A Gathering of the Minds

Getting the Job Done 

Everyone came to town for Holy Week, so the Asociacion Cultural gathered itself together.
It was decided somewhere among the grand families of the Plaza Mayor that we'd meet after the Stations of the Cross. And so, thus focused on our many transgressions, as well as the  suffering and death of our Savior and his Mum, we ruled against meeting in the back of the church.
It's too echoey in there. Impossible to make out who is talking, especially when everybody talks at the same time. Which is just about always.
I was the founding president of the Asociacion, but I stepped down last year after two seasons of Big Fun and cultural disconnects. We started some good things, mistakes were made, and a few people sneer and roll their eyes every time my name is mentioned. But that's the price you pay. You can tell a pioneer by the tomahawks sticking out of his head.
So we gathered outside Vitoriana's house, on the corner of the plaza. Some of us sat right down on the pavement, or stood dangerously near to Leandra's prize tulips. Lucy, the new president, presided.
"What do we want to do for this summer? Another Semana Cultural?"
"Yeah! Last year was fun. Let's do that again!"
"Let's do what again? Which part was fun?"
"The movie night. Let's get that giant screen in here again!"
"That giant screen was a pain. Try keeping the kids away from that."
"We had to drive back and forth to Villada to pick it up and return it. And we had to put it up and take it down."
"And we had to sign a million papers to borrow it," I added.
"Let's do like they did here in the old days, when someone brought a projector and a movie. Hang up a sheet on that wall over there, and project it on that."
"Forget the sheet. The wall is whitewashed."
"Where would the electricity come from?"
"Extension cord. We have those. Jesus!"
"Don't be that way."
"What movies will we show? The movies last year were lame."
"Those are details. We can work that out later. Let's decide what else..."
"Let's do another tortilla contest!"
"Let's do desserts instead this time. We already did tortillas. We know whose is best now."
"But that will spoil everyone's dinner."
"How about we have a flan contest. Flan, and orijuelas. We all know how..."
"So how about tapas?" I said. "Appetizers? Pinchos?"
"Yeah! Let's do pinchos! Everyone loves those!"
"Yeah! Pinchos, and desserts."
"Let's have a proper prize, like 50 Euros. We'd get some people over from San Nicolas then, attract attention from outside,"
"Fifty euros? How about a nice bottle of wine?"
"San Nicolas? The heck with San Nicolas! What do they have to do with this?"
"And let's have a camp-out for the kids, over in the grove."
"We were going to do that last year, but the moms were afraid to let the kids stay out there."
"No, the mothers weren't afraid. The kids were afraid."
"No we weren't! It rained! You wouldn't let us because it rained!"
"OK then. Let's also have an excursion. We can tour the Sunflower Seed Factory in Villada!"
"Cool!"
"We can get a bus and go to Astorga, and tour around and have Cocido Maragato!"
"Astorga's too far! What's in Astorga?"
"Everyone will have to pay his own way. The Asociacion can't pay for it."
"Well, of course!"
"And we ought to do something cultural. Like a workshop, or a dance group or something."
"How about we make up some adobes? Mud and straw don't cost anything."
"Yeah! We have brick molds!"
"Sounds pretty messy. Who's going to lead that? Who knows anything about adobe?"
"Rebekah does. She goes to those workshops every year. "
"Rebekah can do it. Can't you?"
"Yes," I said. "We'll make slurry, and all you guys can render the inside walls of my bodega!"
(Slave labor, hooray!)
"So we have all these things to do! What fun!" Lucy said.
"And flowers. Shall we plant flowers again this year? Can I spend 50 euros on flowers for the plaza?" I asked. "It's almost May, almost time to plant."
"Not so many this year. Not enough of us are here all summer. Milagros ended up watering them herself every day," came the slap-down I've been expecting for months.
"Also, sometime in the summer let's think about a wine-tasting night. Everyone bring a bottle from the region where they live -- Vittoria, Burgos, Coruna, Gran Canaria -- and we'll line them all up and taste them and see what we think,"I suggested.
"We can do that with the pinchos! We can do pairings!" said one well-educated cousin.
"No, I mean this as something separate from the Semana Cultural. Not a contest," I tried.
"We can bring the wine, and create a pincho to match,"she insisted.
"What, wine with flan? What the hell? This contest is getting out of hand!"
"Whatever. We'll see. This is just the start."
We were there, we were opinionated, but we got some things figured. We were Angelines, Florin, Leandra, Carlos, Ines, Raul, Cristi, Olaya, Timia, Luci, Milagros, Conchi, Ester, Other Carlos, Judit, Raquel, and me.
Plenty enough to get some culture done.
We have four months to work on it.

Two Basques Called Antxon

Winter came and went.
I went, too. I went deep into a translating "El Gran Caminante," a seminal Camino memoir by Antxon 'Bolitx' Gabarain, into English. It took a lot longer than I anticipated. Yesterday, five months after I started, "A Walk to the End of the World" was finally polished, and sent off to the production guys.

I've been a professional writer for years and years, and an editor for a lot of that time. Translating is something else altogether. It's like poetry, in that it demands a ton of technical skill and a degree of integrity I don't normally have to draw on. It's scary, because I like to do a really good job. My Spanish skills are mediocre, but I'm a whiz at English. I've studied and studied, but I am still not sure I know what I'm doing. There are some mistakes in there, no doubt. I hope they're not too embarrassing.
During this epic I made friends with two Basques named Antxon.
Antxon Gonzalez is the man who asked me to translate this book. He's a big guy, a retired executive, speaks a little English. He drove all the way down here from the coast, armed with homemade txakoli wine and a box of shortbread and a pretty good publishing deal.
I was feeling fed-up and depressed with my own book. I needed a wintertime project. I had a glancing acquaintance with "El Gran Caminante," which came out a couple of years ago on the Spanish market and did quite well, especially for a book without a standard distribution deal.
I told Antxon I'm not a translator. He told me I should try. I was the only person who could.
So I did.
The other Basque named Antxon is also known as 'Bolitx.' (No one can tell me what "Bolitx" means.) This Antxon wrote the book. It's a first-person narrative of his 2008 Camino pilgrimage, starting at his front door in Zumaia, in the Basque Country, passing down a disused pilgrim trail and joining "the Mighty Camino Frances" in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It continues on to Santiago and Finisterre, and along the way he tells about growing up in Navarre and Bizkaia, family legends, ghost trains, his grandfather's adventure as a 19th century immigrant to California. Cool stuff I've never seen anywhere else.  
I have seen a slew of amateur pilgrim memoirs, and they are, with a couple of exceptions, pretty dreary reading. Antxon's is the first one I've read in Spanish. Yes, it is self-indulgent and yes, he does go on about his blisters and his spectacularly authentic pilgrimage. He has issues with women, and Asians, and foreign food. But he has a remarkable knack for description, especially in the bars, restaurants, and albergues along the Way. He does dialog well, he sets a scene and lets the players tell the tale. He's a natural writer, a sharp observer, unschooled but fluid and cogent.
He tells you what it all means, in a way that's not preachy.

Antxon the author

And he's funny. Even after reading the same passages five or six times in two languages, he still makes me laugh out loud. I got to know him pretty well this Winter. He looked over my shoulder sometimes, worried that I get it right. Or at least his spirit did.
Antxon the author finished writing "El Gran Caminante" in 2012, three days before he died of ALS. He was 41 years old.
Anxton the publisher is his father.
The translation will be available soon via Amazon or other online retailers. Most of the proceeds go to educate his young daughters.
So now I am a translator. I did my best. I had to call on expert help when flummoxed:  two old guys in Boadilla talking trash about the town floozy were beyond my powers of comprehension. Good thing I count a renowned Hispanicist among my friends. Antxon's granny was "the best Mus player in Navarre," and his description of a fast-paced match of Mus in Rabanal del Camino meant a Son of Seville now living in Virginia went and learned to play the card game himself, just so I could get it right.
It was a fun project. A nice break. Antxon the Dad seems very happy.
Now, after I chill a little while, I will move on to something else.
I kinda miss my own kind of writing.

Oh, I went, too, to the USA. For two months.
While I was there, a child was born. A red-headed girl called Cora. I became a grandmother.
Maybe I will write about that, too. Once I get my head around it.