(no subject)

All the files for client S are done and gone as of... almost three hours ago. Working on files 3 and 4 was a breeze, relatively speaking.

However, even using TM tools, I find it difficult to work with boilerplate text, as invariably, I'll come up with an improvement on what I said the last time I ran across a particular sentence, and while that is then captured for use in future files, there remains the task of back-propagating it to previous files.

(Working with boilerplate isn't simply a matter of blindly replacing text with what either you or a program thinks is the right translation. Maybe it's a habit that'll soon expire, but I tend to eyeball everything, pretty much, that I put into my translations... heck, I am getting paid for it.)

* * *The news on the Kazakhstan front sounds promising. The client and I spoke, and it looks like the gig is on. (If truth be told, the prospect of going to Cannes, France on business was also discussed briefly, but I'll worry about that when an actual job is offered.)

In any event, I went and got my hair cut and my visa photo taken... now, I have to make sure I get my paperwork taken care of on time.

It occurs to me that the timeframe of the gig places me on the other side of the world at about the time of the Leonid meteor shower this coming November. According to some sites I've visited, this year's show will peak over West Africa and North America, albeit the moon will amost be full. I wonder if there will be anything to see in Leninsk?

I am also wondering why, given everything else that might be going on, I am even thinking about this.

Break's over! Back to work.

Cheers...

Tote that barge? HA!

The geomorphology article just hit 5,000 words (translated), so despite the fact that there is just over a page left of the beast, I am stopping for the night.

In violation of probably a good dozen tenets of good taste, I have poured myself a Campari-and-soda.

I probably never would have thought to even try such a combination had I not read one of Leslie Charteris' stories about Simon Templar, aka The Saint. If I'm not mistaken, it's supposed to be one of those drinks one quaffs before dinner to sharpen the appetite, cleanse the palate, and awaken the metabolism (and, they say, the libido). AperetifsApéritifs, they're called. (Thanks, brenk!)

Despite its appearance - kind of cherry-soda-ish - it's not exactly a treat for one's sweet tooth. Me, I like it any old time.

It's interesting to note that my first ordered Campari-and-soda netted me a drink that was, maybe, 20% Campari and 80% soda. My experience in Milan, in 1991 when I was part of the Borland "OOP World Tour," was almost exactly the opposite. Then again, Italy is the home of Campari.

What little I saw of Milan I recall fondly. I remember being taken by one of the Borland staffers there to a get-together at a well-known pizzeria, to join a party of people that included the staffer's parents and coworkers from the parents' office.

The place seemed to be run by a reincarnated set of Marx brothers. One of them, who looked way too much like Zeppo, would decide, from time to time, that the place was getting too quiet, so he'd lean in through the counter that led to the kitchen, grab a handful of aluminum pie trays, and fling them into the air. What a racket they made when they landed!

Another guy, who looked a little like Harpo, seemed to enjoy bringing small cups of espresso to the ladies and then, when they expressed surprise about the espresso (which they hadn't ordered), he'd get so upset, he'd eventually "spill" the cup (which was empty).

(BTW, I don't think these guys were trying to look like the brothers Marx - I think it was either coincidence, or my diseased mind at work.)

From time to time during the evening, all conversation in the joint would cease as the staff paraded out from the kitchen, playing a strange assortment of instruments, only to stop at the table of a birthday celebrant, for presentation of best wishes and - if memory serves - a cake.

Another indelible memory of the evening was the young man - a street peddler, apparently - who spent probably 45 minutes haggling with a prospective customer over the price of a carton of cigarettes... Marlboros, they were (and I seem to recall being told by one of the guests at our table that the Marlboros were counterfeit). He was just one of several "salespersons" who were welcomed by the management and allowed to circulate among the paying customers.

I've long ago forgotten what I ate that night. I only remember that having stuffed myself silly on salad and pizza, the time came to settle down and order the main course! Yikes! Somehow, I muddled through.

My only misstep occurred after dinner, when orders were being taken for coffee, tea, etc. I asked for cappucino. When he heard the order, the waiter's eyebrows scrunched together and he said, to the fellow who invited me, "Would you tell your friend that, if he wants cappucino at this time of night, he's welcome to go down the street to the old folks' home, where they'll be serving it to help the old codgers fall asleep."

What's really funny is that as he was telling this to my friend, I was understanding him perfectly. His hand gestures helped, of course.

I found the almost universal hand gestures that accompany Italian to be of enormous help in comprehension. When I stopped a fellow in the hotel lobby to ask about the men's room, I simply watched his hands (Go to the... stairs... go up and turn... left... go down the... hall and turn... right. Bingo! Worked like a charm.)

Anyway, that's enough reminiscing. The drink is gone, and so is most of my alertness.

Cheers...