Os muçulmanos no meu jardim. Fiquei alguns dias fora do ar porque troquei de computador e fui pega pelo misterioso bloqueio de todos os sites blogspot pelo Speedy Telefônica. Muito estranho. Fiquei uma semana sem conseguir acessar nenhum blog, inclusive este aqui. Hoje liguei cheia de brios para reclamar, já com o número de reclamações da Anatel em punho (anotem aí 0800 33 2001) para engatar a segunda rodada. A atendente do Speedy primeiro se fez de desinformada, apesar de metade da internet brasileira estar espumando com a história, mas duas horas depois, eis que consigo novamente visitar os blogs sediados no domínio blogspot.

Dias sem computador, dias de muçulmanos no meu jardim. A Mina vai se interessar por esta situação totalmente inédita aqui no bairro.

Na quinta-feira passada instalou-se aqui na praça, um grupo de peregrinos muçulmanos, com barracas high-tech tipo North Face, fogareiro, djelebas e o escambau. São uns cinco homens pelo menos. Construíram um banheirinho perto da boca de lobo, para a bosta ir embora, imagino (o meu quase nulo conhecimento de redes de água me diz que jogar bosta na rede de águas pluviais é péssimo). Diziam que iam embora na segunda (anteontem). Só que fui perguntar agora (ontem) e os muçulmanos, que são hermaníssimos, me responderam com um quizas manana...e se desse uma bobeada o barba-branca chefe ainda queria me dar aquela doutrinada na via do Islã (que conoce usted sobre los muzulmanes)? Agora mañana já chegou e nem sinal de eles arredarem o pé.

Não ligo muito pros carroceiros nem pros maconheiros que usam a praça. Mas nem esses nem aqueles se aboletam com barraca e tudo mais. O que devo fazer? Chamo a polícia?

Hesito, porque apesar de tudo, são homens de Deus, não quero me desentender com Alá nem agir como porteira de cidade murada. O fato é que quando me perguntaram, "pero que le molestamos nosotros", não tenho resposta. Eles ficam lá, com seus tapetinhos, orando para Meca, não fazem barulho, parece que nem saem para fazer pregação. Dizem que estão viajando e que decidiram passar uns dias lá.

Por outro lado, fico pensando. Se eu decidisse ir acampar no Hyde Park ou no Englischer Garten, quantos milésimos de segundo iria demorar até um policial me escorraçar de lá?

Em busca de orientação, consulto os amigos. O Colin que anda totalmente neuras com essa coisa de violência policial, diz que vou penar no inferno muçulmano o resto da eternidade se a Rota vier chacinar os peregrinos. E o Tomás repete a pergunta do Barba. En qué te molestan ellos, afinal? e diz para eu não me preocupar "não há 'rede de águas pluviais' em São Paulo. Vai tudo para o mesmo lugar et ergo propter hoc é tudo a mesma bosta".

Update: Cantei vitória antes do tempo. De umas 3 horas para cá voltou a zica do blogspost para assinantes Speedy. Não acesso mais nenhum site blogspot, só usando um URL unblocker, haja.

A cobra vai fumar. Today while searching for lacraias (just stubbed a lacraia, aka piolho de cobra, to death as it zigzaged across my living room) I found some interesting info on the Brazilian expression a cobra vai fumar Dicionário Informal:

"A cobra vai fumar é um termo que se começou a ser usado na primeira guerra mundial. Quando se falou em querra mundial, aqui, nenhum brasileiro acreditou que o Brasil entraria na guerra, e alguns começaram a falar que que era mais facil uma cobra fumar cachimbo, do que o Brasil entrar na guerra... Mas como entraram, mostraram que todos que quando "o bicho pega" ou "a cobra fuma" todos se submetem ao improvável. Inclusive, o Brasil usou (como símbolo) a cobra fumando cachimbo na guerra!
O símbolo da FEB era a "cobra fumando" pois Getúlio havia dito:
-"É mais fácil uma cobra fumar do que o Brasil entrar na Guerra."

From Wikipedia (which I edited, by the way):
It is often said that, being questioned about the possibilities of a Brazilian Expeditionary Force entering the war against the Axis, Hitler Getúlio Vargas was reported to have said that "snakes will start smoking pipes before Brazil joins the allies enters the war".[citation needed] As a result of this tale, the Brazilian Expeditionaries called themselves Cobras Fumantes (literally, Smoking Snakes) and wore a divisional shoulder patch which showed a snake smoking a pipe.

Up to this day, the expression "a cobra vai fumar" (Portuguese for "the snake is going to smoke") is often used in Brazil in a context similar to "something wicked this way comes".

I suddenly realise that several of my recent posts are nicotine-infused (Gainsbourg, the smoking hand and now this one) and that is probably because I've been trying to quit with no success so far...

PS. Tomorrow I will have to go back to this post because a little research on this phrase indicates that it was not something Getúlio said, it seems it was a widespread phrase generally used by skeptics, people who could not fathom Brazil going to war in Europe.

Trying to quit. I started today, feeling a bit hungover after a couple of wine bottles with my girlfriends last night. So far no cravings. Let's see when the rest of the alcohol evaporates. Don't you love that gesturing hand, holding a cigarrete on this no smoking sign? Got to get back to my cows now. Mu.

La Collectioneuse. I've started a new collection today. The first item is an ultra vintage, customized and polka-dot-rimmed teacup and saucer from the very traditional hotel I working at today. Interpreting can be more fun than shoplifting. But... Remember Winona!

The Web has been doing its brisk proliferation and information sharing thing just fine without me but as you probably know I have been absent. Reason? My apartment is being renovated with the inhabitants inside (2 women a girl and a hamster). Dust particulates flying everywhere, soiled leather scarpins de rigueur. It's going to be a full revamp. So far we've built a home theater in the living room, with the shelves decorated with lovely Ibiza-style tiles. Now I got plenty of room for the books that were being piled up literally on the floor for lack of space. Next, shelves, more shelves, in my bedroom this time. I also got dimmers installed in the living room and my fireplace painted white. Hmm, where is my digital camera? Does acrylic paint cathc fire? By the time the renovators reach the bathroom I will have collapsed with a nervous breakdown.

I've become a moronic decorette of sorts and all I can think about is wide plank floors, paint colors, wallpaper, teak furniture and bathtubs. I don't know what's wrong with me but now I obsess about pinho de riga (the most beautiful wood ever milled). I've also been doing my rounds on the Internet, trying unsucessfully to find door models from here yonder and yesteryear. Zilch.

Every free moment I have and there haven't been many with agencies from Singapore to Ribeirão Preto trying to bury my decorating mania under tons of words, anyhow, any free moment I have is spent contemplating the posh lamp stores that are too expensive to even dream of or the JAF junkyard looking for architectural ornaments and especially that ellusive antique door made with wood over 100 years old. ( I will settle for 80 years old).

It's all about the fetish of grand homes, I know. But a girl has got to have some fun after interpreting words such as bolus, teratogenic (no idea how to spell) and aguarrás (mineral spirits! I remembered that one! hooray)

São Paulo is freezing cold and humid tonight (translation 14C on the tropical thermometer). I would really love to light up the fireplace...I will keep the world posted if the acrylic paint catches fire.

Sidenote to my faithful readers: while I satisfy my monomania, could you please help me find the following Web object:

- Tu t'laisses aller MP3 - Charles Aznavour song featured in A Woman is a Woman

Minor obsessions still flourish...

L' Infamme Une Femme Takes Temporary Leave. Vacation time, time to catch up with all the movies I never have time to watch. Here are some of the films I saw this week.

A Woman is a Woman

Yes, it's terribly passé and obnoxious, but I always like Godard.



It's really a shame this movie didn't make it to the Oscar.



In all truth, the third movie I watched was Looking for Nemo, but this poster is infinitely more beautiful, isn't it? The Corcovado Cowboy, also known as the Hairy Hungarian, bought a lovely painting appropriating this design last Saturday. We were walking around the busy Benedito Calixto antique fair and then had lunch at the Goethe Institut café. Side comment: I don't want to offend my German readers, but German food, at least of the kind one can find in Brazilian German restaurants, is really quite bland, isn't it? One would think that such a monumental culture would fare better in the pots and pans department.

My Liebeschaft with the Hairy Hungarian, born in Tübingen and raised in München, proceeds as the most peaceful interregnum in my ever tumultous love life. Salsicha alemã na feijoada dá certo! We developed pictures of our trip to S. Francisco Xavier and for the first time in ages, or at least, for the first time since I ditched the Giant Jalapeno for good, my face looked youthful and carefree. It is slightly bogus to leave my HH for two weeks.

Tomorrow I am flying to San Jose via Dallas. I have yet to call the pediatrician to ask what mild sedative I can use to drug the little mermie for the long trip. Yes, shocking, but I still remember the flight attendants of my San Francisco flight pointing at us and going tsk tsk after we landed, after Sofia barely missing bringing down the flight with the mess and fuss she made.

The plan is to stay one week with Sofia's grandparents in Prunedale, check out the California Rodeo (yeehaaw) and then spend the other week in Santa Cruz. I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to going to Santa Cruz, visiting my favorite bookstores, walking in Capitola Village and stuffing myself with tofu mayo at the Staff of Life coffeshop.

I've decided not to take my laptop with me so I can buy a new one. I don't know if my mailbox at UOL accumulate all the spam I receive daily without bursting out at the seams. We'll see.

My real estate odyssey continues. After almost two months of bogurific negotiations with two owners I still haven't bought an apartment at the highly coveted Marquês de Valença building. It's unfuckingbelievable how jinxed my life has become as far my property-owning ambitions go. There are time when I really feel like throwing the towel and settle for renovating my own apartment with pergo white pine floors, pastilhas de vidrotil e outras viadices.

Persistence. The HH says. Deep sigh. Let's focus on merrier things.

You know what's really great about taking a vacation? The fact that you don't have to work and can jump headlong in the Lord of the Rings, that is, after you're done telling the 15 stories in Historinhas de Contar, which is one of the most delightful books I've ever had the pleasure of telling to my little Mermie.

While I am gone, make sure you visit my quasi-updated blogroll, to your left. Also, there are some new linguablogs on the block, I've heard.

Well, a girl has got to make a living...Get your Trados 6.0 through this affiliate link and earn Karmic KudoZ from the Enigmatic Mermaid.

I've tried to fix the character set problem with the help of the Ultimate Blogalizer. We're supposed to be Unicode now, but don't be surprised if it still looks like alphabet soup of a different variety.

I'm finally, officially on semi-vacations. This means that the big vacation will start around July 03 or so, when the Mermie and I will board an airplane to the US to visit her father. It's a pity to leave Brazil and my Hairy Hungarian, especially when the weather has been so beautiful and the loving so lovable. But it's part of the mom deal, I guess.

Tomorrow, the HH and I are heading to Sao Francisco Xavier for two days of frolicking in the mountains. If given enough booze I am pretty sure my Bavarian will break into yodelaying...

Habemus Laptop. Guess what? After almost a year in the repair shop waiting for a new keyboard I decided to take my laptop home, reformat it and make do with an attached keyboard. No sooner had we reformatted it the keyboard started working again. My computer guy says it was probably a virus, not the Mermaid Jr.'s water squirting practices.

I've been terribly busy for the last month or so, making an indecent amount of money, by my standards, that is. Sorry folks, blogging is on hold. Next week I will have more time to blog my silly stories of the exciting translation world. Speaking of which, have you already checked Transblawg? It's a blog specializing in English-German legal translation, by Margaret Marks.

I also loved these African barber shop signs found at Solipsistic.

On Hold. Ok, before anybody starts to wonder. Estou super ocupada por causa de uma briga tremenda que eclodiu nas listas de tradução sobre a questão da r-e-g-*-lamentação da profissão. Por enquanto não vai dar tempo de blogar mesmo. Estamos fundando uma a-s-s*-ciação de tradutores do Estado de S.Paulo. Mais notícias em breve

There is something magical about waking up early in Piracicaba and unexpectedly watch balloons flying by your window. It's even more fun if you've been in a baloon once, in another lifetime and continent. I'm terrified of heights, but there is something so majestic and dreamlike about ballons, that given another chance, I would hop into the basket at once.

Dudi Maia Rosa. I love this blog. And just to throw some confetti over my senseless head, I've been having a lot of fun posting in Portuguese at Blogalization. You should all read, I flow much better in Portuguese. What I write here costs me pains and efforts and a Gargantuan amount of editing.

And just to dull things a little, there's been a sudden reversal of fortune in the appliances department. Last Friday I bought a brand new stove to replace my 15-year old piece of junk but still operational cooker, only to see my microwave oven collapse on Tuesday after a most meritous performance in the pizza reheating department. Conclusion: now I have two stoves and no microwave oven. Consumerism, hmpf. Surely the stove-microwave conundrum would not be a problem for Daslu customers (by the way, guess who interpreted for Rebecca Mead?).

in which the merm makes a brief disappearance

Life is so Unfair. While the Globo Ocular Peludo gets to go to Bahia and drink maracujá caipirinhas I get to go to Bee City and to drink unwanted drops of strawberry juice from the Mermie's sippy-cup. She more or less freaked out when she saw all those beehives and beebuzzing exhibits. But the uterine experience of going inside the giant bee gave her a kick. Speaking of kicks, how about smuggling some Fernando Pires shoes to New York?

Pasmaceira de Começo de Ano. So the holidays came and went and I haven't been doing much except worrying about neverending bills and dwindling jobs, reading some new blogs, like Jesus me Chicoteia. The lack of work is (let's hope) a seasonal problem. However, I remember with longing the stiffling hot days of other months of January when I was bitching because I was too swamped with work to go to the beach. I guess I could use this time for massive blogging and job hunting, as well as for those errands that never get done due to lack of time and my discouragement every time I read the São Paulo traffic reports. It's so much nicer to stay inside my little shell in Oyster Complex.

Number one in the To be Postponed for an Unconscionable Period of Time is getting my Sworn Translator paperwork in order so I can begin translating school reports, birth certificates, articles of association and other deadly boring documents. So that is what I will be tackling next. I will also be benefiting from increased computer use time, now that the Hairy Hungarian has traveled back to Piracicaba, thrilled for having completed his masters thesis and for having downloaded at least 100 MP3 German rock songs (including 99 Luftballoons, so much for calling me Alte) courtesy of WinMx. I had no such luck in downloading the Goran Bregovic music I am constantly looking for.

And since I wrote more than two lines for a change, with barely any use of the CRTL-C keyboard shortcut, have I wished everyone a Happy 2003? Well, here are my belated voeux of happiness and prosperity neatly tucked in this collection of Ukranian postcards.

Then we went to the park...





where the grass is as green as it has always been.

A Inconfidência dos Lusófonos. Sim, eu sei que faz tempo que não publico nada aqui no blogue, e com boa razão: trabalho, falta de tempo, e uma preguiça ancestral de escrever em inglês. Isso explica a descarada tentativa de escrever em português, pra ver se sai alguma coisa que preste ou que pelo menos encha de curiosidade os meus 33 leitores anglófonos. Dá-lhe Google Translate.

Hoje, a intrépida intérprete que vos escreve, pegou o metrô, vestida com trajes apropriados para o calor africano que se abate sobre as ruas de São Paulo e desembarcou no Bresser para mais um dia de língua e ouvidos para que vos quero. Mentirinha de efeito não dói. Foi uma moleza, e o melhor, a minha co-cabina era a deliciosa J. Já tinhamos trabalhado juntas uma vez este ano, ocasião em que constatamos que meu santo bate com o dela. Misturar Ogum com a Federação Israelita de São Paulo pode dar certo, não duvide. Ao final, não resisti dizer que adoro o estilo dela. Sua voz levemente arrastada, de timbre metálico, tem um toque cômico. Ela tem que se cuidar para não fazer a platéia rir apesar de o palestrante não ter feito nenhuma gracinha, ou para não transformar uma piadinha esquálida em uma trovoada de gargalhadas.

Estou com pouco trabalho esta semana, o que reaviva os planos de escrever no blogue com freqüência um pouco menos bissexta, portanto fiquem ligados. Tenho também que preparar a minha apresentação como paraninfa da turma de formandos em tradução da Alumni. Essa vai ser boa, porque me sinto em crise profissional. Deus dá nozes a quem está com dor de dentes, or as Vitek put it:

"Several translators told me that they are addicted to translating. If they go cold turkey for too long (when there is no work), they feel the pain, and it is not just the usual pain connected with meager accounts receivable. I know what they mean. I think they miss the magic moment that comes from understanding the natural order of things, when, for a fleeting moment, we become a secretary of the big clockmaker, architect and translator, and take the dictation at record speed without making a single typo."

Que nominho besta hein. "Three years ago, ProZ.com announced KudoZ, the first terms help network for translators. Today, KudoZ is the leading collaboration tool for translators -- over 10,000 professionals have answered questions over 300,000 questions to date. Now, ProZ.com announces an improvement to KudoZ: KudoZ.NET."

So, it seems that Puffy was feeling a bit ambitious on the morning he baptized his desktop-based little monster. It sure raises an eyebrow. He should have called it Kudzter!

On an unrelated note: I dropped my cell phone and I think it has passed away. My house is starting to look like a cemitery of technology devices: two laptops, one printer, one Handspring handheld, one Palmtop...all dead. But look at the bright side: the paper fax machine is still working.

A Reunião das Legais. Pictured below are some of my interpreting colleagues. We got together at M's house yesterday. It was basically a house warming party, but since it was a strictly all-girls and all-interpreters meetings, it sounded a little bit like a parrot convention. We're a talkative bunch, have no doubt about it. Layla's new home is simply to die for. She found a 1940s home right by Ibirapuera Park (our tropical Bois de Bologne!) and renovated it top down, retaining the lovely plaster ceilings and expanding the kitchen to its monumental proportions, by comparison to my tiny-wee kitchen where one person has to move out if the other reaches out for the cupboard.

The end of the year and the translator meetings are beginning to pop everywhere in town. On Friday we're having the Isa Mara Lando Birthday Celebration, which is sure to attract the dingiest breed of translators, theater directors and astrologers. On Saturday, the sworn translators are getting together for lunch at Il Circolo Italiano. If we're in town, I will try to drag the Corcovado Cowboy along to meet the pink and blue hair old ladies and the stout gentlemen who've been translating birth certificates and school records since Rua Direita the most sophisticated address in São Paulo.

After the interpreters meeting (a teetotaller event by the way), Angela, Denise and I headed to Canto Madalena to meet up with the Hairy Eyeball and his Deusinha, only the gringo version of Geraldão stood us up. Too bad for him, he missed excellent shots of o Espírito de Minas and didn't witness the deluge of the Sacolão area. Canto means corner, and that's where the bar is located on a tiny corner which receives the outflow waters that come gurgling down from all the hills to the West and to the East of Vila Madalena. It's the perfect place for a gigantic puddle of water, only the thunderstorm came down so violently, that it was more like Waikiki, the cars parked on the street serving as the coral ocean floor against which tsunamis formed. If you think I exaggerate, get your eyeballs plugged on picture, taken this morning as I drove the Little Mermie to school.



At any rate, I'm slowly regaining my blogging inspiration after a two-week draft on the highlands of link-happiness. Yesterday I found at Crossroads the very promising linguablog Open Brackets, written by a fellow translator. If the author comes to this page through her referral system, here's a little something she might enjoy. And there is also Jezblog whose self-description states: Jeremy Smith lives in Paris, where he wastes time on the Internet works as a translator. Silly me, I thought the two activities were complementary, not mutually excluding.

Post-Human Blues. I know that I've been shamefully omiss in my blogging. What can I say for myself, except that I've been busy interpreting for the past two weeks and just too tired to sit at the computer. Instead of doing that, I've been resting comfortably under the ceiling fan while reading a lovely book André Aciman has kindly sent to me. Blogging does not come without its bookish rewards!

At any rate, I'm also a bit bored with the whole language thing and more interested in finding the perfect outfit for the 1970s revival party I'm going to this Saturday. Luckily, I found just what I needed, a red and white striped and shiny dress that makes me look exactly like Sônia Braga in Dama do Lotação or a stylized can of coke, take your pick.

With so much interpreting going on, I miss the translator's freedom and organized time-slacking, which allows for bountiful amounts of Web-surfing. Possibly, in addition to the pleasure of translating, I miss the inklings of post-humanity I feel when online, with the beastly smart Google ready to jump when I snap.

Also, about a week ago I received an invitation to make a short speech at the Alumni Translation Course graduation ceremony. It's so flattering! After all, only seven years ago I was a student there. The idea is to welcome the newcomers to the profession (or should I scare them off to avoid competition?). I'll speak in the capacity of translator, interpreter, translation discussion group owner, forum moderator and needless to say, sirène enigmatique. In fact, this is a timely opportunity to reflect on these roles, preferably while listening to Marianne Faithfull and brooding a little because I miss translating the written word.

Automotive Reminiscences. From Osnabrück to São Paulo, here's a childhood antic the Corcovado Cowboy and I have in common. We both rode in Karmann Ghias during most of our childhood. My mother's cobalt blue KG looked exactly like these Tourism Coupes. Getting into the the backseat of this sportscar was a lesson in acrobatics, I assure you.

The official KG site explains that Karmann Ghia opened up a factory in Brazil in the late sixties. I remember my mom drove me to school in the fine German-Brazilian automobile, way after it became totally unfashionable. It was a painful experience because I went to one of the traditional private schools the rich kids attended. You know, the sons and daughters of successful attorneys, doctors and "industrialists". The mid-seventies were times of financial strife for my family, as wigs lost their glamour and sales plummeted. I should explain perhaps that my father was a wig tycoon back then, one of the weirdest occupations a man can have. One day I should post something about the hair subculture, one of the most fascinating in existence, and the main reason why the smell of hair makes me queasy. But I digress.

So my mom had her nifty Karmann Ghia, and my dad used to drive a portly JK, in a tribute to president Juscelino Kubitschek. On the weekends, he used to take his two children and wife for long day trips in the São Paulo countryside. Being stuck for a whole day in the old car with my parents was pure torture, for even if it was a more spacious than the KG, the drive to school was short and the paranoia of being spotted by somebody else in a hideous vehicle was short-lived. Pre-teens are silly, but parents are even stupider for not realising that when a kid is 12 years old, she should be left alone to read Anna Karenina or to sulk the whole day in front of the TV, instead of being dragged to sniff the fresh air and gulp down roasted chicken with farofa in the company of their parents.

So, all this long preamble is just meant as a nibble to whet your appetite for this little morsel of uplifting automotive-inspired moralism. On one of those long trips through the country, when the JK was just about to fold under the stress of its hefty mileage, my dad hit a bump in the road, or some other unwanted contraption, and the passenger door simply fell off. Boink. So in addition to all my world-filling pre-teen angst, I had to cope with our car doorlessness in the middle of nowhere. My dad, who is as handy as a pasha and has never changed a lightbulb in his life, decided that dealing with the problem was a man's job. Therefore, he stripped his belt from his portly waist and tied the door to the car after several frustrating attempts and much nervous giggling. At that moment, the cloud of annoyance dissolved and I felt truly sorry for my bankrupt wig-tycoon of a father, who had no money to buy a new car and pretended to be driving a vintage automobile, who annoyed the hell out of me every time he suggested a day trip, but still scraped some pennies to buy hardcover Anna Kareninas to furnish his library.