This site uses cookies.
Some of these cookies are essential to the operation of the site,
while others help to improve your experience by providing insights into how the site is being used.
For more information, please see the ProZ.com privacy policy.
Freelance translator and/or interpreter, Verified member
Data security
This person has a SecurePRO™ card. Because this person is not a ProZ.com Plus subscriber, to view his or her SecurePRO™ card you must be a ProZ.com Business member or Plus subscriber.
Affiliations
This person is not affiliated with any business or Blue Board record at ProZ.com.
Spanish to English: 7th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #5047
Source text - Spanish El fútbol soporta una maldición que a la vez es la salvación de jugadores, entrenadores y forofos compungidos por una derrota. Se trata de una actividad en la que no basta con ganar, sino que hay que ganar siempre, en cada temporada, en cada torneo, en cada partido. Un escritor, un arquitecto, un músico pueden sestear un poco tras haber hecho una gran novela, un maravilloso edificio, un disco inolvidable. Pueden no hacer nada durante un tiempo o hacer algo menor. Entre los primeros, que son los que más conozco, los hay que han pasado a ser buenos por decreto y hasta el fin de sus días gracias a una sola obra estimable escrita cincuenta años atrás. En el fútbol, por el contrario, no caben el descanso ni el divertimento, de poco sirve tener un extraordinario palmarés histórico o haber conquistado un título el año anterior. No se considera nunca que ya se ha cumplido, sino que se exige (y los propios jugadores se lo exigen a sí mismos) ganar el siguiente encuentro también, como si se empezara desde cero siempre, analogía del resultado inicial de todo partido. A diferencia de otras actividades de la vida, en el deporte (pero sobre todo en el fútbol) no se acumula ni atesora nada, pese a las salas de trofeos y a las estadísticas cada vez más apreciadas. Haber sido ayer el mejor no cuenta ya hoy, no digamos mañana. La alegría pasada no puede hacer nada contra la angustia presente, aquí no existe la compensación del recuerdo, ni la satisfacción por lo ya alcanzado, ni por supuesto el agradecimiento del público por el contento procurado hace dos semanas. Tampoco, por tanto, existen durante mucho tiempo la pena ni la indignación, que de un día para otro pueden verse sustituidas por la euforia y la santificación. Quizá por eso el fútbol sea un deporte que incita a la violencia, como decía Cabrera: pero no por las patadas, sino por la angustia. A cambio hay que reconocer que tiene algo inapreciable y que no suele darse en los demás órdenes de la vida: incita al olvido, lo que equivale a decir que a lo que no incita nunca es al rencor, algo que se aprende sólo en la edad adulta."
Translation - English Football bears a curse that is at the same time the salvation of players, trainers and fans saddened by a defeat. It’s an activity in which it’s not enough to win; rather you must win all the time, every season, every tournament, every game. A writer, an architect, a musician can take a break after creating a great novel, a marvelous building, an unforgettable record. They can do nothing for a while or work on something less intense. Among the first group, the ones I know best, some have been declared great and remained so until the end of their days thanks to a single respectable work written fifty years earlier. In football, on the other hand, there is no room for rest or recreation; having an extraordinarily historic trophy or earning a title the previous year doesn’t mean much. What has already been accomplished is never considered as important as the need (and the players are the ones who demand it of themselves) to win the next match as well, like starting from zero all over again, an analogy of the initial result of every game. Unlike other activities in life, sports (but especially football) does not accumulate or store up anything, despite rooms full of trophies and ever more coveted statistics. Being the best yesterday doesn't count today, much less tomorrow. Past happiness does nothing to relieve present agony; there's no room here for the compensation of remembrance, the satisfaction of past achievement, or of course the thanks of the public for happiness sought two weeks ago. There isn’t even much time for regret or indignation, which from one day to the next may be substituted by euphoria and adulation. Maybe that's why football is a sport which incites violence, as Cabrera used to say: it’s not about the kicks, but about the agony. On the other hand, we must recognize that there is something indefinable and which is not seen in other areas of life: It inspires forgetfulness, which means it never brings bitterness, something we only learn as adults.
Source text - Portuguese (EU) Não me interpretem mal. Eu até gosto de ir ao ski. Mas sou obrigada a reconhecer que não nasci para os desportos. Nem de Verão, nem de Inverno. Quando era miúda e me vi subitamente privada de fazer ginástica graças a uma febre reumática que me interditou todo os movimentos mais bruscos do que ler, desenhar, escrever e ouvir música, dei graças a Deus por não ser obrigada a fazer aqueles exercícios todos duas vezes por semana, alguns com aparelhos, tipo cavalo de Arção, nos quais eu era mais do que desajeitada.
Não é portanto de admirar a catástrofe em que redundou a minha primeira ida ao ski. Ainda não tinha vinte anos, o que para aprender a jogar Scrabble não é tarde, mas para começar a fazer ski já se revela problemático.
E como os amigos iam todos, lá fui eu, convencida que aquilo devia ser tão fácil como saltar à corda. O resultado foi desastroso: ao fim de três dias de choros, fitas, pânico de entrar nas cadeirinhas em movimento, infindáveis sucessões de quedas à entrada e saída dos teleskis, consegui muito a medo descer a minha primeira pista verde. Com a diferença que, enquanto toda a gente desceu em dois minutos, eu demorei cerca de quarenta. E só quando cheguei lá abaixo e me admirei com o frio que sentia nos pés, verifiquei que me tinha esquecido de apertar as botas. Não é fantástico?
A moral desta triste história, é que passei rapidamente a ser grande fanática do... après-ski. Aquelas botifarras confortáveis faziam-me sentir qual Neil Armstrong ao pisar, peregrino, o solo lunar. Com elas dei grandes passeatas, sempre com um livrinho e um caderninho para escrevinhar, enquanto bebia um chocolate quente na esplanada para matar o tempo.(...)
Quando voltei a casa, declarei publicamente que nunca mais ninguém me voltaria a ver com skis nos pés. Mas com o passar dos anos, as saudades da montanha e da neve começaram a moer-me a existência e acabei por voltar, outra, e outra vez, até me habituar.
Hoje, sou uma péssima esquiadora, mas pelo menos divirto-me. E depois, tudo o que é verdadeiramente difícil, dá outro sabor à vida.
Translation - English Don’t get me wrong. I really do like to go skiing. But I have to admit I wasn’t born for sports, of either the summer or the winter variety. When I was a little girl, I suddenly found myself unable to do gymnastics thanks to a rheumatic fever that prevented any movement more abrupt than reading, drawing, writing and listening to music. I thanked God I didn’t have to do all those exercises twice a week, some with equipment like a vaulting horse, at which I was more than inadequate.
So it’s not surprising how catastrophic my first ski attempt was. I was almost twenty years old, which is not too late to learn to play Scrabble, but a bit problematic to start skiing.
And since all my friends were going, I went too, convinced that this would be as easy as jumping rope. The result was a disaster: after three days of tears, drama, panic over entering moving chairlifts, numerous falls upon entering and exiting gondolas, I managed in great terror to descend my first green slope. The only difference being, while everyone else did it in two minutes, it took me about forty. Only when I reached the bottom and noticed that my feet were cold did I discover I had forgotten to tighten my boots. Isn’t that unbelievable?
The moral of this sad story is that I quickly became a fan of . . . après ski. Those comfortable moon boots made me feel like Neil Armstrong stepping out, pilgrim-like, on the lunar surface. I did a lot of walking with them, always with a little book and a little notebook for scribbling, while I drank hot chocolate in the esplanade to kill time. (…)
When I returned home, I made it clear that never again would anyone see me with skis on my feet. But a few years later nostalgia for the mountain and the snow started to wear down my existence and I wound up returning again, and again, until I got used to it.
Today, I’m a lousy skier, but at least I have a good time. And besides, everything that’s really difficult adds zest to life.
French to English: 7th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #5050
Source text - French - Il est des révélations ou commentaires qu’il ne faut jamais faire, paraît-il ?
- Oui, évitez des commentaires mettant en lumière vos faiblesses passagères ou permanentes. Du genre :
Ce n’est pas à ma main !
Là j’en mettrai pas une !
Il est impossible d’y aller !
Je l’ai juste lâchée. Qu’est ce que ça roule !
Ne « m’envoie pas si loin ». Je n’y arrive plus !
Ne « passez jamais » à ce genre d’aveux. Dites-vous bien qu’une partie se joue en 13 (ou en 11) points, et que, avec un peu de chance, vos défauts resteront inaperçus…
- Quelle est la question qu’il ne faut jamais poser ?
- C’est paradoxalement la question que l’on entend le plus fréquemment au cours d’une partie… « Combien, de boules vous reste-t-il ? » Elle est, à mon avis, de celles qui déclassent un joueur et dévaluent une équipe. Car, à tout moment, il faut savoir non seulement le nombre de boules de l’adversaire, mais encore et surtout dans quelles mains elles sont. De la réponse à cette question dépend très souvent la tactique à adopter. Sachant qu’il vaut mieux faire tirer un pointeur et pointer un tireur…
Au sujet de cette fameuse question à ne pas poser, je me souviens d’une anecdote qui date de quelques années… Au cours d’une partie de début de concours, un des joueurs de la formation qui nous était opposée se tourna vers mon frère Jean et lui demanda : « Vous avez combien de boules ? ». Jean lui répondit sans sourciller : « Deux ! »… Après un moment d’hésitation, celui qui avait posé « la question qui ne se pose pas » de revenir à la charge : « Comment deux, il ne vous en reste qu’une… »
Et Jean de répondre sur le ton de la galéjade : « Oui, une ! Mais dans les mains de mon frère, elle en vaut… deux ! »
Translation - English - There are certain revelations or comments one should never make, don’t you think?
- Yes, avoid comments that highlight your weaknesses, temporary or permanent. Such as:
It’s not in my hand!
I won’t put one there!
It’s impossible to go there!
I just dropped it. Look at it roll!
Don’t send it so far. I can’t make it!
Never resort to this type of admission. Just tell yourself that a game is played in 13 (or in 11) points, and with a bit of luck, your mistakes will go unnoticed.
- What question should never be asked?
- Strangely enough it’s the question heard most often during a game … “How many boules do you have left?” In my opinion it’s one of those that brings down a player and devalues a team. Since at all times you have to know not only the number of boules the opponent has, but also, and above all, who's holding them. The answer to this question often determines the strategy to be used. Knowing whether it's better to shoot a pointer or point a shooter ….
On the subject of the famous question no one should ask, I'm reminded of an anecdote from a few years back. During a game at the beginning of a competition, one of the players on the opposing squad turned to my brother Jean and asked: “How many boules do you have?” Jean answered without batting an eyelash: “Two!” After a moment’s hesitation, the one who had posed "the question one must never ask" retorted: “What do you mean two; you only have one…”
And Jean answered in an exaggerated tone : “Yes one! But in my brother’s hands it’s worth … two!”
Portuguese to English: A ilustre casa de Ramires by Eça de Queiroz Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Portuguese As duas manas Lousadas! Secas, escuras e gárrulas como cigarras, desde longos anos, em Oliveira, eram elas as esquadrinhadoras de todas as vidas, as espalhadoras de todas as maledicências, as tecedeiras de todas as intrigas. E na desditosa cidade não existia nódoa, pecha, bule rachado, coração dorido, algibeira arrasada, janela entreaberta, poeira a um canto, vulto a uma esquina, chapéu estreado na missa, bolo encomendado nas Matildes, que os seus quatro olhinhos furantes de azeviche sujo não descortinassem - e que a sua solta língua, entre os dentes ralos, não comentasse com malícia estridente! Delas surdiam todas as cartas anônimas que infestavam o distrito; as pessoas devotas consideravam como penitências essas visitas em que elas durante horas galravam, abanando os braços escanifrados; e sempre por onde elas passassem ficava latejando um sulco de desconfiança e receio. Mas quem ousaria rechaçar as duas manas Lousadas? Eram filhas do decrépito e venerando general Lousada; eram parentas do Bispo; eram poderosas na poderosa
confraria do Senhor dos Passos da Penha. E, depois, de uma castidade tão rígida, tão antiga e tão ressequida, e por elas tão espaventosamente alardeada - que o Marcolino do Independente as alcunhara de “Duas Mil Virgens”.
Translation - English The two Lousada sisters! Thin, dark and garrulous as cicadas, for many years in Oliveira they were the scrutinizers of every life, the spreaders of every slander, the weavers of every intrigue. And in the unfortunate city there existed no stain, fault, cracked teapot, aching heart, empty wallet, window cracked open, bit of dust left to the side, shadowy figure in a corner, new hat worn to Mass, cake ordered from the Matildes, that their four penetrating little dirty jet black eyes did not unveil - and that their loose tongue did not comment upon with strident malice! They were the source of all the anonymous letters that infested the district; devout persons deemed a visit from them a penance when they would prattle for hours while gesturing with bony arms; and always wherever they passed lingered a pulsating groove of mistrust and fear. But who dared to drive out the two Lousada sisters? They were daughters of the decrepit and revered General Lousada; they were relatives of the bishop; they were powerful in the mighty fraternity of Senhor dos Passos de Penha. And, besides, they maintained a chastity so rigid, so long-lasting and so arid, and of which they boasted so proudly - that Marcolino of the Independent would nickname them “the Two Thousand Virgins.”
I am an American citizen of Portuguese descent now living in Portugal. Since I grew up in a bi-lingual household, I'm fluent in both languages.
With over 20 years experience working as a legal secretary in the U.S., plus significant business experience, my specialties include legal contracts, tourism and advertising. I also have a special interest in translating literature.
I look forward to working with you.
Keywords: Business, advertising, corporate law, legal contracts, international development, website translation, literature, folklore, travel, tourism. See more.Business, advertising, corporate law, legal contracts, international development, website translation, literature, folklore, travel, tourism, portuguese. See less.
Member since Nov '07
Expertise 
Portfolio