Translating Dictionaries

Dear Friends,

"Tim, would you like to turn a page in a dictionary?"

Lasma is one of the dozen or so English teachers at Riga State No. 1. Small in stature, she has a constant gleam in her eye indicating she is always waiting to tell the perfect little story. She has an anecdote for every occasion.

Without hesitation, I picked up a wine glass and handed it to Lasma. "I'd be honored," I tell her. "Fill it up!"

Latvia is the world's northern-most producer of wines. Here's the vineyard...

As I watched her fill the glass with sparkling white wine, I recalled my first official day at the school -- now, well into the year, already a foggy memory. After a series of meetings, the faculty gathered over finger foods and drinks in the school canteen. Like everyone, I was enjoying the light-hearted, convivial nature of the gathering after a day of technicalities and before the ensuing whirlwind that is the dawn of a school year.

I had just bitten into my sushi, when one of my colleagues (I didn't know her name at the time) said to me, "Oh, Tim, some of us will be meeting after this for the purpose of translating dictionaries. Do you translate dictionaries, Tim?"

"Yes," I said. Lying through my teeth. Lost as a duck in the desert.

"Good. Then please come to our meeting this afternoon..."

Directions and time and place ensued. My colleague exchanged glances with the others around her. Each of them nodded approvingly.

Suddenly, my sushi wasn't settling so well.

Translating dictionaries? What the--? What kind of work-slaves are these people?

Not only had I pretended to know something about something I didn't, I had actually stated that I'd be willing to what... lend my expertise?!

All in a first day's work.

And, what kind of dictionaries were these, anyway? I pictured myself sitting Indian style surrounded by building-block towers of Latvian dictionaries. A pencil behind my ear. A notebook on my lap. Hand through my dishevelled hair as my Latvian counterparts, dressed in traditional garb, danced around me waving a Latvian flag. A certain initiation.

Following the orders I had received, I met the group outside of the school at the set time. We proceeded to the bus stop and moments later boarded a bus leading us outside of the city. A Funk and Wagnalls helping of weight was on my shoulders.

Eventually we arrived at one of the teacher's flats. I followed the happy herd inside. Awfully excited about dictionaries, I thought. Poor, poor people. Oppressed for so long.

After a brief tour of the lady's flat (new to her and her husband), the group unanimously agreed that it was time to bring out the dictionaries!

I'm a bad, bad man, I told myself.

"To start us off tonight," one teacher said, "French dictionaries!"

Doh!

"Followed by Italian!"

Gulp!

"Tim, please take a glass," someone suggested, handing me a goblet. Well, this may help a little, I conceded.

"And here comes the French dictionary!" That from the host, emerging from the kitchen holding a bottle of red wine.

THAT was the dictionary?

My face must have given me away.

"Tim, what did you think we'd be doing here?"

"I really had no idea," I responded. "But I think I'm going to like this... translation."

Ernest Hemingway called wine "the most civilized thing in the world." He had this to offer about wine-drinking in Europe:

In Europe we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also a great giver of happiness and well being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary.

As necessary and natural as translating dictionaries.

Needless to say, I've been enjoying my school meetings like never before.

Prieka!

Tim