Versão portuguesa aqui.
Tuesday, May 31st, 2011
13:15
A few minutes ago, I’ve jumped on the train to London. I cut from work, got a lift to the train station from a co-worker and got on my way. The likely result is that I will spend some hours in a waiting room until I speak to a clerk who will tell me that it’s not possible, that I am too late, that I didn’t fill in the right form, and so on and on.
Which what objective do I get myself into this pleasant situation? Simple: to vote. Or rather: to register to vote. With admirable simplicity, the Portuguese State changed my social security, tax and other records to my current address in Cambridge. At the same time, last summer in Oeiras, I was also informed that “everything was taken care of” regarding registration in the electoral records. Simple.
Simple until I actually tried to vote. On the day of the presidential elections I went to the consulate to exercise my voting right. The first time I vote abroad. No queue at all, only the consulate workers are there. Big smiles: a young man is here to vote! The usual formalities take place, I show my Citizen’s Card. No more smiles: “you are not registered here.” It seems that “everything taken care of” really means “we will take you off the records from Oeiras and you will have to go to London register at the consulate, until then you can’t vote.”
And, some months later, the opposition decides to bring down the government at the first available change. Or first available credible chance, the no-confidence vote proposed by the Left Bloc doesn’t count. No problem (for me, not the country), I will register next Saturday. The President disagrees. He wants to announce the date for the election this evening or tomorrow. As soon as he does so, the electoral close. And so, I am running against time.
I am not particularly excited about any party or candidate. But damn it! This time I will have the right to vote!
15:30
I have arrived to the consulate a little less than an hour ago. At the entrance, a woman tries to explain, in Spanish, that she is Portuguese but doesn’t have her documents. The security guard asks what brings me there and tells me to go to “the counter with the man full of hair.” After finding the counter with a bald man, I explain that I am here to register to vote and I hand in my Citizen’s Card. Remember when I said that I updated my records in Oeiras? That’s when I got the Citizen’s Card, which, among other things, serves as a proof of my address. So I was surprised when the honorable bald man asks me for a proof of address. Fantastic. I have one letter addressed to my work place and another addressed to my College, where I used to live. No can do, it’s no good, he says, until he remembers to ask me whether I am registered at the consulate. No, I am not, I don’t want to register in the consulate, a useless thing, I want to register to vote. Ah, but for that you have to register in the consulate first, go talk to my colleague in that counter. Ok.
Second counter. There is a queue that mover forward at snail pace. In the corner by the entrance, a young child has thrown up. The building next door is being worked on, or maybe there’s someone there who has their fun by pounding at cement. But just after a few people it’s my turn. This will end well. Unless the security guy shows up, ask those who are there what they want and tells them that for that they need a number, which he will give out. And this is how I am here for the last thirty minutes with the number 95, and in this half-an-hour the numbers 80 to 84 were called. When the number 85 is called, I won’t yet register in the consulate, I won’t yet register to vote. I will be received at the reception!
I think it would take less time to ask for a foreign nationality. A good side: the works next door have stopped!
16:30
Success is at hand!
A little while after the last update, and with 84 still the last number called, the bald man makes me a sign to go to the other counter and speak with the receptionist. It seems I have an ally in here. The woman is admired with my number: “there is still an 85?” She glances at her watch, sighs and gives me the honour of listening to me. Now I need more than a proof of address, also I need a passport photo. There is a shop nearby that does this, so I go there. On the way, I decide to give the College address as my current address. After all, I still receive letter in there. I come back with the photos, I hand in everything and the lady tells me that that’s it, they have my data and they will process it as soon as possible. Wait a minute, but then how can I register to vote today? The bald man says I could do everything today. “Then please wait a minute that I will insert your data.” And, surprising enough, this time a minute actually takes only one minute!
Two minutes later, with my consulate registration number in hand, I go back to the bald guy. The sme to how, an hour or so ago I was telling that that the letter I had were sent to an address that my current one. And the same to whom I have to present that same address as my current one. He looks at me and asks: “But this address is yours or not?”
“I receive letter there.”
“So you live there?”
“I used to, not now. But I get letters there.”
By now the consulate was closed, I was the only one inside. He asks for the Citizen’s Card again and notes that the address in its chip is from the United Kindgom. And that it’s not the same I have just presented. That is to say, he notices that I’ve been trying to say all along, that the Citizen’s Card has my current and correct address! Anyway…
Finally, I am registered to vote and the bald guy asks me to wait that he’s going to get a signature from his boss so I don’t have to return later to the consulate to pick up the registration’s confirmation.
17:00
While I waited, the security guard asked me to go to the entrance lobby, because he was starting to close the place. He notices the laptop and we talk a little about Macs. He’s not a fan. I ask whether a lot of people have been registering to vote, just to make chit-chat. Oh yes, he says, it’s been a flurry. “But anyway, with the way things are, things won’t be solved with elections. Jail with them is what’s needed. Thieves? Off to jail. Corrupt politicians? Off to jail. This will only get better with a revolution. We need to go back to a dictatorship.
And it’s with a worker for the Portuguese State telling me that the Portuguese State should be a dictatorship that my ordeal to be able to register to vote ends. I’m going to check if I can still get into the British Museum and rescue the afternoon.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Electioneering (Português)
English version here.
Terça-feira, 31 de Março de 2011
13:15
Saltei há minutos para o comboio para Londres. Pisguei-me do trabalho, pedi boleia a uma colega para a estação de comboios e pus-me a caminho. O provável resultado é ir passar umas horas numa sala de espera até falar com um funcionário que me vai dizer que não pode ser, que cheguei tarde, que não preenchi o formulário correcto, que coiso e tal.
Com que objective é que me meto nesta agradável situação? Simples, para votar. Ou melhor, para me registar para votar. Com toda a admirável simplicidade, o Estado Português mudou o meu registo na segurança social, nos impostos e tudo o mais para a minha morada actual, em Cambridge. Na mesma altura, no Verão passado em Oeiras, informou-me também que tinha "tratado de tudo" sobre o recenseamento eleitoral. Simples.
Simples até que realmente tentei votar. No dia das eleições presidenciais vou ao consulado exercer o meu direito de voto. A primeira vez que voto no estrangeiro. Não há fila, só lá estão os funcionários. Grandes sorrisos: um jovem vem votar! As formalidades do costume, Cartão do Cidadão. Já não há sorriso: "o senhor não está inscrito aqui." Parece que "tratar de tudo" significa na realidade "retirá-lo do registo em Oeiras e o senhor tem que ir a Londres registar-se no consulado, até lá não vota."
E, uns meses depois, a oposição decide mandar o governo abaixo à primeira oportunidade. Ou primeira credível, a moção de censura do Bloco de Esquerda não conta. Não há crise (pessoal, não me estou a referir ao país), vou-me recensear no próximo Sábado. O Presidente não concorda. Quer anunciar a data das eleições hoje à noite ou amanhã. Assim que anunciar fecham os cadernos eleitorais. E pronto, lá me ponho a correr.
Não estou particularmente entusiasmado com nenhum partido ou candidato. Mas porra! Desta vez vou ter o direito de votar!
15:30
Cheguei ao consulado há pouco menos de uma hora. À entrada, uma senhora tenta explicar, em espanhol, que é portuguesa mas não tem os documentos. O segurança pergunta-me o que eu quero fazer e encaminha-me para "o guichet com aquele senhor cheio de cabelo". Depois de encontrar o guichet com um careca, explico que estou aqui para me recensear e entrego o Cartão do Cidadão. Lembram-se quando disse que em Oeiras os meus registos foram actualizados? Isso foi porque tive que fazer o Cartão do Cidadão que, entre outras coisas, serve para comprovar a minha morada. Daí o meu espanto quando o honorável careca me pede um comprovativo de morada. Fantástico. Tenho uma carta endereçada ao meu trabalho e outra endereçada ao meu College, em que morei antes. Não pode ser, não serve, diz ele, até que se lembra de me perguntar se estou inscrito no consulado. Não, não me quero registar no consulado, algo que não serve para nada, o que eu quero é recensear-me. Ah, mas para isso tem que se inscrever primeiro, vá falar ali com a minha colega naquele guichet. Ok.
Segundo guichet. Uma fila de espera que avança a passo de caracol. No canto, junto à entrada, houve um miúdo que vomitou. O edifício ao lado está em obras, ou então há lá alguém que se diverte a partir cimento. Mas daqui a duas pessoas sou eu. Isto ainda vai lá. A não ser que apareça o segurança, pergunte a quem está ali o que é que querem e diga que para isso é preciso senha, que ele vai dar. E foi assim que estou à meia-hora com a senha 85, e nesta meia-hora o número mudou do 80 para o 84. Quando chegar o 85 não me vou inscrever, não me vou recensear. Vou ser atendido na recepção.
Acho que demoraria menos tempo a pedir nacionalidade estrangeira. Um lado positivo: já pararam as obras.
16:30
O sucesso está perto!
Um pouco depois do último update, e com a senha ainda no 84, o careca faz-me sinal para ir ao outro guichet e falar com a senhora da recepção. Parece que tenho um aliado. A senhora admira-se com a minha senha: "Ainda há um 85?" Ela olha para o relógio, suspira e concede-me a honra de me ouvir. E agora não preciso só do certificado de morada, preciso de uma foto também. Há uma loja de serragens aqui ao lado que tira fotos e vou lá. Pelo caminho, decido dar o College como a minha morada. Afinal, ainda recebo lá cartas. Volto com as fotos, dou tudo e a senhora informa-me que pronto, ficam com os dados e irão processá-los assim que possível. Calma aí, mas assim eu posso recensear-me? É que o careca disse-me que podia tratar de tudo hoje. "Então espere um minuto que eu já o registo." E, por incrível que pareça, desta vez um minuto demora mesmo um minuto!
Dois minutos depois, de número de inscrição do consulado na mão, volto ao careca. O mesmo a quem há uma hora e tal estava a dizer que a carta que tinha era de uma morada que não era a minha. E o mesmo a quem tenho agora que apresentar essa morada como se fosse a minha. Ele olha-me e pergunta: "Mas essa morada é mesmo a sua?"
"Recebo lá cartas."
"Mas mora lá?"
"Já morei, agora não. Mas recebo lá cartas."
Entretanto já o consulado estava fechado, era eu o único lá dentro. Ele pede-me o Cartão do Cidadão, e nota que a morada que está no chip lá dentro é do Reino Unido. E que é outra. Ou seja, nota aquilo que eu tentei dizer desde o começo, que o Cartão do Cidadão tem a minha morada actual e correcta! Enfim...
Finalmente, fico recenseado e o careca ainda me pede para esperar que vai pedir ao patrão para assinar um papel para eu não ter que voltar ao consulado para levantar a confirmação de inscrição.
17:00
Enquanto esperava, o segurança pediu-me para ir para a entrada, que ele estava a fechar tudo. Ele nota o computador, trocamos dois dedos de conversa sobre Macs. Ele não é grande fã. Pergunto-lhe se muita gente se foi recensear, só para fazer conversa. Sim, diz ele, anda tudo numa confusão. “Mas também da maneira que isto está, não vai lá com eleições. É mandar tudo para a prisão. Rouba? Prisão com ele. É político corrupto? Prisão com ele. Isto só lá vai com uma revolução. É voltar à ditadura.”
E pronto, é com um funcionário do Estado Português a dizer-me que o Estado Português devia ser uma ditadura que a minha tentativa para me registar para votar termina. Eu vou ver se ainda apanho o Museu Britânico aberto e salvo a tarde.
Terça-feira, 31 de Março de 2011
13:15
Saltei há minutos para o comboio para Londres. Pisguei-me do trabalho, pedi boleia a uma colega para a estação de comboios e pus-me a caminho. O provável resultado é ir passar umas horas numa sala de espera até falar com um funcionário que me vai dizer que não pode ser, que cheguei tarde, que não preenchi o formulário correcto, que coiso e tal.
Com que objective é que me meto nesta agradável situação? Simples, para votar. Ou melhor, para me registar para votar. Com toda a admirável simplicidade, o Estado Português mudou o meu registo na segurança social, nos impostos e tudo o mais para a minha morada actual, em Cambridge. Na mesma altura, no Verão passado em Oeiras, informou-me também que tinha "tratado de tudo" sobre o recenseamento eleitoral. Simples.
Simples até que realmente tentei votar. No dia das eleições presidenciais vou ao consulado exercer o meu direito de voto. A primeira vez que voto no estrangeiro. Não há fila, só lá estão os funcionários. Grandes sorrisos: um jovem vem votar! As formalidades do costume, Cartão do Cidadão. Já não há sorriso: "o senhor não está inscrito aqui." Parece que "tratar de tudo" significa na realidade "retirá-lo do registo em Oeiras e o senhor tem que ir a Londres registar-se no consulado, até lá não vota."
E, uns meses depois, a oposição decide mandar o governo abaixo à primeira oportunidade. Ou primeira credível, a moção de censura do Bloco de Esquerda não conta. Não há crise (pessoal, não me estou a referir ao país), vou-me recensear no próximo Sábado. O Presidente não concorda. Quer anunciar a data das eleições hoje à noite ou amanhã. Assim que anunciar fecham os cadernos eleitorais. E pronto, lá me ponho a correr.
Não estou particularmente entusiasmado com nenhum partido ou candidato. Mas porra! Desta vez vou ter o direito de votar!
15:30
Cheguei ao consulado há pouco menos de uma hora. À entrada, uma senhora tenta explicar, em espanhol, que é portuguesa mas não tem os documentos. O segurança pergunta-me o que eu quero fazer e encaminha-me para "o guichet com aquele senhor cheio de cabelo". Depois de encontrar o guichet com um careca, explico que estou aqui para me recensear e entrego o Cartão do Cidadão. Lembram-se quando disse que em Oeiras os meus registos foram actualizados? Isso foi porque tive que fazer o Cartão do Cidadão que, entre outras coisas, serve para comprovar a minha morada. Daí o meu espanto quando o honorável careca me pede um comprovativo de morada. Fantástico. Tenho uma carta endereçada ao meu trabalho e outra endereçada ao meu College, em que morei antes. Não pode ser, não serve, diz ele, até que se lembra de me perguntar se estou inscrito no consulado. Não, não me quero registar no consulado, algo que não serve para nada, o que eu quero é recensear-me. Ah, mas para isso tem que se inscrever primeiro, vá falar ali com a minha colega naquele guichet. Ok.
Segundo guichet. Uma fila de espera que avança a passo de caracol. No canto, junto à entrada, houve um miúdo que vomitou. O edifício ao lado está em obras, ou então há lá alguém que se diverte a partir cimento. Mas daqui a duas pessoas sou eu. Isto ainda vai lá. A não ser que apareça o segurança, pergunte a quem está ali o que é que querem e diga que para isso é preciso senha, que ele vai dar. E foi assim que estou à meia-hora com a senha 85, e nesta meia-hora o número mudou do 80 para o 84. Quando chegar o 85 não me vou inscrever, não me vou recensear. Vou ser atendido na recepção.
Acho que demoraria menos tempo a pedir nacionalidade estrangeira. Um lado positivo: já pararam as obras.
16:30
O sucesso está perto!
Um pouco depois do último update, e com a senha ainda no 84, o careca faz-me sinal para ir ao outro guichet e falar com a senhora da recepção. Parece que tenho um aliado. A senhora admira-se com a minha senha: "Ainda há um 85?" Ela olha para o relógio, suspira e concede-me a honra de me ouvir. E agora não preciso só do certificado de morada, preciso de uma foto também. Há uma loja de serragens aqui ao lado que tira fotos e vou lá. Pelo caminho, decido dar o College como a minha morada. Afinal, ainda recebo lá cartas. Volto com as fotos, dou tudo e a senhora informa-me que pronto, ficam com os dados e irão processá-los assim que possível. Calma aí, mas assim eu posso recensear-me? É que o careca disse-me que podia tratar de tudo hoje. "Então espere um minuto que eu já o registo." E, por incrível que pareça, desta vez um minuto demora mesmo um minuto!
Dois minutos depois, de número de inscrição do consulado na mão, volto ao careca. O mesmo a quem há uma hora e tal estava a dizer que a carta que tinha era de uma morada que não era a minha. E o mesmo a quem tenho agora que apresentar essa morada como se fosse a minha. Ele olha-me e pergunta: "Mas essa morada é mesmo a sua?"
"Recebo lá cartas."
"Mas mora lá?"
"Já morei, agora não. Mas recebo lá cartas."
Entretanto já o consulado estava fechado, era eu o único lá dentro. Ele pede-me o Cartão do Cidadão, e nota que a morada que está no chip lá dentro é do Reino Unido. E que é outra. Ou seja, nota aquilo que eu tentei dizer desde o começo, que o Cartão do Cidadão tem a minha morada actual e correcta! Enfim...
Finalmente, fico recenseado e o careca ainda me pede para esperar que vai pedir ao patrão para assinar um papel para eu não ter que voltar ao consulado para levantar a confirmação de inscrição.
17:00
Enquanto esperava, o segurança pediu-me para ir para a entrada, que ele estava a fechar tudo. Ele nota o computador, trocamos dois dedos de conversa sobre Macs. Ele não é grande fã. Pergunto-lhe se muita gente se foi recensear, só para fazer conversa. Sim, diz ele, anda tudo numa confusão. “Mas também da maneira que isto está, não vai lá com eleições. É mandar tudo para a prisão. Rouba? Prisão com ele. É político corrupto? Prisão com ele. Isto só lá vai com uma revolução. É voltar à ditadura.”
E pronto, é com um funcionário do Estado Português a dizer-me que o Estado Português devia ser uma ditadura que a minha tentativa para me registar para votar termina. Eu vou ver se ainda apanho o Museu Britânico aberto e salvo a tarde.
Friday, 16 April 2010
You've got stuck on an island / And now you can't get out of it
A few years ago, on a family holiday in Madeira, I had the weird sensation of being surrounded by sea on all sides. Drive a couple of kilometers east, bump into the ocean. Turn around, drive another couple of kilometers, bump into the ocean again. Trying to be smart and go north or south doesn’t help either, the ocean is there waiting for you. It was a very strange sensation, a strangeness mixed with helplessness.
Fast forward a few years and now I am in Great Britain. The island is big enough to avoid that feeling of insulation. If anything, I miss the sea now; there’s none of it for miles and miles, no vast blue expanse, no soothing surf or angry waves. Just flat, green countryside. And yet, today, I am again stuck on an island.
Not content with holding a referendum where they refuse to pay back the money they owe to the UK, Iceland has decided to cover us in ash. To add insult to injury, they use a volcano whose name is unpronounceable. The net result is that no flights are going in or out of the British airports.
While I half expect the news of an Icelandic invasion fleet landing in the North, it’s not the geopolitical implications that are on my mind. It’s that feeling of being stranded in the ocean again. Time for some swimming practice.
Fast forward a few years and now I am in Great Britain. The island is big enough to avoid that feeling of insulation. If anything, I miss the sea now; there’s none of it for miles and miles, no vast blue expanse, no soothing surf or angry waves. Just flat, green countryside. And yet, today, I am again stuck on an island.
Not content with holding a referendum where they refuse to pay back the money they owe to the UK, Iceland has decided to cover us in ash. To add insult to injury, they use a volcano whose name is unpronounceable. The net result is that no flights are going in or out of the British airports.
While I half expect the news of an Icelandic invasion fleet landing in the North, it’s not the geopolitical implications that are on my mind. It’s that feeling of being stranded in the ocean again. Time for some swimming practice.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Thursday, 15 October 2009
On stardom and future
The Operon seminar room is not that big. EMBL was built for four hundred people and, despite twice that number working here now, the seminar room has not been expanded. Still, it has a very respectable size. Last Monday it was filled to the brim. There were people on the steps, people standing at the entrance, people standing behind those.
Surely the speaker must be big. The Nobels had just been announced, could it be one of the recent laureates? The last talk of a outgoing very popular in-house PI? Darwin himself, raised from the death to discuss with zombie Mendel the implications of genetics in evolution? No, that would not take every single PhD student of this place out of their labs. It was something bigger. Jorge Cham was in the building.
For those of you who don't know, Jorge Cham is the author of the widely known in academia PhD Comics, which depicts in dark humorous tones the life of a postgraduate student, the lack of money, the working hours, the advisors and so on. And that day everyone was gathered to hear a man who has made a livelihood of pointing out how much their lives suck. Not to throw stones, as one might expect, but to laugh at his jokes.
And laugh they did. Jorge had it easy. He barely had to approach a subject before the crowd roared into laughter, which is a bit scary for me. Everyone was finding it funny because it's true. And if it's true, that is what expects me for the next four years... Goodie.
Surely the speaker must be big. The Nobels had just been announced, could it be one of the recent laureates? The last talk of a outgoing very popular in-house PI? Darwin himself, raised from the death to discuss with zombie Mendel the implications of genetics in evolution? No, that would not take every single PhD student of this place out of their labs. It was something bigger. Jorge Cham was in the building.
For those of you who don't know, Jorge Cham is the author of the widely known in academia PhD Comics, which depicts in dark humorous tones the life of a postgraduate student, the lack of money, the working hours, the advisors and so on. And that day everyone was gathered to hear a man who has made a livelihood of pointing out how much their lives suck. Not to throw stones, as one might expect, but to laugh at his jokes.
And laugh they did. Jorge had it easy. He barely had to approach a subject before the crowd roared into laughter, which is a bit scary for me. Everyone was finding it funny because it's true. And if it's true, that is what expects me for the next four years... Goodie.
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Look, a photo!
Nothing new to add from the last post. Classes and extra-curricular activities were normal and pleasant. The latter were the usual going out for a beer, going to see the town, doing groceries, pyjama party. Normal student life.
For the weekend I rented a camera from the staff association. The weather did not coperate yesterday, though, and today the internet is refusing to do any serious uploading, so I leave you with only one photo of the old part of Heidelberg, as seen from the other bank of the river. Click on it to go to see it bigger. Enjoy!
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
On Frankfurt, lodging and gaming consoles.
Did you know that Frankfurt airport has oversized telephone booths for people to smoke indoors? They look like fish tanks, the people standing in there vacantly looking out while they smoke their cigarette because what else can you do in there?
That was a rhetorical question, so no lewd suggestions in the comments, please.
Anyway, the smoking booths are my most striking memory from the flight, followed by the sheer number of airplanes flying into Frankfurt. I don't think I've ever flown as closely to another flying airplane as I did on Saturday. After landing, as the plane turned to park, the lights from at least six other planes as they started their landing approach could be seen.
The rest of the trip to Heidelberg, in a brand new Mercedes with a driver, was unremarkable. Upon arrival, I met the apartment where I'll live for the next three months. The good new: it's a duplex. The bad news: it's a small duplex. Still, me and my roommate have already found the other students who are staying in a big apartment in the guest house, so we already know where the parties will take place. The stove is going to be hard to get used to. It's a crappy electric thingy with two heaters so close that if I want to use the frying pan, it takes all the space. At the moment my first experiment with it and rice is underway.
Speaking of parties, social events where the reason I haven't written a proper blog post yet and why you get this condensed version of the last five days instead of individual funny stories written with time to spare. It's just hard to sit down to write them after arriving from the course and grocery shopping when I only have one hour to cook and go downtown for drinks.
The course started on Monday and so far has only been basic biology for non-biologists and basic computational stuff for biologists. The most fun has been the gymkhana that the administration section has prepared for us, where we have to chase signatures from a dozen different rooms in the various buildings. I have no shame to say that I eventually I got lost. Yet I can hold no grudge against the institute: this place rents Nintendo Wiis and Playsations 3 to any member of the staff! How cool is that?
Monday, 5 October 2009
Hello from Germany
Just to let you know that I arrived in Heidelberg, I am safe, and internet connection at home is now established.
I am in a hurry to cook dinner and then go into town, but I'll try to have a proper blog post tomorrow.
Until then.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
Old habits die hard.
So. Still here.
Lots to write about, that with hectic weeks of thesis writing and what follows that, but since it’s still ongoing I don’t want to say a word about it before its over.
Instead, I’ll tell you about something that happened today.
I’m at a lab retreat. Not my lab, but a sister lab. Since one of the projects I’ve been working on has a strong collaboration with them, my boss, my replacement and I were asked to join the retreat for a few days to discuss it. My boss and I arrived today in the company of a foreign collaborator. The car trip from Lisbon was spend listening to and talking about music, with an idea for a start-up that will make us multi-millionaires popping up in the middle.
We arrived past work time for the people already at the retreat, so the rest of the evening was spent eating, drinking in moderation, talking... you know, enjoying ourselves (although at a certain point some people were singing karaoke). Jabs were taken at my young age and the advanced chronology of certain members of our gathering was brought up in retaliation. I received advice on where to get drunk and what clothes to wear in Cambridge. Science was discussed. Jokes were told. Good fun.
Then people started playing a mimicry game. You got told a name of a person and you had to impersonate him or her. I quietly moved to the side. It’s a fun game to watch, but I don’t really enjoy playing it myself.
Several rounds later, I am told that I’m next. After respectfully declining, I am told that I can’t stand to the side, enjoying myself and laughing at others without putting myself in their position. It’s only fair. C’mon, it’s going to be fun, you’ll enjoy it. Do the next one.
If it’s okay with you, I prefer not to. I really prefer not to. I’m not comfortable doing it. I’m really, really not comfortable doing it. All this is blurted out quickly the second time the question is asked. I fidget. My eyes dart around looking for an exit. A deer in the headlights looks more courageous.
When the evening ends, someone with whom I’ve discussed life, the universe and everything during the past year and takes me aside and apologises for asking me to play. He didn’t know I got nervous about that kind of stuff. That’s good. This used to happen much more frequently. I managed to pull off a full year of witty banter and serious topics looking and acting confident. But take a silly game of mimicry and...
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Lots to write about, that with hectic weeks of thesis writing and what follows that, but since it’s still ongoing I don’t want to say a word about it before its over.
Instead, I’ll tell you about something that happened today.
I’m at a lab retreat. Not my lab, but a sister lab. Since one of the projects I’ve been working on has a strong collaboration with them, my boss, my replacement and I were asked to join the retreat for a few days to discuss it. My boss and I arrived today in the company of a foreign collaborator. The car trip from Lisbon was spend listening to and talking about music, with an idea for a start-up that will make us multi-millionaires popping up in the middle.
We arrived past work time for the people already at the retreat, so the rest of the evening was spent eating, drinking in moderation, talking... you know, enjoying ourselves (although at a certain point some people were singing karaoke). Jabs were taken at my young age and the advanced chronology of certain members of our gathering was brought up in retaliation. I received advice on where to get drunk and what clothes to wear in Cambridge. Science was discussed. Jokes were told. Good fun.
Then people started playing a mimicry game. You got told a name of a person and you had to impersonate him or her. I quietly moved to the side. It’s a fun game to watch, but I don’t really enjoy playing it myself.
Several rounds later, I am told that I’m next. After respectfully declining, I am told that I can’t stand to the side, enjoying myself and laughing at others without putting myself in their position. It’s only fair. C’mon, it’s going to be fun, you’ll enjoy it. Do the next one.
If it’s okay with you, I prefer not to. I really prefer not to. I’m not comfortable doing it. I’m really, really not comfortable doing it. All this is blurted out quickly the second time the question is asked. I fidget. My eyes dart around looking for an exit. A deer in the headlights looks more courageous.
When the evening ends, someone with whom I’ve discussed life, the universe and everything during the past year and takes me aside and apologises for asking me to play. He didn’t know I got nervous about that kind of stuff. That’s good. This used to happen much more frequently. I managed to pull off a full year of witty banter and serious topics looking and acting confident. But take a silly game of mimicry and...
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
In which I put myself in the shoes of one of my most hated enemies.
I have an issue with translators. Not the automated kind, far away from the Babelfish though they may be. Those are just stupid machines that don’t know better because the geeks among us haven’t come up a way to deal computationally with natural language yet. However, we also don’t have machines fully act as doctors, artists, you name it and we still manage to diagnose people, fill up museums and galleries and do what is it that whatever you named it does by using humans proficient in those tasks. Likewise, we have humans that are supposed to be proficient in translating texts from one language to another. It is those translators that I have an issue with.
My issues are with the spots and scratches that appear in many English to Portuguese translations*. There have been novels that I couldn’t continue reading until I got the original version, so bad were the glaring translation mistakes. Mistakes that sometimes completely changed the meaning of the sentence and for which a quick internet search for the phrasal verb in question was all it would take to correct them.
It got to the point where I actively avoid any translation into Portuguese. Maybe because there is a bigger market, maybe because I don’t know enough to spot the errors, translations into English seem to be of better quality and are my choice when I find myself linguistically challenged.
Recently, however, I was asked to translate an English text that I helped composed in a small way. Giving it to someone else was a problem because there was no one else. Also, there was a girl saying “please please can you do it” and I’m a sucker for that. It was time see if I could to walk the walk as well as I talked the talk.
For most words where I was unsure about its direct translation, a quick search in the dictionary and/or Google would clear things up. Other were not so straightforward and the final version may not have the same exact meaning, but it’s the one that I think fits best, short of writing down the whole definition. As for phrase structure, sometimes it took some time to think about some other way to write that was the same sentence with translated words, but eventually everything fell into place. On the whole I am happy with this exercise. It was done quickly, neatly and made me put myself on the line on an issue where I usually just fire away criticism.**
The bottom line? I’ll still get frustrated and complain about bad translations. It is a great responsibility to take someone else’s words and reinvent them. On top of that, especially if the source material is good, poorly translated passages stand out and cloud one’s enjoyment of the whole. However, I’ll also have more respect for the good translations I find. I reworked a two-page text that I had helped shape, had access to the original author anytime I needed and still ran into some difficulties. I can only try to imagine what it is like to translate a doorstop novel whose author died ages ago.
*I mean book translations. For the sake of brevity and to avoid the use of profanity, no comment will be made about subtitle translations other than the following understatement: the median quality of a subtitle translation is on par with the Fast Food Song by the Fast Food Rockers (google it at your own peril).
**Some would argue translation is just one of many such issues.
To clarify further: I have no problem with the act of translation itself. Since I am only proficient in two languages, three at most, I am, in fact, very grateful that translators exist and have done their thing to books which I would otherwise not be able to read. At its best, a translation is an invisible layer that allows the author to seamlessly reach the reader.
My issues are with the spots and scratches that appear in many English to Portuguese translations*. There have been novels that I couldn’t continue reading until I got the original version, so bad were the glaring translation mistakes. Mistakes that sometimes completely changed the meaning of the sentence and for which a quick internet search for the phrasal verb in question was all it would take to correct them.
It got to the point where I actively avoid any translation into Portuguese. Maybe because there is a bigger market, maybe because I don’t know enough to spot the errors, translations into English seem to be of better quality and are my choice when I find myself linguistically challenged.
Recently, however, I was asked to translate an English text that I helped composed in a small way. Giving it to someone else was a problem because there was no one else. Also, there was a girl saying “please please can you do it” and I’m a sucker for that. It was time see if I could to walk the walk as well as I talked the talk.
For most words where I was unsure about its direct translation, a quick search in the dictionary and/or Google would clear things up. Other were not so straightforward and the final version may not have the same exact meaning, but it’s the one that I think fits best, short of writing down the whole definition. As for phrase structure, sometimes it took some time to think about some other way to write that was the same sentence with translated words, but eventually everything fell into place. On the whole I am happy with this exercise. It was done quickly, neatly and made me put myself on the line on an issue where I usually just fire away criticism.**
The bottom line? I’ll still get frustrated and complain about bad translations. It is a great responsibility to take someone else’s words and reinvent them. On top of that, especially if the source material is good, poorly translated passages stand out and cloud one’s enjoyment of the whole. However, I’ll also have more respect for the good translations I find. I reworked a two-page text that I had helped shape, had access to the original author anytime I needed and still ran into some difficulties. I can only try to imagine what it is like to translate a doorstop novel whose author died ages ago.
*I mean book translations. For the sake of brevity and to avoid the use of profanity, no comment will be made about subtitle translations other than the following understatement: the median quality of a subtitle translation is on par with the Fast Food Song by the Fast Food Rockers (google it at your own peril).
**Some would argue translation is just one of many such issues.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Subway crushes
There isn't much I miss from the daily commute from Oeiras to Lisbon. Sure, the train whistling by the riverside can be beautiful and having the choice to get off the subway at any time to experience what a city can offer is nothing compared to my current walk in the suburbs, but most of the days my commute was nothing more than a boring, repetitive and awkard task to be performed daily.
Let me emphasize the awkward part. The worst situation is being without a book or a window seat in a carriage with just enough people to fill all seats but with no one standing up. You can't move your arms or legs because you are arm to arm and leg to leg with complete strangers and everyone stares at their own little dot in space, trying to avoid any eye-contact. It's just uncomfortable and those were the thoughts crossing my mind when I got on the subway at Cais-do-Sodré.
A couple of stations later, however, a perk I had forgotten about appeared: a subway crush. Those fleeting crushes last just as long you and the object of your afection are in the same train. It's longer than just passing someone by on the street, but not by much. When you first notice, you are smitten. There is not enough time to focus on whatever imperfections she surely has. Of course, as soon as one of us leaves the subway, the crush disappears as quickly as it appeared.
Today's crush appeared, as I said, a couple of stations after my trip started. I was happily strumming with my fingers and tapping my foot to the music I was listening to when she enters and sits in front of me. Dark auburn hair, blue short-sleeve blouse, a tinge of preppy but not too much, headphones in her hears and also strumming along to her music (which, I'm sure, was every bit as cool as mine). Some stations later, she leaves and the crush is over. It felt good while it lasted, though, and today's boring, endless commute was less of a chore.
Note: I remember talking with Hugo Z. about subway crushes some years ago. I don't know how much of what it said made it's way to this text, so some of the credit (or blame) goes to him.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Sound-blocking headphones will do fine, thank you.
The music in the restaurant was horrible. Take the worst pimba (corny Portuguese popular music, for the foreigners reading this) and play it as loud as you can with a disco beat thumping in the subwoofers. That was what was being served to us as the side dish and I wished for silence.
Fast-forward a couple of hours. The last train would be arriving at the station soon and I needed to be on it. It was drizzling, not enough to feel the drops, but just to be on the safe side I took cover in a stall in the station. While there, a group of six or seven young men come in. It's the usual Saturday night crowd at Santos: around twenty years old, jeans, sweatshirts, a hoodie here and there. A swagger in their walk that says "We're young, we're together and we're having fun". They sit on the other side of the stall.
As I wait for the train, something is amiss. Nothing's changed. The place is as quiet as it was before the group entered. Where were the usual loud and excited conversations of youth? A look at them explains it all. The conversations were there, all right, and they were certainly full of energy. I just didn't hear them because no words were spoken. All seven of them were happily gesturing with their arms in sign language.
They were deaf. That put my wish for silence in perspective.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Just don't bring up her Sarah Palin impersonation
In case you're wondering, I'm still alive.
Actually, the chances of you wondering that are very slim, either because you are not pessimistic or because you hear from me using other media, so let me start over:
In case you're wondering, this blog is still alive. The fact that nothing has been posted in almost a month is simply due to nothing happened in almost a month that would be worthy of a mention here.
Some things did happen that were not routine. I met my current boss's previous boss, who was as cool as I expected. There was a pretty fun party at the institute where I had a discussion that started with "I stopped listening to new music after the The Wall because there was nothing new left to be said" and got better with every turn it took (and it took lots and lots of turns). I gave a half hour presentation to first-year Master students that lasted for an hour and a half. Just a few hours ago I listened to Lynn Margulis talk. Plus other stuff that I can't remember right now, not to mention national and international events that could be commented upon.
So it's not a complete lack of theme that has kept me from posting; it's the lack of a theme that will inspire me to put fingers to the keyboard and hammer out a coherent and pleasing text. I guess I could write about Tina Fey's witty humour, and nerdy good looks, but I don't want to trade dignity for inspiration yet.
Saturday, 21 March 2009
On the nature of blogging
I had planned on using the second post to tell you some facts about me. You know, the kind of anecdotes that, while not giving any real information, would convey some sketches of my personality. That is postponed for the moment. Instead, you get my thoughts on blogging.
This change of plans was brought by an unexpected visit to the blog (if you’re wondering whether I mean you in particular, I don’t). Someone who I hadn’t considered as a potential reader commented to me about my new blog. I was dumbfounded. This was not my intended audience.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Anyone with a computer and some kind of connection can come here and read everything I have written. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t cherry pick who reads what. This is stupidly obvious, but it didn’t sink in until this happened, leaving me feeling a bit exposed and wondering about what that meant to what I planned to write here.
There were two situations that concerned me. The first was that some complete stranger would read me. This must have been a side-effect of a healthy ego: the overwhelming majority of people out there couldn’t care less about my blog and me and, in the odd chance that they do, I don’t care about what they think of it.
The other problem would be that people who I know, but who I wasn’t aware knew about this place, came here. After thinking it over, I realized this was a moot point. This is the internet, after all. I’m not having a private conversation; I’m standing on a room filled with people shouting at the top of my lungs. I wouldn’t be sharing anything that I would want to keep secret from the world to begin with.
So now, with this deep thinking about the nature of blogging and my feelings about it out of the way, let’s see what comes next.
This change of plans was brought by an unexpected visit to the blog (if you’re wondering whether I mean you in particular, I don’t). Someone who I hadn’t considered as a potential reader commented to me about my new blog. I was dumbfounded. This was not my intended audience.
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Anyone with a computer and some kind of connection can come here and read everything I have written. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t cherry pick who reads what. This is stupidly obvious, but it didn’t sink in until this happened, leaving me feeling a bit exposed and wondering about what that meant to what I planned to write here.
There were two situations that concerned me. The first was that some complete stranger would read me. This must have been a side-effect of a healthy ego: the overwhelming majority of people out there couldn’t care less about my blog and me and, in the odd chance that they do, I don’t care about what they think of it.
The other problem would be that people who I know, but who I wasn’t aware knew about this place, came here. After thinking it over, I realized this was a moot point. This is the internet, after all. I’m not having a private conversation; I’m standing on a room filled with people shouting at the top of my lungs. I wouldn’t be sharing anything that I would want to keep secret from the world to begin with.
So now, with this deep thinking about the nature of blogging and my feelings about it out of the way, let’s see what comes next.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Something akin to a preface
I've been thinking: I've got lots of work to do, I barely have time to keep my social life going and I don't think this will get better in the near future. Why not go all-in and add another way to spend time in the form of a blog? Thus this website was born. If I tried to rationalize my decision, I might say that the idea has been on my mind for quite a while and that some thoughts bouncing on my head could have ended up as blog posts if only I had a place to put them. As an added bonus, chances are that I'll be moving out of the country in a few months, so if I create the blog now I avoid the cliché of the emigrant who creates a blog to keep in touch.
Now, if you are reading this, odds are that you know me personally and you're wondering why I'm writing in English. There are two answers for that. The first is that not everyone that I know and would like to visit this place speaks Portuguese. The second is that most of the time I don't like what I write in my mother language. It gets too long-winded, too pretentious. Maybe it's not much better in English, but at least I don't notice it. I'm not ruling out completely writing a few posts in Portuguese, but they will be the minority.
A note on content: I have no idea what it will be. Probably things about me. Musings, mainly. Thoughts that can't be expressed in the hundred and forty characters or less that Twitter gives me. Rants. Me. The occasional Radiohead-induced post dripping with overblown melancholy. Happy news that I want to share. Myself. Careful analysis of world events. The ups and downs of my work. I. A blog is a place where egotism reigns supreme, after all, and this theme will give me an idea for a name.
As for when I will post... Monthly, hourly, daily or twice a year. You know, the usual for a blog: whatever strikes its owner's fancy, whenever it strikes.
Until the next time, whenever that is.
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