Consuelo
Qué
agradable es no estar de viaje por Italia este verano,
deambulando
por sus ciudades y trepando sus horribles pueblos serranos.
Cuánto
mejor es recorrer estas calles locales, familiares,
que captan
por completo el significado de cada señal de tránsito y cartel publicitario
y todos
los gestos presurosos de mis compatriotas.
No hay
monasterios aquí, ni frescos derruidos o famosos
domos y no
hay necesidad de memorizar la sucesión de
reyes o de
recorrer los rincones de un calabozo que gotean.
Ni hay
necesidad de quedarse cerca de un sarcófago, de ver la pequeña
cama de
Napoleón en Elba, o de ver los huesos de algún santo bajo el vidrio.
Cuánto
mejor es dominar el simple precinto del hogar
que
empequeñecerse ante una columna, un arco y basílica.
¿Por qué
esconder mi cabeza entre guías o mapas arrugados?
¿Por qué
alimentar el escenario con hambre, cámaras de un solo lente
ansiosas
por devorarse el mundo de a un monumento por vez?
En lugar
de arrastrar los pies en un café sin saber la palabra para hielo,
me
dirigiré a una cafetería y donde la moza se llama
Dot. Me
deslizaré en el flujo del periódico de la
mañana,
todas las barreras del lenguaje derribadas,
ríos de
frases idiomáticas fluyendo libres, huevos vuelta y vuelta al paso.
Y después
del desayuno, no tendré que encontrar a alguien
con ganas
para sacarme una foto con mi brazo alrededor del dueño.
No me
desconcertaré por la cuenta ni anotaré en mi diario
qué comí y
cómo el sol entraba por mi ventana.
Será
suficiente con subir al auto
como si
fuera el gran auto del inglés mismo
y tocar mi
aguda y vernácula bocina, acelerando
por una
calle que nunca me llevará a Roma, ni siquiera a Bologna.
Billy
Collins, Manhattan, 1941
Versión
©Silvia Camerotto
imagen de
Giovanni Paolo Pannini
Consolation
How agreeable it is not to be
touring Italy this summer,
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car
as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.
wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns.
How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets,
fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard
and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots.
There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous
domes and there is no need to memorize a succession
of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon.
No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's
little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass.
How much better to command the simple precinct of home
than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica.
Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps?
Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera
eager to eat the world one monument at a time?
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone
willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner.
I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal
what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window.
It is enough to climb back into the car
as if it were the great car of English itself
and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off
down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.
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