In Translation Lost

      I was lucky enough to be brought up bilingual, a gift that, if I choose to have children, I intend to pass on. Of course this was something that I took for granted, not realizing how lucky I was at the time. In fact, years passed in which I spoke no Italian, not because I refuted the language, but because.... I just didn't. My mother would speak to me in Italian and I would respond in English, something which my friends found hilarious until they got used to our bizarre one-sided conversations. So, for me, hearing and understanding Italian is as second nature as hearing and understanding English. Case in point: once on a transatlantic flight to NYC before we were married, my husband changed the language channel on my ear phones for the in-flight movie I was watching without my realizing it. It took a not-insignificant portion of the following scene for me to catch on to the prank, and then it was only because I noticed that the actors' voices were no longer synchronized with their lips. He had a good laugh at that one.

      So moving to Italy really wasn't a challenge for me in terms of communication, though I admit that I was a bit rusty at first. That being said, if you come here as a tourist, speaking not a lick of Italian and hoping to get by on only that small bit of high school Spanish that you remember, you'll be fine. Almost everyone speaks at least a little bit of English and they are more than happy to have someone to use it on. And that's okay. If you need to ask someone how to get to the Trevi Fountain or on what track your train leaves from, then you're really more interested in the information that they are giving you than you are in the grammatical correctness of it all. And hell, the accent mixed with the enthusiastic confusion of word order and verb tenses is really pretty adorable when you come right down to it. So I pass no judgment on the average Italian pedestrian. I pass judgment on the signs. Which leads me to main point.

      Why are there so many badly translated signs in Italy? This is a question that I ask myself repeatedly and that I continue to find inexplicable. Each time I go through a similar thought process: “Really? That's what you came up with? There was NO ONE around who could double check that for you? Not one single native English speaker that you could run that by in a country full of American and UK ex-pats?.....(sigh).” I know that if you've been here you've seen some of these signs that I'm referring to. You probably chuckled to yourself and took a picture.

      The way I see it, there are three tiers to the category of bad translations. The first (and the least excusable) tier is that which includes mass produced public transportation signs and tourist info signs. In other words, there is money behind these signs and there are people out there in the world whom one can pay to do a professional translation. Instead I have a vision of someone in an office who's job is the opposite of doing a translation, but who has falsely bragged about his impeccable English for so many years that when it comes to actually translating something, it is a matter of pride that he do it himself... and that he ask no assistance... and that he save the company the meager amount that it would cost to translate a sentence fragment such as “in emergency case”. True, these particular signs do still manage to get the meaning across and maybe, just maybe, do have something charming about them, but still. Shouldn't it also be a matter of self respect? (Actually, now that I think about it maybe the whole thing is staged to make it seem as though the entire country is oozing “sexy, charming, Italian accent” from its pores. Something to think about it.)

      The second tier of bad translations, which just make me shake my head in wonder, are the restaurant menu translations. A few examples: Not everyone knows what “pajata” (peye-YAHT-ah) is and most people I know would be quite dismayed to order and eat it by accident. The difference between “seasonal” and “seasoned” is significant. “Aubergine” and “rocket” are not the most common ways to say “eggplant” and “arugula”. “Forest fruits” are “mixed berries”. Etc, etc. And then there are those that just literally translate the name of the dish, probably using a free online translator. “Linguine al pesto” becomes “linguine pesto to”. Seriously. (There are really far too many examples to list here. Please look at the photos at the end of this post.) To be quite frank, I used to avoid restaurants that translated their menu at all because I assumed that they were probably catering to the tourist crowd and sacrificing quality in the process. Nowadays that is no longer the case since tourists are everywhere. So, given the circumstances, I have taken to using a new method of selection. If the translations on the menu are too good (or if there are too many different languages), then it's too touristy and I don't go there. Come to think of it, perhaps I should actually be grateful to these translations for helping me to weed out the tourist traps. (Or perhaps this too is a well thought out ploy to convince us of the unadulterated authenticity of the cuisine. Something else to think about.)

      The third and final tier doesn't really have a defining characteristic beyond the very home-made, do-it-yourself format of the material, and for this reason I feel no frustration but only a tender sort of affection, as I would feel for a small child showing me a scribbly drawing and telling me that it's a castle. In these instances a small business may have typed something up, printed it out, and taped it to the window or wall of their shop/restaurant. It's something intended to be helpful or instructional, but it never will be because it is completely incomprehensible. Probably someone with absolutely no understanding of how languages work wrote something out in Italian and then looked up each word in a dictionary, disregarding the proper placement of nouns, verbs, and participles and not accounting for the fact that certain words have multiple meanings. On more than one occasion I have considered offering my translation services to them (for a free dinner?), but have decided that it could be misconstrued as invasive and condescending. Besides, I like to think that there is a hidden camera recording people as they try to decipher these signs and that someone somewhere is getting a good laugh.

      Now I do realize that not everyone has the good fortune of being brought up bilingual and that perhaps I'm being overly critical. Maybe I should try to embrace each poorly constructed phrase as a symbol of one culture reaching out to another in order to be understood. Maybe we would all find it boring if suddenly all of the signs were thoroughly proof read. After all, even something as little as a clumsily written sign becomes a small stroke of color in the larger painting of one's trip. But while I may make the effort to accept it, unless it turns out that these errors are actually part of an elaborate national ruse intended to help establish the ambience for one's vacation, I will continue to be baffled. Or should I say, “I will continue to being perplexed.”

And now just a few example from a menu so you see that I'm really not making this stuff up.

Bruschetta Olive's cream






Bruschetta Artichoke's cream

Ricotta and Spinach Ravioli to the Sage

Linguine to the rock-cliff

Linguine to the seabass

Fettucine with porky mushrooms

A Tragic Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum

 

     I love when friends and family come to visit me, especially if it's their first time (or one of their first times) in Rome. I love planning out a walking tour of the historic center, connecting the touristy dots with crooked lines drawn through narrow streets and past trickling fountains, through tunnels formed by clothes drying on the line between buildings, crossing chaotic streets with a leap of faith and veering off the path for a tasty detour. Best of all is watching as that dreamy cinematic image of Rome melts into reality before their eyes.

     I've put a lot of thought into my walking tour and I'm really quite proud of it. I know which churches have works by Bernini, Michaelangelo, and Da Vinci. I've figured out how to time it so that we come upon pizza and ice cream at just the right moment. I build the suspense so that when we turn a corner the Pantheon comes into view in the most spectacular way. I can incorporate a bit of optional shopping upon request and of course I casually unveil several panoramic views. Most importantly of all, I know what's free...or so I thought.

     Recently my cousin came to visit me. It was her first time in Rome and she only had about two days. The way I see it, if you only have two days, you save the expensive and time consuming museums for a future trip and just try to see and absorb as much of the city as possible. That being said, one of the standard stops on my tour is obviously the area of the Colosseum and the Roman Forum, and on Day 2 that was to be our first destination.

     As we exited the metro stop the Colosseum occupied nearly all of our field of vision. It's one of those sights that never ceases to dazzle. Even I took a moment to appreciate its colossus-ness again for the first time, the massive structure oozing its history out onto the modern streets, taxis and buses wizzing by in the background, herds of tour groups following the beacon of the closed umbrella held by their leader, costumed gladiators posing for pictures for €10, and overpriced souvenir stands tempting the unexperienced traveler with their “tchotchkas”. It's all part of the spectacle.

     We had already decided that we didn't feel like paying the ticket to go inside, and when we passed the line we knew that we had made the right decision. The line was more of an elongated blob that we glimpsed through the arcs at ground level and that continued about a quarter of the way around the interior of the structure until spilling out onto the surrounding piazza. I'd say it was at least two hours worth of line and it was only about 10:30am.

     “You used to be able to just walk in without a ticket,” I told Samantha nostalgically. Luckily it was a beautiful morning, so we didn't feel that we were missing anything as we happily strolled around the circumference and walked up a piece of Via Dei Fori Imperiali to get a view (and some pictures) from further away.

     From there my plan was to walk through the Roman Forum, exit at the end near Campidoglio, take a moment to look at Mussolini's wedding cake building at Piazza Venezia, and then head towards the Mouth of Truth and the Jewish Ghetto. But when we reached the stone path that leads to the Forum, I was confused by a large sign explaining that this was an exit only and that the entrance was around the corner. Since I had entered from that point more times than I could count, I took the sign as more of a suggestion than a rule and continued up the path. But as a few people passed us coming from the opposite direction, I started to have a bad feeling. Denial pushed me onwards.

     And then there it was. An iron fence. And to the far left a booth with a lone, one-way turnstile. All of the signs pointed to the obvious, but I needed to hear it from someone first hand. I dreadfully approached the booth, which didn't even have a speaking hole pointing in my direction.

     “Excuse me, but do we have to pay to get in?” I shouted, trying to curve my voice around the glass corner to reach the ears of the woman sitting inside.

     She didn't even look up from her magazine. “Yes.” Judging by her tone of voice, I was not the first person to ask.

     “Since when?”

     “Three years ago.”

     “I've been here within the past three years and didn't pay,” I responded indignantly, somehow illogically thinking that that would convince her of the error of her ways and that she would magically change the rule and let us in.

     “If you say so.”

      I admit that I wanted to stay there and argue about the situation, but a dialogue was clearly futile so I backed down and rejoined my cousin where she was waiting a few meters away.

      “I can't believe it! You have to pay to get in now!” I was feeling heatedly upset by the whole thing. Not only did this mean that we would only be able to see the Forum from afar and that we would have to walk the long way all around the perimeter to get back on track for my plans, but it meant that this was no longer a free stop along this and all future walking tours. Samantha was unfazed but I just couldn't let it go. I called my husband to tell him the news, expecting consolation. Instead:

      “Yeah of course. You've always had to pay.”

      “No!!! I remember distinctly bringing guests here and not paying. You have to pay for the Colosseum and for the Palatino, but the Forum was always free. Even the lady in the booth said it was free up until three years ago.”

      “I don't remember that.”

      “Argh!!!” I hung up.

      As we took the long way around, we passed the now official entrance. Another amorphous blob-line had formed at a small ticket booth and was slowly eating up hours of tourists' time. It dawned on me that, ironically, what creates the crowds is the very act of purchasing the tickets. Without the counting out of change, and the controlled entrance, one person at a time, at a specific and monitored point, the bottlenecked crowd of people would spread itself out at various points and dissolve altogether. As we walked by another growl rumbled in my throat. But there was still a full day of walking ahead of us, so I did my best to stifle my (possibly disproportionate) anger and move on.

      The next day I still hadn't been able to sleep it off. When my [Roman] mother called from NY in the afternoon I told her about this development at the Forum, expecting/hoping for the commiseration and understanding that my husband hadn't given me. But all I got was more of the same: utter conviction that it had always been this way, even 15 to 20 years ago. How could we both be so sure?! Despite the disgruntled words of the woman at the exit booth confirming that at least up until three years ago it was free, I began questioning my sanity.

      The truth was revealed in an online article that my husband found later that same day. Evidently up until 1998ish one had to pay an entrance fee to see the Roman Forum. Then from 1998 to 2008 it was opened back up to the public FOR FREE. And now, for whatever reason, they have reinstated the old policy, creating a three-way ticket with the Colosseum, the Palatino, and the Forum. So that cleared up the discrepancy in our collective memories, but didn't actually make me feel any better about the situation, even though it could ultimately mean that one day it will once again be free. (That is probably just wishful thinking.)

      In the mean time, I had realized what I was really upset about. What Roman would ever decide to spend €11 and an hour on line just to go for a walk? Not me. Not anyone I know. Which means we will probably never again be able to casually walk through the Roman Forum. What was once a lovely stroll through ancient ruins, available to anyone with some time to pass, has in one fell swoop become something that only tourists will take advantage of. Just like happened with the Colosseum years ago. And what will be next? The Pantheon? St. Peter's? Already, though you don't have to pay to get into St. Peter's, at peak hours you can wait up to three or four hours on the line to go through security. Again, unless you're a tourist or are showing a tourist around, why would you ever choose to spend your time on one of those lines? And I'm also upset for the tourists. Between St. Peter's, the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum, and now the Roman Forum (not to mention numerous other museums), that's a full two or three days spent, not submerging oneself in this marvelous city, but eaten up bumping butts and stepping on heels with hundreds of other tourists as everyone shuffles several inches closer to their destination every ten minutes.

      So I'm angry. And incredulous. And demoralized. I know I'll get over it, or at least get used to it, but I'm left with the sinking feeling that, little by little, piece by piece, Rome is being taken away from the Romans.