Tampa Map Free – Tampa Subway Maps – Tampa Metro Maps – Tampa Map

It was a festive late summer gathering Tampa of people from both sides of the Tampa. In this piazza overlooking a valley of ancient Tampa olive and fig trees, many in attendance were immigrants, like myself, who make a point of returning to the place of their birth every summer. Pietre di pane had brought all of us, Tampa those who remained and those who had moved away, to this piazza, Tampa in celebration of our togetherness.

Tampa Map Free – Tampa Subway Maps – Tampa Metro Maps – Tampa Map Photo Gallery

As a translator of the travel blog I read, in English, a fragment in which the author reflects on his visit to Little Italy as he meanders along its streets visiting long lost friends and relatives, on Beatrice Street, Grace Street, Montrose Ave, looking for houses that his father had called home. He has brought gifts of figs from the old country as a reminder of the taste, feel and smell of the land of their birth, their homeland. He’s unaware that in many of the back yards of his friends and relatives fig trees flourish in the harsh Canadian climate and will yield a respectable crop.

As I read my translation I was struck by the fact that for many of the younger visitors in the Piazza, the Canadian-born children of immigrants, English was not the language into which the experience of their parents had been translated: It was their mother tongue. In Pietre di pane, as in many of his other essays, Teti delves at length into the theme of the double: the San Nicolese community in Toronto is but the “double” of the community that remained. In the piazza that late summer evening the geographic distance between the doubles had vanished; they were one and the same. Translation seemed redundant. There was no need for a middleman. English was the other side of the mirror, a doppelganger reflection of the original.

The Canadian-born accepted English, not as some foreign language, but as the “double” of their mother tongue, much as the fig trees growing in the back yards of the community were but the “doubles” of fig trees back in San Nicola da Crissa. It dawned on me that, as the translator, I was the “double” of the author, and not only in linguistic terms. I’d left the valley and settled on the other side of the mirror.

Related Post

Leave a Reply