded by a dense ring of taxi drivers offering to take her for 100 dollars from one airport to another (I don’t remember now from which to which). Luckily there was an experienced fellow traveller nearby, who obtained free transport for transit passengers.\nAnd so my mama found herself in the Kingdom of Denmark, in which “everything was in order” (here I allow myself the liberty of paraphrasing William Shakespeare; he wrote: “something is rotten in the state of Denmark!”). Perhaps in the time of his hero Hamlet not everything was in order, but when my mama flew in!..\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180501/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn Soviet times there was a poster: “Fly by Aeroflot airplanes!” I am trying to remember what was depicted on it\u0026hellip; I don’t remember! I’ll have to “draw” it. Most likely in the foreground there was a white-toothed blonde stewardess in a little cap, and in the background an airplane with the inscription Aeroflot.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI wrote the word “poster,” because we had no advertising, and that word, “advertising,” appeared, I suppose, when there was nothing left in the country to advertise. But this one, which I will now quote in Ukrainian, really was advertising-like advertising! Enormous, hung on the end of an old building, opposite Kiev’s Dynamo stadium.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"\"Fly by airplane...!\" episode ten"},{"content":"I am anxious\u0026hellip;.. I am thinking\u0026hellip;.. 2009\u0026hellip; that was our last trip to Moscow. I did not want to go. Mama rings and says: “I’ve taken two tickets for the train, in platskart, side bunks, by the toilet\u0026hellip;” She presented me with a fact, adding, at her expense..\n“Well, and I — ‘how am I related to your Moscow?’” — “You’ll accompany me!” There was, of course, a reason to go. There was an invitation. A nephew, on Grandfather’s side, was gathering all the relatives for the anniversary of his mother’s death.\nWhy was I so categorical about the trip? The thing is that with the death of my grandmother, Mama’s mother, in 1995, it was I who lost the connection — however pompous that may sound — with the Motherland. I think many in our country (meaning the unbreakable Union even after it was broken) encountered an unfair, not-kin-like, not-human division of the parental inheritance. That is what happened to my mama. The door to the parental home was closed to her forever.\nThis trip was to good people, but I understood how hard it would be for Mama to be there, next to “the house that is not.”\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180430/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI am anxious\u0026hellip;.. I am thinking\u0026hellip;.. 2009\u0026hellip; that was our last trip to Moscow. I did not want to go. Mama rings and says: “I’ve taken two tickets for the train, in platskart, side bunks, by the toilet\u0026hellip;” She presented me with a fact, adding, at her expense..\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Well, and I — ‘how am I related to your Moscow?’” — “You’ll accompany me!” There was, of course, a reason to go. There was an invitation. A nephew, on Grandfather’s side, was gathering all the relatives for the anniversary of his mother’s death.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Untitled. Episode nine"},{"content":"Since Mama was from the near Moscow region, a train ride to Moscow was always a pleasant journey for her. Of course she took me with her. I still remember how they coupled a steam locomotive to the train! Ah, those times! In the evening we boarded the train, and in the morning we approached Moscow. And when I saw the MGU building, I already waited excitedly for the meeting with Grandfather.\nLean, sinewy, bald (he shaved his head with a captured German straight razor). He called it “dangerous.” Very sharp indeed! And before every shave he “stropped” it on a wide military leather belt. Of shirts he recognised only dark sateen kosovorotkas, a black cap or a ushanka, a quilted jacket. Quilted jackets are probably a Soviet invention. A very necessary thing.\nAnd Mama, stepping off the train, looked wonderful! She knew how to sew and specially for the trip to Moscow sewed herself clothes. And she did not forget me. Everything on me was pretty! Happy minutes of meeting! \u0026hellip; Mama planned to run around the shops: GUM, TSUM, Detsky Mir (goods were always better in Moscow), go to a museum, to the theatre, see her girlfriends.\nBut it turned out that, arriving in the family home, Grandmother harnessed her to housework, while she herself worked at the factory and was also a public activist. And Mama managed, perhaps, a couple of trips into Moscow and also to fill the orders of the neighbours in the barracks. In short, to please everyone.\nI remember she brought vobla from Moscow in big string-bags — at that time there were no polyethylene bags. Vobla is a well-dried river fish, about 20 cm. Perhaps the reader knows another name — taranka\u0026hellip; The same thing. Now this fish is sold one at a time by small traders. And then they sold it “by weight,” that is they weighed it, so people carried it out in huge string-bags. And Mama too “supplied” the whole barracks, without making any profit. Nothing but trouble! Neighbours also ordered her to bring things for the children. She carried it all out diligently. But not everyone was satisfied\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180427/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eSince Mama was from the near Moscow region, a train ride to Moscow was always a pleasant journey for her. Of course she took me with her. I still remember how they coupled a steam locomotive to the train! Ah, those times! In the evening we boarded the train, and in the morning we approached Moscow. And when I saw the MGU building, I already waited excitedly for the meeting with Grandfather.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Journeys from Kiev to Moscow. Episode eight"},{"content":"Papa came home from duty very late. I rarely fell asleep before he arrived. I waited for him\u0026hellip; that is where “owls” come from. From childhood! I was a typical owl. Mama could not take it — she went to bed before me. The thing is that I did not go to kindergarten, so I had a free schedule. I could not “settle in.” In the morning Mama would take me there all starched and ironed, and in the evening she would pick me up with a high temperature.\nAt home she would put me to bed and say: “When Papa comes from work, don’t tell him you were at kindergarten.” And I wait for Papa, I don’t sleep, even though I am ill! Papa comes, looks into my honest little eyes and asks: “Well, did you go to kindergarten today?” I am silent, look at Mama, and he: “Don’t take her there! If she starts getting ill — we’ll never hear the end of it!” Naturally Mama could not work, “abandon me.” That is how she put it: “I could not abandon you!”\nNow, about my sleep, an interesting moment! I remember Papa smoked Belomor-Kanal cigarettes, and before sleep he would smoke one cigarette, sitting on a stool in the corridor. What did I do? Of course I sat next to him! And if Mama grumbled that it was time to sleep, I had an excuse: “Pap, let’s go have a smoke!” And the letter “r” sounded very soft. The acrid smoke of Papa’s cigarettes for life “killed” my desire to smoke. Believe what is written! I have never smoked and never tried. But to sit next to Papa in silence, when the whole “corridor” was already asleep\u0026hellip;. “\u0026hellip;for that one could give everything\u0026hellip;”\nThat was the free time Papa had for the family. Yes! He served honestly for 25 calendar years! There was a time when he wore only field uniform (it comes from the word “field”). “Winter and summer — the same colour”! What is that? Right, in my text it is she — field uniform: chrome boots (soldiers wore kirza boots; I remember they were coarser in quality than the officers’), a gymnastyorka (remember the soloist of the group Lyube in a gymnastyorka?), to the stand-up collar a white “podvorotnichok” was sewn. Every military man knew how to sew on a collar lining. It had to be always clean! Necks were washed thoroughly!\nBoots were cleaned with boot polish and rubbed to a shine with “barkhatka,” a special little cloth. I had a dream of having a little velvet dress like that wonderful cloth! Readers! Have I worn you out with details? A little more\u0026hellip; Buttons were rubbed with solidol, to a shine! The peaked cap. And so in this well-fitted uniform, with a sword belt, in riding breeches, they walked in summer, in thirty-degree heat!!! Buttoned up to the last button! Summer in Kiev was hot\u0026hellip;\nNow I know for certain that I was very proud of my papa! And his generation did not choose a profession for themselves. You could put it this way: the war of 1941–1945 decided everything — who would be what, and how to go on surviving, if you remained alive. Conditionally, I would divide postwar society into military, workers and peasants. Of course, the intelligentsia! — “the brains of Soviet society.”\nI think Papa was not a military man by vocation; he was a military man by order. And the working people were more “free.” What am I “leading up to”? In the settlement there existed a certain division and alienation between military families and civilians. The workers envied the military: the “soldiers” arrived to “everything ready,” and on top of that got three times the pay, and their women were “prettier”! Well yes! I remembered just now a saying I heard from Mama when I was grown: “the other fellow’s ram always has bigger balls!” And so it is! Never, to no one, do I feel envy.\n\u0026hellip;.and to be continued\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180426/","summary":"\u003cp\u003ePapa came home from duty very late. I rarely fell asleep before he arrived. I waited for him\u0026hellip; that is where “owls” come from. From childhood! I was a typical owl. Mama could not take it — she went to bed before me. The thing is that I did not go to kindergarten, so I had a free schedule. I could not “settle in.” In the morning Mama would take me there all starched and ironed, and in the evening she would pick me up with a high temperature.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"I serve the Soviet Union! Episode seven"},{"content":"In our officers’ barracks there were two front entrances. In each entrance lived five families. Each family occupied one room, regardless of the size of the family. There was a long shared corridor; along the corridor wall stood (at this point I can barely keep from laughing!) well, what could have stood there? By the door of our room stood a wooden table, probably knocked together by someone, an old stool, and at the end, along the other wall, there was a small niche where Mama put the green basin with black speckles.\nMama both washed laundry and washed me in that basin; a little later I got my own personal zinc trough. All of everyday life took place in the corridor. At the end of the corridor there was a window and the entrance to a toilet with two stalls and a washbasin with cold water. Only this part of the barracks had privileges: a toilet with two stalls and a washbasin. The second part of the barracks, that is the second entrance, had no toilet, but two washbasins in the kitchen. The toilet was shared, wooden, about 50 metres from the entrance. Enamelled chamber pots with lids were popular. These household details push into my brain with inexplicable force. I think: what a rotten everyday life the officers’ wives had! They cooked, washed by hand; the gas was brought in cylinders.\nOh! In our barracks there was a basement with a boiler room. The barracks was heated with coal, and the coal was unloaded right under our room window! For me that was enormous bliss: watching a dump truck drive up, unload the coal, raise the body and drive away! I alone felt that rapture. Coal dust was a constant companion of our window.\nI remember how Mama washed laundry. Then there was only household soap; the first washing powder appeared, I think, in the 60s and was called “Novost.” Ha-ha! Brand-trend. (These are just little words; pay no attention to my chatter now.) She used to tell and lament: the water in the basin cooled quickly because she was always being distracted by something: a neighbour would ask to borrow money, or a carrot for the soup. You couldn’t run to the shop — it was far. So it was the custom to borrow something. I remember Mama complained to Papa that she had lent out all the money, didn’t know how to refuse. And Papa said to her: “Next time say that all the money is with your husband\u0026hellip;”\nIn the settlement there were also sights. An open, that is roofless, wooden round dance floor. In the evening people dressed up for dances, and after the dances, when it was already dark, they hung a screen and showed films. Next to the dance floor there were wooden benches; people cracked sunflower seeds and watched the film. Now I remember only two films. Both about the war: Baltic Sky and Thirst.\nFrom the film Thirst I still remember the song: “The night was with downpours, and the grass in dew, about me they all said ‘Happy!’ and I myself believed, against my heart, we are two banks of one river.” I sang that song from about the age of five. Then it was unusual for those around: a child singing about love, an adult song\u0026hellip; If they asked, I sang.\nAt the entrance-exit to the settlement stood a small wooden house with gates. On the blue gates were two large red stars. This was called, for short, the checkpoint. I have already mentioned it. Checkpoints were everywhere: at plants, factories, military settlements and so on. Since the duty officers knew the inhabitants of the settlement “by sight,” passes were not shown. I loved going there, chatting with the duty auntie. Her name was Aunt Olya; she knitted socks on five needles. I very much liked watching how she knitted quickly, without looking.\nSometimes I went there to meet Papa coming off duty. I have written “coming off duty” now, because people came home from work on time, and from duty they did not. You had to wait\u0026hellip; The duty officer had a special booth-house. Of course the duty officers knew everything about all the inhabitants of the settlement. That was the job! — “about everyone and everything.” Some, passing through the checkpoint, would stop to talk, pick up the mail.\nI remember how Aunt Olya told one woman a “funny story.” I have put it in quotation marks because then I did not understand why they were laughing, but I remembered it. And now I will write it. Although in Soviet times there was such a notion as “friendship of peoples” and a common nation for all, “the Soviet people,” still\u0026hellip; every Soviet person knew their nationality. And mixed marriages, of course, erased “those national boundaries.”\nChildren from our settlement often ran to Aunt Olya at the checkpoint. Among them was a little girl, Sveta; she pronounced words poorly, she lisped. And Aunt Olya asked her: “Svet, what are you? A katsapka or a khokhlushka?” And Sveta, lisping, answered: “I’m not a zasapka and not a zasushka!” (Sveta’s mama was Russian, and her papa Ukrainian.) And so Aunt Olya would retell these “funny” little words, the meaning of which neither I nor little Sveta knew then.\nHere I have stopped and think that I shall have to continue describing my childhood in the settlement. By the way, information for Kievans: on the site of this settlement there is now City Hospital No. 12 in the central Pechersk district, and in my childhood there was a football field, but the hospital “was in the plans,” and not twenty years had passed before they built it, sometime in the 80s (before the Chernobyl events).\nI remember well Friendship of Peoples Boulevard. The first name was Avtostrada. Mama told me that the Avtostrada was built by German prisoners after the war. The Avtostrada connected us with the city centre: Tolstoy Square, the Kiev cinema, and further Bessarabka, Khreshchatyk, the Passage. Trolleybus number 10 “ran.” Always overcrowded. Mama was “light on her feet,” as she always said, and often went with me to the centre, to a daytime film.\nAnd so that I would not starve during the film, she would buy some fried pie on the street, from which I had stomach trouble. It is strange that this did not stop her, and on the next trip to the cinema she would again buy me some “fresh” pie, and again my tender organism would not take it. Mama was surprised: she ate the same pie — and nothing! And I was like that! Mama could not instil in me a love of public catering — “obshchepit,” as they said then. And it had to be such a “misfortune,” laid down in childhood, that to this day I feel a certain “phobia” toward restaurants, cafés and other eateries, living far from the Motherland.\nFrom the cinema we always returned on an overcrowded trolleybus. We had to stand. Once we were squeezed so hard we were almost suffocated. Mama cried out\u0026hellip; As you see, it ended all right; I am alive and unharmed, all in memories.\nSo, I “return” to the settlement: oh how wonderful it was in summer in our settlement! And in winter it was good too! In summer Mama went to Vladimirsky Market (on that site the Ukraina Palace has now been built) for strawberries and cherries, to make jam for winter. Strawberries and cherries were sold by the bucket, and bought by the bucket too. I had to clean them. Mama, “without a twinge of conscience,” sat me on the front porch of our barracks, put an enamelled bucket of strawberries or cherries in front of me, and I, a girl of five, sat and cleaned them without protest. And potatoes I peeled when I was 6.\nWhen I told my Norwegian husband this fact, he asked in surprise: “And why didn’t your sister help you?” To which I answered: “My sister had not yet been born.” How grateful I am now to my mama for teaching me everything and training me! How it helps later in life! How important it is in childhood to get a good “base” of skills and abilities.\nI remember well how I waited for Sunday — the only day off in those times. A neighbour had a boat with a little cabin, and he would take our family of three and his family of four on a boat outing on the Dnieper. How we all fitted I don’t remember. (The boat was small) and not fast; the motors were not powerful. We would sail to some sandy island where there were no people, and spend the whole day off there until evening. The men, of course, drank. That I remember. The women scolded them, but in vain. We returned with drunken men in the boat. Thank God, without adventures!\nWinter\u0026hellip;. I want to continue “the peasant, triumphing, renews the path on the sledge, his little horse, scenting the snow, trudges along at a trot somehow.” New Year! The first trip to the New Year tree was at the October Palace. The children were let in without parents; Mama stayed outside, and my mood immediately spoiled\u0026hellip; And when I found myself in that round dance around the tree before the performance, I was already thinking only of how I would get back out and whether I would lose Mama when I left. In short, the New Year morning party passed in stress, as they say now.\nAnd there was another event that shook my soul — the loss\u0026hellip;. of a fur mitten on a walk in the settlement\u0026hellip;. I sobbed for a long time; the whole barracks ran to comfort me. It was evening, and sending out a search party was useless. Everyone was notified of the loss! My mitten was found\u0026hellip; in the spring! A neighbour’s grandmother found it and solemnly handed it to me. That was happiness!\nAnd to be continued\u0026hellip;..\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180425/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIn our officers’ barracks there were two front entrances. In each entrance lived five families. Each family occupied one room, regardless of the size of the family. There was a long shared corridor; along the corridor wall stood (at this point I can barely keep from laughing!) well, what could have stood there? By the door of our room stood a wooden table, probably knocked together by someone, an old stool, and at the end, along the other wall, there was a small niche where Mama put the green basin with black speckles.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"The barracks and the adjoining-surrounding objects. Episode five"},{"content":"It is time to tell about my papa. Aleksandr Mikhailovich married late and swiftly, at the age of 35. I think he fell in love with Mama at once, at first sight. And he was ready, morally and materially. An officer, a captain. At that time officers had a good salary. If only there had been somewhere to spend it!\nHe had been called into the Army even before the war, served in the Far East, took part in the war with Japan. After the war he bought a house in Blagoveshchensk and brought there his elder sister and niece from a village in Smolensk province (everything there had been destroyed during the war). And so the elder sister ran the household. And suddenly my papa brought a wife\u0026hellip;\nI will not ask Mama how long they lived as such a company, but I know that from the first days of family life Papa began giving his earnings to Mama. She recalls that when he brought his pay, put it on the nightstand and said that she was the mistress of the house and should dispose of the money as she saw fit, she was stunned. The sum was considerable; I think it was her three months’ wages at the factory. She had never held such money in her hands!\nShe started counting, and Papa said to her: “Don’t count, or it won’t ‘stick around’!” There used to be such a word, “stick around.” It sounded strange in my head just now, meaning: if you count the money, there won’t be any. Well, that is how he put it\u0026hellip;\nSoon Papa received a posting to a new military unit, 300 km from Blagoveshchensk. The sister and her daughter remained mistresses of the house forever. She did not share any household goods. And so pregnant Mama arrived at the military unit, bringing with her one small suitcase of personal things.\nThey were given a corner in a soldiers’ barracks and a government-issue bed and a metal cot. From a soldier’s blanket they made a screen and at first lived in this partitioned-off corner, while in the barracks itself the soldiers slept. The facilities were outside, 150 metres away. All around — hills, mosquitoes and\u0026hellip; fresh air, sentries at their posts.\nIt was hard for a pregnant woman to go to the toilet at night\u0026hellip; She suffered, felt embarrassed\u0026hellip; Then she got used to it; she would not make it to the toilet, she says “I’ll squat — the sentry will turn away.” There was nothing to cook on. Papa brought food from the soldiers’ canteen. And her appetite was terrible! She ate greedily, and there was no one to stop her. And she put on as much as 30 kg!\nShe decided to go home to the Moscow region to give birth. At that time the military unit was disbanded and Papa was sent on a course. The news of his daughter’s birth caught him on the road\u0026hellip;. I was born in the city of Korolev; then it was the settlement of Kostino, Mytishchi district, Moscow region. And Papa did not see me for a whole 10 months!\nAfter the course he received a new posting, with a choice of Kiev, Odessa, Perm. They chose Perm. There you could get housing; Odessa and Kiev were still being rebuilt after the war, and housing was very bad. But they chose one thing and got another. Kiev\u0026hellip; The military repair plant Arsenal-2. Then it was called military unit 61809. I am surprised at myself, how I remember that?!\nThey arrived\u0026hellip; With a suitcase and a green enamelled basin. They were given housing: on the plant grounds, in the Red Corner. What is a red corner? It is a room decorated with communist posters, slogans, newspapers. Its proper purpose — political briefings and political classes. They were settled in\u0026hellip;, heat, summer, I was 10 months old.\nIt was good that Mama could breastfeed me. At that time “bottle babies,” as they were called if Mama had no milk, were a great rarity. There was no pram — nowhere to buy one. On the plant grounds there were also two barracks. Families of workers and military men lived there; there was a club, and also a checkpoint with duty officers, entry to the plant by pass. In a word — a ZONE.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180424/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIt is time to tell about my papa. Aleksandr Mikhailovich married late and swiftly, at the age of 35. I think he fell in love with Mama at once, at first sight. And he was ready, morally and materially. An officer, a captain. At that time officers had a good salary. If only there had been somewhere to spend it!\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe had been called into the Army even before the war, served in the Far East, took part in the war with Japan. After the war he bought a house in Blagoveshchensk and brought there his elder sister and niece from a village in Smolensk province (everything there had been destroyed during the war). And so the elder sister ran the household. And suddenly my papa brought a wife\u0026hellip;\u003c/p\u003e","title":"My papa. Episode four."},{"content":"I first heard this saying from Mama herself. Now I call this part of my narrative — in Norwegian — an episode. An episode thirty years long\u0026hellip;\nOnce, someone came to my grandmother, who lived in the Moscow region, and said that a colleague of her husband’s from Blagoveshchensk was staying with them and could take a parcel for Mama. And this is what Grandmother told me when I was already grown up. She packed a little parcel and arranged to bring it to the train on which this military man was to leave.\nShe arrived at the station in good time and met him. A friend with whom the military man had been staying was seeing him off, and by custom, before the journey, they wanted “just a little” in the station buffet. “Wait, mother, we’ll be right there.” Of course my proper grandmother disliked this terribly, and at that moment she thought: “God forbid he should become my son-in-law!”\nThe parcel was safely delivered to my mama, at the factory where she worked. Mama came out; they were introduced, talked a little, since it was a working day, and she went back to her workplace. She says he did not impress her: stocky, not tall, 35 years old. She recalls that her suitors had always been tall. She loved going to dances. And for every dance she had a partner.\nAt work they began to ask “who and what.” The older generation of women advised her “not to turn up her nose,” but to take a closer look! Well, she “took a closer look”! Three days later they registered at the local registry office. The event took place on 11 December 1953. Exactly nine months later, on 11 August 1954, I appeared.\nAnd when I asked Mama how she had managed to “conceive from the first night”? She said, embarrassed: “Irk, what a chatterbox you are!”\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180423/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eI first heard this saying from Mama herself. Now I call this part of my narrative — in Norwegian — an episode. An episode thirty years long\u0026hellip;\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce, someone came to my grandmother, who lived in the Moscow region, and said that a colleague of her husband’s from Blagoveshchensk was staying with them and could take a parcel for Mama. And this is what Grandmother told me when I was already grown up. She packed a little parcel and arranged to bring it to the train on which this military man was to leave.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Getting married is no small thing..."},{"content":"It just occurred to me that I wanted to begin Mama’s travels with airplanes — but no! Mama’s first journeys were short, but hard. She was born in the near Moscow region, in a place well known to many today, in the settlement of Bolshevo. And of course her first trips were to Moscow, to the theatre. That was rare, but very festive.\nAnd then the war began\u0026hellip;.. And Mama’s childhood ended. She was 14 years old; her father went to the front as a volunteer. Sergei Sergeyevich Dorofeev was 40. Only quite recently did I think about the age of my grandfather, who went through the whole war — really went through it, and in the song they sang “we crawled all of Europe on our bellies.” He did not like to talk about the war.\nThey summoned him to the military commissariat, and the commissar, looking straight into Grandfather’s eyes, asked: “Will you go as a volunteer?” I immediately remembered a wartime poster with the question “Have you signed up as a volunteer?” There was no alternative (by the way, that modern word means “a choice”). For no one! “Everything for the front — everything for victory!”\nIn that hard time a journey was called evacuation. My grandmother, remaining in the family home with two teenage girls (Mama also had a sister, Vera, who was 12), firmly decided to stay and evacuate only if the Army was retreating. Mama began working at the post office at Yaroslavsky Station in Moscow.\nAround the clock, 24 hours at work, a teenager, with a short break for sleep in a paper sack, and back to the conveyor, to sorting — don’t sleep! Don’t sleep! Don’t sleep! The boss yelled only in swear words. It was dangerous: the sorting machine could pull in a hand if you fell asleep\u0026hellip; Work for a food ration card.\nAnd at home? A kerosene stove that had to be filled with kerosene, which had to be brought somehow — carried; a stove that had to be lit with something, and soup or porridge cooked from something. I think now: and if there was nothing in the house? And water still to be fetched from the well\u0026hellip; Grandmother also worked at a factory. How much of all this fell on my mama? And what to wear?\nMama had a cousin, Genka, the same age as Mama. He worked at a plant where they made cartridges. It happened that there was no driver to deliver a load to Moscow. And Genka took the driver’s license of his father, who had died at the front, and sat behind the wheel of a truck. At the checkpoint they checked the documents, let him through, but the duty officer said “don’t do that again.”\nGenka asked to go to the front when he was 17. He was a tankman, reached Germany. And then his compulsory service in the Soviet Army began — three years in liberated Germany. Handsome, young, athletic, talented. He fell in love with a German woman, Lucia. An irreparable misfortune for a Soviet soldier — to fall in love with a German woman.\nOnce he was on leave with a comrade; they “had a bit to drink.” His comrade hassled a German and took his wristwatch. The German came to the military unit, complained, identified the comrade, and Genka went before a tribunal as an accomplice. They gave him 10 years in the camps.\nI don’t know whether he served the full term or was amnestied, but at that time he could not return home to the Moscow region, only to “the 101st kilometre” from Moscow. Those were the laws. And Lucia gave birth to a son he never saw\u0026hellip;\nWhen the war ended, Mama was already 18. She wanted to study! But there was no way to enter a technical school — she had no certificate. She had to go to the school for working youth. Work by day, study in the evening. She wanted to eat and sleep; she had to study and work to help her parents rebuild the house.\nAfter finishing school, Mama, on her parents’ advice, applied to the Moscow Technical School of Light Industry, to the faculty of design and sewing of outerwear. In short, they taught sewing and cutting. At that time it was considered a good profession, which guaranteed earnings for “a piece of bread,” as they said then.\nIn those days, after finishing an educational institution, there was so-called compulsory assignment — a posting to work at an enterprise or institution. Mama had a choice: a Moscow factory sewing fur articles, or a factory sewing underwear in the city of Blagoveshchensk, in the Far East.\nAnd my mama set off on a romantic journey by train across the boundless expanses of our Motherland, 10 days on the road!!! Through all the time zones! Mama always recalls it as something incredible! The sensation of day and night! You don’t have time to adjust to the time. And also the fellow passengers\u0026hellip; one young officer offered her “his hand and heart.” He too was going on assignment to a military unit.\nAt that time it was hard for officers to serve in a unit and be without a family. And many tried, after graduating from military school, to get married quickly. She always laughs when she tells this episode\u0026hellip; All the same she reached Blagoveshchensk and became a shift supervisor.\nAnd at the factory the staff was entirely female. And when they worked the evening shift, they would run to her for a headache tablet. She was in charge of the first-aid kit. At some point the “headache” tablets ran out, and she decided to consult an older employee: “I don’t know what to do, the headache tablets have run out.” And she said: “If they ask, give the one that’s in the kit.” Well, Mama did just that! The main thing is that she didn’t harm anyone.\nBlagoveshchensk at that time was “terrible backwoods.” She went to the theatre — the public in boots, felt boots, padded jackets. At the dances, no other options either. But there was no desire to quit and leave. She didn’t want to go back to her parents in an unfinished house.\nTo be continued\u0026hellip;.\n","permalink":"https://irina.myrvold.blog/en/posts/20180422/","summary":"\u003cp\u003eIt just occurred to me that I wanted to begin Mama’s travels with airplanes — but no! Mama’s first journeys were short, but hard. She was born in the near Moscow region, in a place well known to many today, in the settlement of Bolshevo. And of course her first trips were to Moscow, to the theatre. That was rare, but very festive.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd then the war began\u0026hellip;.. And Mama’s childhood ended. She was 14 years old; her father went to the front as a volunteer. Sergei Sergeyevich Dorofeev was 40. Only quite recently did I think about the age of my grandfather, who went through the whole war — really went through it, and in the song they sang “we crawled all of Europe on our bellies.” He did not like to talk about the war.\u003c/p\u003e","title":"Amazing stories about my mama"}]