They Are Talking About You
Pierre Foglia, the famous Montreal columnist whose first column about the American Primaries I translated and posted a few weeks ago, wrote a few paragraphs, in a column written a week later, about a weird moment he shared with his Bed & Breakfast host in Middleofnowhere, Alabama. In his words, translated:
"The Bed's lady, (where there was no computer, therefore no web access) asks me what I do for a living. I told her I was a journalist. Nothing else. No details. Next day, I'm reading outside when she comes back from work in the neighbouring town (where she owns a tool store), she holds paper sheets and hands them down to me:
That's you, right?
It was my first Alabama column, translated in english, don't ask me by who, don't ask me on which site, don't ask me why, an excellent translation by the way. On another sheet, from another site, my résumé, my age, where I was born, where I worked, the kind of articles I write, with details as precise as my taste for sports, etc. The kind of epitaph that ones read with the feeling of being dead.
It amused me. Nevertheless, where shall one hide? With the Dowayos in North Cameroun? Not sure. I can already see the village chief approaching with his wood rabbit hat: You small bicycle Foglia? You engaged with an Ibe'ville girl?"
Well, after many verifications, and only to brag (as he didn't ask), I'm the guy and the site who did the excellent translation for your enjoyment. One takes every compliments, mostly from such instances, and I hope the dude won't keep the feeling that his wikipedia entry is an epitaph, but rather a sign that others have enough of their lives to waste to write about you.
Time to go see where's my epitaph.