Lost in Translation

Layover

Lisa and I are in O'Hare, at the gate for our flight, via Iberian, to Barcelona. We have a layover, and we'd like to leave the airport long enough to smoke, so we ask what time we board. As we are talking to the woman at the counter, a tall, slender man with a close shaved haircut approaches and tries to ask the woman a question. His words come haltingly and politely, as English obviously isn't his first language. The woman is quick to cut him off.

'I work for American. You'll have to wait until someone from Iberian gets here. That will be about an hour.'

He looks surprised. 'The plane...it leave in an hour?'

'No. The Iberian staff will be here in an hour.'

He's not getting it, and she is compensating by raising her voice. He looks intimidated.

'Habla espanol?', I ask.

'Si', he responds, surprised that I speak Spanish as well.

I then translate what she said, and then continue to translate his other questions, quickly getting him the information he needs. He thanks me, and as I walk away, he tells Lisa, 'Your husband, he speak very good Spanish.'

His name is Jorge, although I don't know that yet. We will see Jorge again.

Over the Atlantic

The Moroccan woman continues to look back and smile at me. She's across the aisle and a row in front of me, and her attention is a bit unsettling. Her smile is one of conspiracy, as if the two of us share a secret, something that noone else on the flight is aware of. I study my guide to Italian phrases between smiles, wondering what time it is.

And I have no idea, really, what time it might be. Having heard so many warnings about theft and not wearing jewelry in Italy, I decided to leave my watch at home - a decision I'm now regretting. We're over the Atlantic, and it's night. There's no point of reference to indicate what time zone we're in or where we are. Most of the passengers, including Lisa beside me, are asleep. The lights in the cabin are out.

Eventually, the Morocan woman turns and makes conversation in heavily accented English. This is when I learn that she's from Moroco, that her husband is American, and that she's going home to visit for three months after being gone for three years. The conversation proceeds in starts and pauses. Some of the things she says are comical.

'It is good to drink water', she tells me in a matter-of-fact tone.

'Yes' I reply, nodding. Hard to argue that one.

'The...' she pauses, struggling to come up with the word, '...altitude?' She holds her hand up high to make sure I understand.

'Altitude, yes?'

'The altitude is dry.'

'Really?'

'Yes!' she says emphatically, then gestures to the front and back of the plane to indicate the flight crew. 'You see these...eh...workers?'

'Yes.'

'They take age quickly.'

I cannot help but laugh at this.

The conversation starts and pauses for hours as the rest of the passengers sleep. Before it ends, she tells me, in her quiet yet emphatic tone, 'You must come to Morocco.'