The Art of Translation

15 December, 13

My neighbor, Juan, is a native Alberceñan. He knows everything about this area, almost as well as Julio, but not quite. He has been telling me about several wineries in Murcia, in an area called Jumilla. Spain has a great reputation for wines, especially in Rioja and Ribera del Duero, so I was eager to check it out. We were supposed to go last Friday, but he asked if I could come over to his house to help him with something else first. So of course I was happy to oblige.

It turns out his aunt is a very well-respected art restorer. She is currently working on a Diego Velázquez portrait of King Felipe IV, of Spain, dating from 1623. A museum in Australia is looking to buy it for $1,500,000. She sent a proposal to them for completing the restoration, including an English translation. They sent the proposal back, saying the translation stunk. That's where I came into the picture.

Juan showed me what had been previously sent, and I was shocked. It was awful. Evidently, nobody is available in all of Spain to translate documents.

Juan and I sat at his computer and reworked the entire proposal. I started with Google Translate as an easy way to establish a foundation. Then I refined it, so that it would make sense. The biggest problem was in describing some very technical aspects of art, about which, I know nothing.

For example, the proposal included a description of x-rays and chemical analysis already performed on the painting, as a way of verifying its authenticity. The English translation said the first coat on the canvas was dirt and carbon. Maybe that is true, but I don't think so. We added some real technical sounding words, like organic soil compound.

If the picture ends up selling, I am looking for a 10% cut. We'll see.

I have also edited a friend's webpage. He has a very successful multi-national sign business, but his English version web page stunk. It took me about 20 minutes.

It is amazing to me how prevalent this problem is. I am starting to see opportunity...

Making Migas, Part II

15 October, 13

Making migas ended at 2PM, but we still had 13 hours to go in our Saturday festivities. We left the back alley and headed over to another section of town, where some guys were working over a grill. They were making their own charcoal out of a big olive stump, transferring the hot coals from the fire pit to the grills, one shovel load at a time. That got me fired up. I love to see pros at work. It was just too busy for me to get in there with them, especially since I still can't communicate clearly enough. Maybe next year...

Susan and I ate bocadillos, with fresh grilled pork. They also had morcillas. Remember those blood sausage things? People were paying for them. One Euro for a sandwich and a cup of beer. People were lined up eight deep, like the concessions stand at halftime of a Clemson/Carolina football game.

The Pit Boss

The beginning shows the olive stump. They would transfer the coals to the grills as needed.

After we finished our bocadillos, Susan and I headed back to Plaza Casino to meet up with Julio, Toñi and Santi, one of their friends. We had tapas and cervezas, and our girls ate real hamburgers, which was a treat for them, since that is not too common here. We stayed there for an hour or so, then headed off to Carlos and Soledad's house.

It just so happens that Carlos, husband of Soledad, was returning from Colombia, after working there for 3 months. You might remember Soledad from Teaching English in Spain. She's the lady that almost burned down the house.

Since Carlos had been gone so long, of course Soledad wanted to have a party in his honor. It reminded me of home. Back in Pinehurst, NC we have a lot of military families associated with the Special Forces. These guys go on "trips" about 4 times a year for 3-4 months at a time. I have gotten to know several of them over the last 15 years, and I can tell you that what they really want when they first get back is a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Their families, however, want to celebrate them and the fact that they made it back alive. Who can blame them? So Sgt. Army puts on the brave face and makes one more little sacrifice for his country. They really are amazing. I keep saying I want to be like them when I grow up, but I am older than any of the soldiers. At my age, they are retiring from the Army, mostly worn out and busted up, like professional football players. We just don't realize how big a toll war takes on our soldiers. Regardless of your politics, they deserve our praise and adoration.

So Carlos got home from Colombia, which has a 6 hour time difference with La Alberca. That spells jet lag, but hey, sometimes you just gotta suck it up and party. What should we eat? How about migas? Well by now, I am a miga-making expert, seeing as how I just helped make the best dang pan of the stuff you ever laid eyes on. Carlos and some of the guys were huddled around the pan, so I chest-bumped my way into the action. I know how to stir dough into little bitty pieces.

We got the mix all ready for the salchicha and then transferred the pan to a little three-legged stand in the middle of several chairs. Soledad handed everybody a spoon, and we commenced to eating.

Toñi was the life of the party. I couldn't understand most of what she said, but it was funny just to watch.

I think she was either telling a fishing story or doing the Macarena.

Migas has its origin out in the field with shepherds. They would start with stale bread and olive oil. Everything had to be cooked in a single pan, because they couldn't tote a whole kitchen's worth of pots and pans. When it was ready, all the shepherds ate together, family style. No plates or napkins required. So that's exactly what we did, and it was great.

Everybody just sat around outside, eating migas, drinking a little vino tinto, and chatting the night away, while the kids ran around in and out of the house. After everybody was done, we went through a round of cafe solo. Then we went through a round of after dinner drinks. Then we moved to the picnic table, and most everybody opted for cerveza. Then...these Spaniards just keep going! Except Carlos, who was passed out in the hammock. His body clock was all screwed up.

We finally left Carlos and Soledad's house at 3:30AM, absolutely worn out from a day of relaxation.

Making Migas

14 October, 13

Saturday was a big day around here. I guess when your country has been around for a couple thousand years, your calendar is pretty well booked up with big events. October 12 is a good example. It is significant for us too. This is the day Columbus landed in the New World.

Really Spaniards don't need much incentive to go out and have a good time. This is a pretty amiable bunch. Perhaps it was different when they were a world power, and therefore responsible for everybody else's welfare. It's hard to have a good time with that much responsibility on your shoulders.

The morning started off with more of those infernal fireworks. I finally saw the guy lighting them off and offered, in English, to give him a nice knuckle sandwich. Sometimes it's good to be in a country that only speaks Spanish. A big crowd had gathered near Plaza Casino for the Migas Cookoff. In the South, we would be cooking Barbecue. Here they cook migas. I have a link for the recipe.

The basic ingredients for migas are flour and elbow grease. You have to constantly stir and mix the dough with oil over low heat for about an hour, before it has the right consistency. It reminds me of stuffing. Not dressing, which is a little wetter, the best example of which was at Johnson's Restaurant in Hartsville, SC. Once the dough mix is almost granular, you add the chorizo, ajo, cebollas and pimientos. Now you're talking.

One thing I have learned about cookoffs is that they are usually done by men. I'm not sure why that is. Somehow we think it's fun to get up really early and cook for big crowds, but not on a daily basis for our families.

Susan and I walked up and down the alley, looking at each contestant's mixture. At a BBQ cookoff, you can start a conversation with the guys, asking them about their recipes, their smokers, prep ideas, etc. I love doing this, mostly because you almost always end up getting free samples of Barbecue. I can't really ask these Spanish fellas what is going on, because they all respond in Spanish, which makes it difficult to segue to the free samples part. Then I found a way.

I spotted a man and woman working over their burner, stirring the migas. They didn't have a big crowd helping, so I started asking about ingredients. They seemed congenial enough, so I asked if I could help. Claro! (Of course). I grabbed a wooden spoon and commenced to stirring and chopping and flopping the dough over and over and over again, getting it down from a big lump to those little pieces of heaven. We were working pretty hard, so the guy picked up the wine bottle and offered me a drink. We don't use glasses around here for that kind of stuff. They had a little bamboo spile stuck in the bottle, and you just turned it up, Redneck style. Free samples baby.

Then Granny got in the act. She took a look at our mix and decided it was a failure, so she brought out another pan, took half of what we had and started over. Nobody argued with Granny. She got over that fire and started whipping those migas into shape. Another 30 minutes or so, more vino tinto, and we got ourselves a batch of migas! Here's the interesting part. They add grapes or pomegranates on the side. The migas is more on the dry and savory side, so the grapes and pomegranates add sweet and liquid. It was delicioso!

We start serving up plates to whoever was standing close by and celebrated with more vino tinto.

Not a bad way to start our day. That only gets us to about 2PM. I'll need to post another blog to get us through the rest of the day.

Dino con vino

Granny is large and in charge.

Stop Hunger Now!

I Like Women

10 October, 13

I was recently introduced to Padel. Now I had a lot of "paddle" in my childhood, due to my incorrigible behavior, but this is different, namely because I get to hold the paddle.

Julio's employee and cousin's wife, Alicia, invited us to play doubles. Padel is a cross between handball and tennis. The racket is a little shorter, the ball is a little heavier, and you can hit it against the walls. Alicia is a beast at Padel. We played with 3 guys and Alicia, and the guys took turns being on Alicia's team, so we could all feel what it was like to win. Her team never lost more than 2 games in a set. 6-0, 6-1, 6-2. It was a beat down. I have a linebacker mind and a kicker body, which means I hate to lose, but I can't do anything about it. Frustrating.

The whole experience put me in a contemplative mood, especially regarding women. I have come to the studied conclusion that I like women, especially really strong ones. Not Helga, the East German body-builder,

but the kind that never sink in the storms of life. If the Titanic was a man, then the lifeboats that saved everybody were women. In that case, there weren't enough women on board.

I didn't realize how strong my mama was until just a few years ago, as I watched her deal with divorce, a cancer scare, financial uncertainty and death. Those are some pretty rough waters to navigate, but her lifeboat never sank.

My sister, Becky, is another example. She has, or I should say had, a great fear of crowds, because she didn't know their names and thought everybody else did. By the way, I probably don't remember your name, so when I say something like, "Friend of mine!" or "Hey Bubba", just say, "My name is ____". Naturally, Becky shriveled up into a corner right? No, not exactly.

She went to Clemson and joined a business fraternity (co-ed), called Delta Sigma Pi, and became its president. After college she became president of the local Rotary Club. She has also started a successful construction business, raised record amounts of money for the Governor's School for Science and Math and now designs and builds robots. And she's a damn good tennis player to boot. Becky has crashed against the rocks of fear, anti-woman bias at the workplace and a host of other things, but her lifeboat never sinks.

My mother-in-law, Joyce has certainly weathered a few storms. She is a caretaker. For everybody. I have known her since 1992, and she has been taking care of somebody, a lot of somebody's, the whole time. She doesn't ask for anything. She doesn't want recognition. Joyce just brings people home.

My wife, Susan. WHEW! My wife, Susan. That woman is made of some stiff stuff. I know because I have put her through some hurricanes. At one point in our marriage, we faced complete financial ruin, because I was an idiot. I came to her, right in the eye of the storm, and apologized for the mess I had made, and she said, "No. We got into this together. We will get out of this together." I clung desperately to the sides of that lifeboat, until we reached a safe harbor.

I have come to realize a few things.

1. Strong women are not born. They are fashioned by the storms of life.
2. Strong women do not seek adversity, but they will not be overcome by it, when it arrives.
3. Strong women are strong enough for themselves and others, and that is a great burden.

My girls are traveling right now through what seems to them to be gale-force winds. Moving away from friends and family. Learning a new language. Going to school in a foreign country. Eating weird stuff. Making new friends.

Their boats are strong. They come from a long line of life boats. When the big storms come, many people will be floating safely to harbor. I hurt for my girls, but I am so proud of what they are becoming. Strong women.