Laughing with pigs
It’s 1973 and I’m breathless with
life hitching a lift in Norway
it’s dusk going on evening and
a truck stops to pick me up
we chat with my newly learned Norsk
a real conversation, I’m feeling fluent
the truck driver is happy to chat
a friendly bloke with no English
I ask him what he’s carrying in the back
of his truck but he has no words so
he pulls over, stops the truck and
we get out to look at his pigs
I’m riding in a truck that is loaded with
pigs… pigs, I say, pigs and he says griser
back and forth, pigs, griser, pigs
he slaps his thigh with one hand laughing
back and forth, pigs, griser, pigs, griser
all the way back to my hotel where I work
loving this shared hilarity of new words
feeling fluent, pigs, pigs are griser
He drops me off, and we wave goodbye
like old friends and it’s barely a week later
one evening in the bar when I learn that
pigs with a Kiwi accent sounds like
a Norsk word for male genitalia
my affection for the truck driver
is renewed… no sly slant, just
genuine laughter and a lift home
If this was Netflix, I’d be dead by now
a curious half hour 
Haha – love this Maggie. Very funny and clever 🙂
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Yes, I still think of that lovely chap with great affection.
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Thanks, Trish. xx
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So good. We need this story of a kind and innocent man.
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Yes, one of the many I met in the 70’s. I think my own innocence attracted an innocence if you know what I mean.
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I know exactly what you mean.
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Lovely story Maggie
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Thanks, Janet. xx
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Your writing is a tonic on a miserable Sunday here in the Bay.
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Kia ora, Suzanne. Thank you for stopping by to read! Welly is behaving like the Riviera this week, but we’ve waited a long time for summer to arrive.
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Kia Ora, Maggie. Good to hear you’re now having a warm summer.
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