Of all the students in my courses in Hispanic Studies and English (my Minor) at McGill University in Quebec, I was, without doubt, the most ignorant. I knew absolutely nothing about anything we learned and was shocked at how much more sophisticated everybody else was intellectually (as well as on every other level).
The professors, of course, seemed like indisputable geniuses to such a silly country bumpkin, and I was mesmerized by their enormous stock of knowledge. I also really envied their lives, or what was available of their lives for an undergrad to see.
Professors seemed to live absolutely charmed lives that consisted of going to endless expensive restaurants, constant traveling, and very little of what seemed like work. My favorite thing to do has always been to snooze on the couch with a novel, and it seemed like academia was the perfect place to offer this kind of lifestyle.
So the translator dream was canned, and I developed a new vision where I would arrive on campus, dressed very elegantly and carrying a leather briefcase, wave away students who’d be impatient to get access to my wisdom with a tired, “Yes, yes, just let me get a cup of coffee,” and enter a book-filled office where every book would mean something to me. The dream also included a beautiful gentleman waiting for me outside in a chic car to take me to a fancy restaurant, but that’s a topic for a different series of posts.
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