Tipsy, headed down the stairwell, meeting a passel of Swedes coming up the stairwell, confused, asking half-rhetorically och på svenska: how do we get out? --and the brain offers up only some hybrid Icelando-Norwegian: beint ááá ... ahh ... fram og svo (så?) til høyre ... and I wave one hand in a manner meant to clarify but conveying, too, my own internal disorientation.
The phrase halts and skips, the whole thing judders and squeaks out of me like the steam coming up through the pipes in the wee hours last night. It had jerked me awake again and again, first steam of the autumn, interrupting my dreams even as it soothed, invoking the memory of the restless old radiators of the house of childhood.
Do not ask me how to get to that place either -- the directions would be even less clear.
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I had the same thing happen this week. Except it was someone speaking to me in English that threw me.
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