My Sumtimes Life

Making Much Water

sparrows — Wed, 9 Mar 2011 12:36:00 GMT

He appeared as though a mirage. I first noticed him as a blue figure in the distance, clearly a fellow pilgrim as no locals walked this stretch of road. The gravel path, scratched out of the edge of a farmers field, paralleled the highway leading into Sahagun. It was a wet, splashy, dreary day and I was cold. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the rain, sitting in a nice warm cafe with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of ColaCao (cheap hot chocolate powder.) These warm thoughts were broken by the movement of the man in blue. He had paused and turned back to look my way. The motion took only a second but it was enough to break me of my thoughts. As I walked on the figure paused two more times, each time seeming to mark my location. This simple act made me feel safe, protected even. I liked knowing that someone was looking out for me, encouraging me to press forward on this rainy day. As I entered a bend in the path I lost site of my distant pilgrim. A sudden wave of panic flooded over me and I picked up the pace in hopes of seeing my emotional safety blanket on the horizon once again. As I cleared the bend there he was, not 1/4 km in front of me, peeing into the bushes on the roadside, with little shelter from the eyes of passing cars. I stopped walking and looked away, trying to grant some semblance of privacy. As I waited for him to finish, I laughed at myself as I realized that the pilgrim I heralded as watching over me was in reality just timing my distance so he could go to the bathroom. He finishes and walks on with me not too far behind.
I catch up to him, my pilgrim stranger, in about 10 minutes. We smile, say hola, and walk on together in silence. We walk together this way, neither saying anything for about an hour, when suddenly a eerie sounding moan escapes from my pilgrim and he races, doubled over at the waist, into the bushes once again. From the bushes I hear the sounds of someone suffering from "pilgrims revenge". I move away to grant him some privacy, but I opt not to press on in case he turns out to be seriously ill. After a long time, he emerges from the bushes, pale and clammy. I hand him some of my water and a hanky.
"Merci", he says and smiles weakly.
"You ok?", I ask.
"Not ok, but walk now", he says in thick French accent.
We walk on.
Ten minutes later, another moan, followed by another bolt into the bushes. Again, I wait to offer water and a hanky. This routine continues for another 5km. Each time a moan, a mad dash, the sound of a backpack hitting the earth and a buckle being undone.
He emerges yet again from the bushes. He obviously feels embarrassed and tries to explain.
"My stomach makes much water."
"I know", I say with a laugh. "You ok to keep walking?"
"Not ok, but we keep walk."
Eventually, we reach Sahagun. He says he will stop at the alburgue (pilgrim hostel) and he points to his stomach. I smile, offer a hug and my last hanky and I walk on.
I reach my destination of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos as the sun was setting and a early evening storm was threatening to break. I meet up with some pilgrim friends at the alburgue and I ask if any of them were feeling ill. All of them recount some type of stomach ailment and we conclude it must have been the food from the alburge the previous night.
The next morning, I begin walking to Leon, a mere 20km away. After about 8km a sharp pain grips my abdomen and I launch into the bushes. I emerge pale and clammy with my Frenchman pilgrim from the previous day standing before me.
"Your stomach make much water", he says with a smile.
"Yes it does", I manage to respond, as he hands me some water and a hanky.
"You ok?", he asks.
"Not ok, but we walk", I say, as I shrug into my backback.
We walk on this way for another day, our roles reveresed.
And so it was that an unknown American and an unknown Frenchman walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela together for two days, each taking turns making too much water and offering a hanky

Scrambled Egg On the Onion, Turkish Honey and Other Mistranslations

sparrows — Tue, 8 Mar 2011 12:45:00 GMT

The small menu placard sandwiched between the salt and peppers shakers and the napkin holder proved to be an interesting read. We were in Prague at one of the cheaper hostel/hotels carpeting the city. They provided meal service at a small cafe adjacent to the hostel and armed with our discount meal coupon we decided to maximize our budget by eating cheap. I picked up the small menu with the words, "Breakfast Options" blazoned across the top. My eyes scanned the various selections before settling on "Scrambled Egg on the Onion".

"What?", I said aloud as I read the entry again. "Jochen, does that really say, "Scrambled Egg ON the Onion"?"

Jochen took the sign and read to where I was pointing. He nodded his head and laughed and said, "Yeah, that says Scrambled Egg on the Onion."

We immediately began trying to decode this translation. Was it merely a typo and meant to read scrambled egg with onion? Or if it was an accurate translation would I, if I dared to order it, really be served a whole onion topped with one scrambled egg? Was the onion cooked, we wondered? Was the onion chopped and sauteed before the egg being placed on top or was it just scrambled eggs with sauteed onions mixed in?

We read the rest of the breakfast card searching for clues that would unravel the mystery of this translation. To our surprise we noticed that the other translations were seemingly accurate. The menu items read, "Scrambled Eggs WITH Bacon", "Scrambled Eggs WITH Toast". Not ON Bacon or ON Toast but WITH. Therefore, how could the translation for Scrambled Egg On the Onion be wrong? Obviously, whoever translated the menu items knew on from with. Even the German translation on the card read "on" and not "with". Jochen and I were stumped. We had no choice. We had to order the Number 4: Scrambed Egg On the Onion, please. Yes, two of them. Thank you.

We shouldn't have been surprised but we were. Ten minutes later our waitress returned and set two big plates in front of us. There, in the center of each plate was a large fried onion on top of which was indeed scrambled eggs and some type of red sauce. It was something akin to one of those blooming onions served at the "Outback Steak House" except it had eggs on it. I reckoned it couldn't be that bad. I mean I liked onions and eggs so I grabbed a fork and tucked in to my meal. Bad idea. Bad idea. Very bad idea. It's hard to describe the flavor that emanated from that concoction but it was nothing my tastebuds were prepared for. My mind had prepared my flavor buds to eat an onion and eggs, two flavors that I have tasted many times before, two textures that have crossed my palate at least once each week for the past 34 years. This was nothing like that. It tasted like....like....like an onion milkshake with Sarachi sauce added for good measure. I pushed the plate away, gulped down my coffee, and vowed never to go cheap on the eggs again. Check please? Thanks, no I don't want that to go.

This was not to be the last of my encounters with translation faux pas on my travels through Europe. A mere two days after the Scrambled Egg on the Onion episode, I found myself spitting my non-fizzy water into the sleeve of my sweater when Jochen, at the wheel of our green, road trippin, Skoda automobile, turned to me and said, "Can I have some of your Turkish Honey?"

Pppfffttt, was the sound the water made as it hit the glove box in front of me. "Excuse me", I said as I gave Jochen a very curious look mixed with laughter.

"What?", he said. "I just want some of your Turkish Honey."

"I know what you said but don't you have a girlfriend for that?" I argued back.

After a second in which confusion passed over Jochen's face, he began laughing and said, "Annie, I want some of the candy you bought at the store. What do you call it?" and he pointed to the little compartment in the passenger side door where I had put the nougat.

"Uh, we call that nougat in the states," I laughed as I pulled out the nougat and handed him a piece.

"What did you think I meant?", he asked me.

"Well, I thought you were getting frisky and that you were using the term "Turkish Honey" as a euphemism for fooling around."

Now it was Jochen's turn to almost spit out water. He just shook his head at me, laughter erupting sporadically from him as he continued to drive down the road.

We continue our road trip for two more days before arriving back at his apartment in Saarbrucken. We were making ourselves at home and unpacking our things when Jochen walks into the kitchen and says to me, "What does get your freak on mean?"

Water again spews from my mouth and my eyes fill with the tears of laughter.

"Ok, I'm done!" I say.

"What? What does this mean?"

"Jochen, where did you hear this phrase?"

"It's written on the letter enclosed with my bike parts. What does it mean?"

"Hmmm, well...."

As I stood there in front of Jochen trying to figure out how to explain what "Get Your Freak On" means I was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to be home in the states where things made sense, where things didn't need to be translated for me. But as I fumbled for a way to explain to Jochen this simple phrase I realized that I was at a loss for a translation. In fact, I needed my own slang dictionary/thesaurus to decipher the correct meaning. Maybe the linguistic errors encountered on my travels were not isolated to travelling outside the U.S. but instead a part of my everyday life experiences, in which I translate for myself the meaning of words, things, actions, etc. Maybe, just maybe, Scrambled Egg on the Onion, Turkish Honey and Get Your Freak On were subject to individual interpretation. Or maybe not....

Photos: Camino de Santiago

sparrows — Tue, 8 Mar 2011 12:41:00 GMT

A footpath across Spain