Monica Diaz Trias - English to Spanish translator. Translation services in Accounting - nature, horses, animals, consumers good, public relations, marketing, tourism

Working languages:

English to Spanish
English to Catalan
Spanish to Catalan

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Monica Diaz Trias
COMMUNICATION BEYOND WORDS

St. Esteve de Palautordera, Cataluna, Spain

Local time: 10:44 CET (GMT+1)

Native in: Catalan

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Communication beyond words

Freelance translator and/or interpreter,

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Translation, Interpreting

Specializes in:
Livestock / Animal Husbandry	Advertising / Public Relations
Accounting	Art, Arts & Crafts, Painting
Automotive / Cars & Trucks	Business/Commerce (general)
Finance (general)	Tourism & Travel
Poetry & Literature	Medical: Pharmaceuticals

English to Spanish - Rates: 0.05 - 0.07 EUR per word / 25 - 35 EUR per hour
English to Catalan - Rates: 0.05 - 0.07 EUR per word / 25 - 35 EUR per hour

PRO-level points: 32, Questions answered: 27

Sample translations submitted: 1

English to Catalan: "Hearing Myself Think" by Richard Beard
Source text - English Heathrow Airport is one of the few places in England you can be sure of seeing a gun. These guns are carried by policemen in short-sleeved shirts and black flak-jackets, alert for terrorists about to blow up Tie-Rack. They are unlikely to confront me directly, but if they do I shall tell them the truth. I shall state my business. I’m planning to stop at Heathrow Airport until I see someone I know. (...) Astonishingly, I wait for thirty-nine minutes and don’t see one person I know. Not one, and no-one knows me. I’m as anonymous as the drivers with their universal name-cards (some surnames I know), except the drivers are better dressed. Since the kids, whatever I wear looks like pyjamas. Coats, shirts, T-shirts, jeans, suits; like slept-in pyjamas. (...) I hear myself thinking about all the people I know who have let me down by not leaving early on a Tuesday morning for glamorous European destinations. My former colleagues from the insurance office must still be stuck at their desks, like I always said they would be, when I was stuck there too, wasting my time and unable to settle while Ally moved steadily onward, getting her PhD and her first research fellowship at Reading University, her first promotion. Our more recent grown-up friends, who have serious jobs and who therefore I half expect to be seeing any moment now, tell me that home-making is a perfectly decent occupation for a man, courageous even, yes, manly to stay at home with the kids. These friends of ours are primarily Ally’s friends. I don’t seem to know anyone anymore, and away from the children and the overhead planes, hearing myself think, I hear the thoughts of a whinger. This is not what I had been hoping to hear. I start crying, not grimacing or sobbing, just big silent tears rolling down my cheeks. I don’t want anyone I know to see me crying, because I’m not the kind of person who cracks up at Heathrow airport some nothing Tuesday morning. I manage our house impeccably, like a business. It’s a serious job. I have spreadsheets to monitor the hoover-bag situation and colour-coded print-outs about the ethical consequences of nappies. I am not myself this morning. I don’t know who I am	Translation - Catalan L’aeroport de Heathrow és un dels poc llocs d'Anglaterra on pots estar segur que veuràs armes. Les porten policies vestits amb camisa de màniga curta i armilla antibales negra, en estat d’alerta permanent buscant terroristes a punt de fer explotar la botiga de Tie Rack. No crec que em vinguin a dir res, però si ho fan els diré la veritat. Els diré què hi faig, aquí. Tinc la intenció de quedar-me a l’aeroport fins que vegi algun conegut. (...) Per a sorpresa meva, espero trenta nou minuts sense veure cap conegut. Cap ni un. I tampoc ningú no em coneix a mi. Sóc tan anònim com els xofers que porten els típics cartells amb noms (alguns cognoms sí que els conec), llevat que ells van més ben vestits que jo. D’ençà dels nens, qualsevol cosa que em poso sembla un pijama. Abrics, camises, samarretes, texans, vestits... Ben bé com si encara portés el pijama posat. (...) Em sento a mi mateix pensant en tota la gent que conec, que m’han deixat plantat a l’aeroport un dimarts al matí, què no han agafat l’avió cap alguna ciutat europea d’aquelles amb tant de glamour. Els meus antics companys a l’empresa d’assegurances deuen estar encara clavats als seus despatxos, com sempre vaig dir que estarien quan jo encara hi era, també, perdent el temps, incapaç de situar-me mentre l'Ally anava progressant, aconseguint el seu títol universitari i la seva primera feina de recerca a la Universitat de Reading, la seva primera promoció. Els nostres amics més recents, tots amb feines serioses i que per tant jo mig esperava veure per aquí en qualsevol moment, em diuen que tenir cura de la llar és una ocupació perfectament digna per a un home, valenta, fins i tot; que quedar-se a casa amb els nens fa molt home. Aquests amics nostres són principalment amics de l’Ally. Jo ja no conec ningú. Lluny dels nens i amb els avions passant per sobre el meu cap, m’escolto els pensaments i sento els d’un ploramiques. Això no és el que esperava sentir. Començo a plorar. Sense fer ganyotes, sense gemegar. Només deixant relliscar les llàgrimes per les meves galtes, en silenci. No vull que ningú em veig plorant. No sóc de la mena de persones que s’ensorren a l’Aeroport de Heathrow un dijous qualsevol al matí. Gestiono casa nostra de manera impecable, com si fos una empresa. És una feina seriosa. Tinc fulls de càlcul per a controlar l‘estat de les bosses de l’aspiradora i fulls impresos amb codis de colors sobre les conseqüències ètiques dels bolquers. No sóc jo mateix, aquest matí. No sé qui sóc.