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Success, Failure...some of my greatest failures have been a springboard to my greatest successes...the terms are truly fluid.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Cracking the Shell of Translation



     Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you have experienced Fava Bean time in the small Abruzzo town I am in right now. Perhaps it is this way all over Italy but all I can tell you about is what I now know and this place sure makes the Bean harvest fun!



     Sabato, Saturday, we got home in time to hear the party firing up its audio equipment. We opted for dinner with Stefano and Gabriel and missed the dancing and merriment that rattles on over the loud speakers. As I went to sleep after 10,30 at night, they were still partying so loud that each and every word was clear as a bell in the bedroom that I was in.



     I tried to write but most of my brain was also trying to translate the river of beautiful Italian words pouring through the microphone. I know I am hopelessly addicted to translation. My whole life I have eagerly, desperately and naturally translated words. If the words were my own language, I do remember trying to figure out what they used to mean, and where they came from in the olden days.



     Living in the Abruzzo has been amazing for my translation sensors. These receptors in me are going wild. It is as if they are on overdrive and persist in adding more and more layers to my knowledge of Italian. Now I want to try adding in posts in Italian, for my Italian friends…



     As I write this though, I am also infatuated and fascinated by these beans that are everywhere…piled at all the tables. Fava fresca are at every meal out we have attended. Most of them were jus picked from a field the same day they are at the table. They are so fresh and earthy that eating them, feels like eating with your heart, not your mouth.



     I don’ recall ever seeing a fresh fava bean in my life. I never remember breaking is outer shell and digging out the plump beauties tucked safely inside…and I come from the land of fresh from the field vegetables, California. In California we have a huge population of Italians, (San Francisco’s North Beach zone comes to mind), and you would think that I should have been raised near fresh fava beans or had them through the multitude of Farmer’s Markets that I have attended over the years…but, no. I honestly do not recall ever having a fava bean that didn’t come from a can.



    For some reason my obsession with fava beans and my obsession with contact and communication in other languages now seem cemented to my personality. I have now opened up a door within that was not there before understanding more Italian then ever before. I like who I ma because of it.



     Language has always cut to the core of my interests. I have always been fascinated by languages ancient and modern. As a child I recall thinking of the foreign cultures and languages around the world as codes to be cracked.



     Everything makes sense once you crack the code….just like cracking the fava bean’s shell to get to the tasty bean inside. Going through a little effort is worth it in the long run.

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