Bruce the translator
Copyright 2004 W. Bruce Cameron www.wbrucecameron.com

From time to time my publisher sends me on book tour, apparently
believing we'd break some sales records if I could only experience a
bit more sleep deprivation. I fly from town to town, baffling news
announcers with my presence. They all seem amazed that anyone as
inarticulate as am I can claim to be a writer.

The schedule in a typical city starts with morning TV and ends with a
signing in the evening. I'll sit for several hours at a table piled
high with my books, cheerfully greeting people as they slide past me,
averting their eyes as if one of us is doing something shameful. At
closing time, the manager often comes up and counts the books,
sometimes astounded by the fact that not only have I not sold any, but
that apparently a few of his customers slipped in with their own
copies and left them on the table when I wasn't looking.

By the time I get back to the hotel, the kitchen is often closed.
Thus I found myself not long ago in a bar in Portland, ordering
dinner. (Portland is a city in both Maine and Oregon. Driving across
town must be brutal.) Some other men were sitting there with me,
trying to have an argument but encountering difficulties because one
of them spoke only Spanish, while the other spoke only German. I
offered to help translate, though I don't speak either of these two
languages.

The Spanish-speaking guy turned to me and gesticulated, pouring out a
torrent of words at such a rapid clip I had trouble keeping up with
him. When he was done, I nodded and turned to the German. "His name
is Mr. Rica."

The German drew himself up. "Klaus," he responded stiffly.

"Costa Rica," the Spanish guy corrected.

"His name is Costa Rica," I duly reported.

The Spanish guy vigorously shook his head. "No. Costa Rica...home."

"Then what is your name?" I asked, shouting so he'd understand. I
pounded on my chest. "I am Bruce. What is your name?"

"I am...German," the Spanish guy responded.

"I am German," the German guy interjected.

Well, we had really gotten off track. "Your name is Costa Rica," I
declared to the Spanish guy. I pointed to Klaus. "He is German."

The Spanish guy appeared delighted. "You? German?"

"Yes. I am German."

"His name is Klaus," I explained.

"Yes. I am Klaus," the German guy agreed.

This mystified Mr. Rica. He pulled out a business card for each of
us. I examined it in wonder. His first name was, in fact, "German."

"Your name is 'German'!" I cried.

"Si," German responded.

"I am German," the German guy reminded us.

"No, you're not German the way he is German," I clarified.

"I am German," Klaus insisted.

The bartender wandered over. "Hey buddy, would you quit yelling?" he
asked me.

"This man is German," I told him, pointing to Klaus. Klaus nodded
vigorously. "And this man is from Costa Rica, but his name is
'German'. Isn't that interesting?"

"Why would he have a German name if he is from Costa Rica?" the
bartender demanded.

I shook my head. "Not a German name, his name is 'German'."

"I am 'German'," the man from Costa Rica agreed.

"I am German," Klaus stated.

The bartender looked at us blankly.

"You're thinking of it wrong," I told him. "Like me, my name is
Bruce, but I am a Scot."

"Your name is Scott," he responded stupidly.

"Exactly wrong!" I hooted. "See? So I am not Scott, but I am a
Scot. He," I continued, pointing to the man from Costa Rica, "is
German, but he is not German, his name is 'German'."

"Oh, his name is German," the bartender said.

"Right!"

"But he's not German."

"Exactly!"

"He has a German name, though."

"No, that's the thing, his name is not German at all. Well, unless
it is. A 'German' could even be a Scot, for all I know."

For some reason, this last statement apparently enraged the
bartender, which is why I found myself sitting in a hotel lobby,
trying to explain to German and Klaus why we were ejected from the
bar.

I got the feeling a few things were lost in the translation.