homes: London and Paris: commutes and generic hotels

Marrakech

Budapest

zagreb, as the northern summer approaches

dublin

soulless in minneapolis

kuala lumpur

Sydney

Melbourne, and the hottest day in its history

Tasmania

Milford Sound, the world's edge

Dunedin, or Scotland abroad

Christchurch, or England abroad

wellington

Picton

napier

rotorua

2009 retrospektive- the year begins with auckland

2009

well it is the 5th time i am writing an "end of the year" summary for this blog.
i stopped first and reread my december 2005 entry. I had just moved from paris to london to start a phd.
now, here is 2009, i can finally call myself a doctor. that is certainly the biggest accomplishment of the year: over a decade of agonizing work has come to an end, and i am free to move on with the rest of my life. yet 2010 begins with no sense of direction at all- i suspect this could be the year when everything changes. as i have no clear "task" before me, as i have for the past 10 years or so, i will have to seek the new direction my life will take. 2009 was also the year i got an amazing job with more money than i ever thought i would earn.....and hated it. so i am entering 2010 seeking a new path, and excited as to what the new year might bring.
in the next three weeks i will be taking extended leave from my interim job, putting my stuff in storage, giving up my flat, and facing the unknown. i am scared but looking forward to it.

freedom

I finished my Phd. I can now call myself a doctor.
At one point during my Viva, I was sure I was sunk, that I wasn’t going to pass, that I was going to have to accept that I had spent 13 years of my life chasing an unrealizable dream. One of the examiners attacked with a battery of questions that all seemed aimed at exposing some sort of fraud. I fired back with answers that sounded more confident than I felt. After a two hour interrogation, they dismissed me to go downstairs to my supervisor’s office. She was waiting for me with a shot of rum, which was quickly followed by another. After what seemed like forever, the head of the commission came and called us both up to the examination room. Somehow, I had passed. They praised me as a “confident public speaker.” After giving the verdict, they then tried to make witty, intellectual conversation for about half an hour. I was dazed and could not participate at all. I sat and stared blankly at them. My supervisor answered for me, before hauling me off to her office for more rum…I then headed for the pub.
But I was dazed the whole time. I had trouble making coherent conversation, but because of the alcohol, but because I was in shock. And I still am. But as soon as I snap out of it, I will need to start planning …the rest of my life?

last flashback

You know the type. The guy in an expensive suit with gold cufflinks who pushes you out of the way on the central line or at a taxi rank.
The suited travellers with expensive luggage who get to queue separately and board first, whilst they spend their empty moments in luxury airport lounges.
Although my family travelled a lot, we never travelled first class. My parents’ academic salaries never permitted that sort of thing. instead they always watched in amazement as such people wizzed by with an air of (self) importance, just as my father stood by in astonishment in Sydney airport a few months back as I was ushered through all formalities in seconds, having flashed a company card.
The thing I have tried to explain to them is that no one actually PAYS for that kind of service. It is almost always achieved through contra-deals, corporate packages or some other scheme.
So I find myself on the eurostar with my colleague, who fits the above description perfectly. Before going through security at the station, he slips off to the toilet with a cheeky grin and returns energised, having snorted the last of his supplies. Not that he would really have had too much hassle getting a wad of coke past security, but I just doubt by the end of the work day that he had that much on him. We catch the last train of the evening. We sit down and my colleague starts to discuss loudly his sex life, which most recently consisted of the boss’s secretary. An older uptight German businessman who is seated in front turns around and asks Z, my substance enthused companion, to be more quiet. Z tells him he can suck his English cock. I suggest we perhaps go visit the train’s restaurant, hoping to give the German long enough to fall asleep. Alas, my idea proved flawed, as within minutes we are moving back to our seat, armed with a huge bottle of champagne, crisps and glasses. Z is now going back into the history of his sex life, in an effort to explain why he is as he is. Periodically the topic of conversation wanders to the only thing we have in common: our office. We exchange company gossip and calculate the deals we are hoping to bring in this month. (“100 fucking grand, mate, ‘d be fucking wicked, can you imagine? Oh man, I’d be minted, I’d go back to Thailand for the weekend and do so much shit”…dreams Z).
From the corner of my eye I can see the older German is disgusted, not only by us, but by the other English guys behaving in exactly the same way at the other end of the first class carriage. Of course I am the only woman in sight, as the German is only one above 45. The last first class carriage of the night is filled by young English assholes who start chanting “EN-GA-LAND, EN-GA-LAND” as we pull into St. Pancras.
A year ago there was talk that this world was ending. Corporate lunches, first class travel, expense accounts- it was all supposed to be part of a decedent past that had landed us all in the greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression. We are still in that crisis, but scale of horror for now seems to have bottomed out, and even if we are not recovered, we are at least not getting any worse. So the cityboys have got their corporate credit cards back out, and have decided for now at least it is back to party time.

leaving

So I left my job. Oddly, after numerous threats to fire me, they then pitched a fit when I took the initiative of walking out on them, having arranged to take back my old job at a bookshop. At the last minute I had serious misgivings- this move meant an enormous pay cut. It meant ditching a (on the surface) successful corporate career for an ultimately unprofessional job with no career prospects. But three weeks on, I can observe the true impact of my move- I am relieved. I don’t start dreading Monday morning on Saturday evenings. I don’t take the phone off the hook for fear my boss might call. I don’t spend my lunch breaks hiding from my colleagues simply because I cant bear the thought of attempting to maintain a conversation with them. Rather, my colleagues and I engage in heated debates on obscure issues when we have quite moments on the floor. We throw trivia back and forth at each other. We have a boss we pretty much all get on with. Although I would prefer lounging infinitely about the living room, I generally enjoy going to work. I certainly never dread it.
I am sure I will change my mind in some months when the poverty sinks in, but for the moment I think I did the right thing.

on trying to be normal

It has now been over a month since I submitted my Phd, during which time I have experimented with “normal life.” I have gone to the pub with mates to watch football. I read an incredibly trashy book- High on Arrival by MacKenzie Phillips, yes, the one in which she confesses to having had sex with her own father. I have even experimented with cooking different types of cuisine, using my hungry flatmate as my chief guinea pig. He hasn’t died yet, so I guess I cant be THAT bad. I have rearranged the items in my flat.
I have also contemplated on how much I hate my job and will never succeed in becoming a “normal person” if I use that environment as my yardstick of normalcy. I go through the motions of behaving like my colleagues: I dress like them, I can speak like them, I can shout nasty things on conference calls and throw temper tantrums just as they do….but I am only acting. I will never actually turn into one of them. It would probably be better for me if I could- I would be headed down a safe road of financial success and security. But I would feel like I was spending my entire life (about 14 hours a day!) in the theatre, acting out a role I didn’t even like. I look at myself in the mirror of the office bathroom and I see myself wearing a costume, dressed up as a TV character in some office-based sitcom. I have spent 1.5 years trying to convince myself that I could do it. Over the past 6 months, I have seen my income rise higher than I ever thought it would….but even that didn’t make me believe in my new character. In quite moments with no few people around (which normally occurred at about 6 am) I would revert to myself, and write blog entries in outlook (pretending they were Very Important Emails), or even sneak peaks at flickr. Those moments were little gasps of freedom, and clear indications that I had not merged myself with my theatrical executive role. Someone would pass by my cubicle and I would deliberately snap back into action, barking orders down the phone line, demanding a form be faxed back to me RIGHT NOW and so on. As soon as the person was out of earshot, I would revert to myself again, pondering useless historical trivia and so on. Other than making good money, it has all become a fairly useless exercise.
So when I get offered a promotion and a transfer to Paris, I refuse. I couldn’t imagine anything more horrid. The thought of continuing with this charade, and even moving country permanently whilst in costume disgusts me. So I refuse.
I will never be "normal" if judged by these people, and i dont want to be. rather than seeking normalcy, i think i might just try switching paradigms, with hopefully improved results.

planet paris

I have spent the past 18 months wondering why it is impossible to market the same product simultaneously to French people and other Europeans and reached the conclusion that they are simply operating on a separate planet.
Last year I worked for the Russian state media, and we had fairly moderate success promoting Russian products in Western Europe and North America, but never in France, although at one point the company had brought in a French team specifically for that purpose. But as they had no luck, they soon became disheartened and quit. When I was interviewing for new jobs, one of the companies was actually looking for a French speaker to promote British material in France. Halfway through the interview, I called discussions to a halt, saying if France was to be my only market, I wasn’t interested. The woman doing the interviewing signed and nodded. In the middle of a recession, with mass unemployment and supposedly 50 people chasing every job, this position had been open for six months. Obviously no one wanted to touch a role clearly marked for failure. Yet as a French speaker, I kept getting offers somehow connected to that country. I finally accepted one trying to do the opposite: market French products into the rest of Europe. I have to say so far I am failing spectacularly. There is just no market for it. The material is of high quality, yet it remains fundamentally completely Francocentric: not in its direct orientation, but in the mental paradigm from which it is generated: the choice of subject matter and the way it is expressed it just completely French. I feel almost sorry for the research director: he dedicates endless hours to his job, and he takes pride in it….and seems truly puzzled as his ideas fall flat time and time again. I have tried to explain why I think certain plans and projects are not working, and he looks at me puzzled. “but it worked fine before,” he says in wonder. That was before when the company operated in France only. Before they got bought out by the people who employed me. Before they had to put up with teams of foreign consultants telling them what to do, and before they had to change.

working in france

Returning to my former home after several years working in England, I am struck by how at odds with the rest of the EU their working culture is. France is famous for its supposed 35 hour work week, and Sarkozy has faced tremendous opposition by suggestion that workers should be allowed to work more- if they want to. This world of professional laziness does exist- I have a friend who works for la poste, and she really does work 35 hours a week, get 6 weeks of holiday, lunch vouchers and an incredible pension plan. Looking at her, any Brit could only be but jealously snide. Yet alongside this workers’ paradise exists a separate reality: the small and successful private sector. It is a scary place. France has a few truly successful international companies that seem to think the only way to maintain their success is by treating their employees like slaves. Every time I visit our Paris office, I am shocked. Every one is at their desk by 9am and they stay there until 10pm or later. They still legally get several weeks holiday, but they often refuse to take it because of pressure from management. No one in Britain would put up with the working conditions such French employees endure, nor would any Brit tolerate the often harsh and disrespectful manner in which French bosses treat their inferiors. The contrast here between the private and public sector is too great to be healthy, in fact it appears dangerous. As I look at the newspapers, the scandal rages over the suicides at France telecom: the company was state owned until a few years ago when it was privatised and new management brought in. Since then the suicide rate has soared in the company, with over 25 deaths in the past year alone. Many took place actually on the job, and many left letters citing their working conditions as the reason.
No one should lose their mental health over a job. Yet if France is to address this issue, it will have to start by recognising there is a gulf of incomprehensible proportions between national rhetoric and corporate reality.

normal people

Intimidated by the excess of free time suddenly granted to me, I have been stumbled by exactly what is to be done with this extra time. For the past several years, I have come home from my office, eaten, changed, and sat down to work on my PhD. I worked until well into the evening, then directly went to bed. So now what?
Still clearly addicted to research, I decided to conduct a survey, with the aim of establishing exactly what “normal” people do in the evening.

J, 25, bookseller: I try to go to a gallery once a week, play the piano, sometimes a bit of flute, once a month or so I go to the theatre. Read.

A, 27, CityBoy: go out and get drunk, mate! Fuck man, last Saturday, right, I met this girl in a pub and then we went back to my place and did some drugs, and then like, I fucked her like 10 times, and then in the morning, the bitch said it was like date rape, and I was like, whatever, get the fuck out of my house!

K, 35, secretary: yesterday evening I ironed 7 shirts and cleaned the living room. Normally I watch TV and do chores.

M, 30, Account executive: go to the pub.

HS, 15, student: WIFI makes time fly!

P, 37, Salesman: I go to the gym and then I go over to my mother’s house for dinner. Then I go home and watch Big Brother.

F, 39, manager: go to the pub.

H, 35, Manager: go to karate with the kids, then get Chinese takeaway on the way home.

A, 30, banker: I get home around 2 am and go to sleep. I see my children at the weekend.

A, 27, trader: go down the boozer, go on a date, meet my mates, watch some footy.

T, 45, head of ops: meet up with friends, take salsa lessons.

A, 32: go for walks, go to the cinema, watch TV.


Preliminary results of research: the British working public spends a lot of time drinking and watching television. They are not that into cooking and rarely read books.
Conclusion: I will have to dedicate serious time and effort in reshaping my life if I ever imagine I will fit into this mass. Otherwise, it may just be that I am not normal.

taste of freedom

I began university exactly twelve years ago this month, an excited teenager in a foreign city, looking perhaps more for adventure than intellectual stimulation. Over the past 12 years, I have held a variety of odd jobs, moved flat and country more times than I can remember, and visited libraries around the globe. I have done four degrees in four countries. To be sure, I took some years off in between degrees along the way, but generally with the intention of saving money to continue. Then, yesterday, I went my current university’s student record office, and I handed in my doctoral thesis. I then went home, stared at the four walls around me, and wondered what to do. It was then it all sunk in: for the first time in 12 years I don’t HAVE to come home and do anything! I have worked to support myself throughout my studies, which has meant, especially in recent years, that the studying always got done at night time, after I got back from the office and ate dinner. I tried to imagine what “normal” people do with their time after work. I know what most of my colleagues do: they take cocaine, go to the pub and frequently end up screwing each other in unfortunate places. Or at least so they tell me every Monday morning. But then no one exactly holds up city bankers as role models of constructive use of free time. I am told other people watch TV. There is one in the corner of the flat, but when I walk over to it, I realise I don’t know how to turn it on. So I sit down on the sofa and open a book, a nice, delicious, uninformative novel. What an incredible sense of freedom!

on the Berber trail

Apparently the Berbers are the original inhabitants of North Africa, occupying the region for at least 1000 years before the Arabs began moving West in the 7th century. There is even evidence to suggest they were already in North Africa in the Upper Palaeolithic age. Most converted to Islam when the Arabs moved in alongside of them, but entire villages of Berber Jews remained in the Atlas mountains until the establishment of the state of Israel. The Berber villages that remain in the High Atlas are something to see, and certainly give a new meaning to “upward mobility.” Like the favelas of Rio, they are constructed seemingly on top of each other at the most incredible angles. They are constructed with a variety of materials, but earth appears the most common. When I am taken into the villages to meet the Elders, I feel a bit uncomfortable, as though an incredible show is being put on. Everyone comes out to greet me. The women don’t meet my gaze, and it is only the children I manage to communicate with- they all want to touch my nose ring, attempting to verify if it is really part of my nose or not. It is the start of Ramandan, but in every village they want to serve me mint tea, or Berber bread dipped in Olive oil. I am trapped by a combination of my own thirst, their hospitality, and a sense of guilt at eating in front of people who cannot. They poverty is stunning- there is no electricity and the women labour all day in unlit, tiny kitchens which seem to reach 50 degrees at this time of year. Yet they certainly have some of the best scenery in the world, with nearly every village looking out at deep ravines at winding rivers. The geography is hard to navigate, and I wanted to close my eyes more than a few times as the driver swerved around the winding roads, giving me a stunning view of the cliff side we just might go crashing down. If the children want to go to school, they would often have to navigate these roads, which are often snow covered in winter, for 3-5 kilometres both to and from school. As a result, not all make it. Yet, they are all seemingly capable of greeting me in French and asking me where I am from. The answers get me blank stares, however, and I am left feeling like an alien who descended from his UFO at the wrong stop.

Ramadan

My arrival in Morocco happened to correspond with the beginning of Ramadan, but there was nothing that could be done to change the dates. Of course Ramadan is practiced by many in Europe as well, but things are different here, where it is part of the life of the majority of the population. My Jewish guides decide that, especially at this time of the year, it was important I see how the majority of the people live. So it was decided that we would go to the house of one of the family’s business associates, so I could see what a traditional Muslim house looks like, and see how people break the fast as dusk falls. Although the guys escorting me about are Jews, they grew up fluent in Arabic, and as their community is so tiny, obviously most of their friends and business partners are Muslims. So we went to the house of one such man. M told me it was an “average middle class house” but I struggled to believe him. The neighbourhood was not particularly attractive, although the buildings were solidly built. But inside, the house was lovely, with spacious rooms spread out over two floors. Like most of the places I have seen here, the floor was tile or stone, with carpets placed strategically around the flat. One thing that astonishes me is that when we arrived, the door was not locked. Theft is rare apparently in Morocco, and people seemed shocked that I even noticed such a thing. The smell of delicious food hit me as we entered the flat. I was taken to the kitchen where I could see the women cooking an enormous meal. I was then introduced to all the children, who each wanted to give me a tour of their bedrooms. We then sat down at the table to eat. In such households, the men and the women eat the same food, but separately in different parts of the house. However, as a special guest, it was decided that I would eat with the men. The table was set, with a huge bowl of lentil soup in the middle, and numerous plates of delicious food surrounding it. We sat down and waited for the magic minute to break the fast. Over the radio, we heard the prayers beginning in Rabat, the capital, where the fast breaks about two minutes earlier. Then it was our turn. The minute was upon us, and all the men immediately reached for their glasses of water and began gulping, all of them downing the whole glass in one go. Next we all moved on to the soup, which was delicious. The hospitality here is incredible, and I was expected to try and give my opinion on every dish put in front of me, with the result that after a couple of hours I could barely move. The desserts were the most visually spectacular part, little sugary balls in an assortment of vibrant colours. Each one I tried was lovely, but there is a limit to how many one can digest! The dinner lasted a long time and we sat around the table and talked. I was quizzed about the economic crisis in Britain, and the cost of housing. The father proudly told me about his children’s many accomplishments: one of the girls had just got back from working in Dubai, another was studying medicine. When he heard how many countries I have travelled to, he asked, with a smile if I worked for Mossad. I assured him that I am not even Jewish, but he laughed, exclaiming “but they all say that!” As we left he pointed out that whilst he wore traditional Muslim dress, his children all wore modern, European clothes, and although his wife covered her head, his daughters did not. “We Moroccans are tolerant people, make sure you put that in your report!” he giggled as I got back on M’s motorcycle.

marrakesh

When I told friends in London I was heading to Marrakech for a while, many who had been there were horrified. Everyone assured me it was not place for a woman to go, and certainly not without her boyfriend. I would be harassed and heckled by vendors, Moroccan men and so on. Such issues never particularly bother me, and would certainly never stop me from going somewhere, so I just ignored everyone, as I usually do. In any case, things have turned out much the opposite. When I got my tickets I made one phone call to a childhood friend in Paris, who then made one phone call to M, the Important Cousin here in Morocco, and no one has touched me, spoken to me or looked at me since I arrived. Everywhere I walk, seas of people part and move away respectfully, which is fine with me! M, The Important Cousin is part of what is left of the city’s once vibrant Jewish community. Jews have been present here since Phoenician times, and their community flourished for centuries by working at middlemen between Christian merchants and the local Muslim population. According to the Alliance Israelite Universelle, there were just under 16,000 Jews in Marrakech at the start of the 20th century. Today my contacts tell me there are less than 3,000 in all of Morocco and less than 300 in Marrakech. Soon, M reckons there will be none left at all, as those who are left tend to be elderly. His only hope was that perhaps some aspects of their culture might have entered into the Moroccan national culture, and thus some memory of them will remain. Perhaps for this reason, all the members of the remaining Jewish community I have met here are obsessed by their history. Over dinners, I get told the family story from a variety of perspectives: the illiterate grandmother who was married at the start of the 19th century in the Mellah at the age of 9 and had the first of her 7 children at the age of 13. Although she was less than 5 feet tall, all her children and grandchildren were terrified of her, even when she was in her 80s. About one of the sons who fought in the war and then decided, still a teenager to immigrate to nascent state of Israel- the mother was not for this and went all the way to Israel to bring him back, but only after humiliating him by forcing him to drink a glass of milk in front of his mates. Then there was another son who was condemned to death by the previous King of Morocco, Hassan II, for his activities in the communist party, but the family arranged for him to be smuggled out to France. I struggle to keep up with the stories, there are so many and the family appears so large it is hard to remember who was who exactly in this great saga. Every lunch and dinner encounter turns into an epic oral history of war and heroes, oppression and survival. Incredible stuff.

on corner shops

I find the variety of produce sold in my local corner shop to be most perplexing. The place is run by turks, and there are the predictable Turkish items, chiefly excellent flat bread and Turkish cheese, both of which I adore. Alongside these items are various curry-related items, presumably catering to the large local Bengali population. Then there are the nasty bottles of non-refrigerated beer sold in bulk, lest we forget that this is still England. And finally, the there are strange bottles of pickled cabbage and pickles imported from Poland, and the illegally imported Ukrainian cigarettes behind the counter. All most odd indeed, but nice to have close to home. I keep running over to it as I think of things I desperately need while finishing up my PhD. In the middle of a chapter on the theory of travel, I suddenly decide that what I absolutely need before writing another line is…..a chocolate bar! Or that my dinner will not be complete unless I get up and go buy some of that pickled cabbage! Or that AT THIS EXACT MOMENT, I need to clean the kitchen, and for that I need to go get some…sponges!
Perhaps even more perplexing thus is the fact that over the past 12 years that I have been a student, my procrastinating tactics have hardly altered. Over this long period of academic pursuit, I have never lived in the same place longer than 12 months, yet in every grimy flat where I have lived, in all 6 countries where I have I rented places, I have managed to find the appropriate corner shop to visit 5 times per evening in exam or paper writing season. I am sure the owners of all of these corner shops have thought I was insane. About a year ago, I found myself back in a neighbourhood in Moscow where I had previously shared a flat with a mate. For nostalgia sake I went into the 24 hour corner shop I had plagued in my time there. The same long suffering woman was still working there. She looked at me and sighed: “have you graduated yet?” she demanded.
Hopefully in a few more weeks I will finally be able to respond YES!

moving forwards

Black hole of work
Sleep (a little)
Office by 6:30 (am)
15 minutes for lunch
Leave office (as late as possible)
Go home
Eat pasta
Collapse
Sleep

I wouldn’t really qualify this as a fulfilling existence.
I stop at a bagel place on Brick lane most mornings to pick up something for breakfast (we are given free breakfast at work, but I get bored of the same things over and over…)
The people know me, and we chat, there are not many people on brick lane at that hour- the night revellers have gone home, and normal people are not up yet. The bagel guys know I work in the city, they know the weird hours I work. The cleaner tells me I am lucky to have a job- his daughter is my age and has been unemployed for nearly a year. “they are prats down there, but you should put up with it until the recession is over” he tells me with paternal concern. Of course he is right.
But how much longer is the recession going to last?

budapest

There is possibly no place I would rather be on a warm july afternoon than outside a café on Liszt Ferenc ter having a glass of wine with friends.
It is truly amazing how the standard of living, at least when it comes to such minor daily pleasures, is significantly higher here than in the north western regions of the continent. It has been six years since I moved to this city, and five since I left, which in itself shocks me. It seems so recent. I can still vividly remember the mornings running down Andrassy ut, late for a historiography lecture. Every time I come back here it seems like time has stood still for me. I went back to my old department, and wandered around the campus. Little had change, which reassured me that not too much time had passed. In the evening we all met again, the great ceu gang. It had been two years since we were all reunited in one city, and it was good to catch up with everyone. On the surface not much had changed, although new boyfriends and girlfriends appeared, struggling to catch up on our cliquish and ancient gossip (do you remember 4 years ago when….). We were all there for Kati and Gabor’s wedding, it was warm and sunny, and the mood was festive. We drank, ate and smoked far too much, and I realise that while I will never and probably could never live again in this wonderful place, I do indeed miss it terribly. In the middle of the night I walked back from the castle district to my hotel in Pest. Climbing down the steps below the castle, I stopped for some moments and looked back, amazed at just how beautiful Buda is all lit up. I eventually found my way down to the embankment, there was a concert being spontaneously staged by some guys with guitars and an amp. People were playing football and table tennis alongside the Danube. Skateboarders and cyclists were still out, and meat was being grilled on open fires. It was a carnival atmosphere, and yet it was just an ordinary summer Saturday evening. The music echoed across the river, and I could still vaguely hear it as if got off the Chain bridge in Pest, and stumbled off to my hotel.

on spain

It is frustrating launching a major project involving Spaniards, particularly in the Summer. Their working hours are just completely at odds with the rest of the continent.
I am dealing with some of the country’s most important bankers, insurers and automotive executives. Yet, when it is not a national or regional holiday, which it often is, many of them have “summer office hours” that run from about 8-3, making it impossible to get anything done after that hour. Even the banks that stay open “late” seem to have highly flexible working regimes. For example, last week I called a contact in one of the Spain’s biggest bank at 2pm. I called on his mobile and could hear the clinking of plates in the background. He said he was having lunch in a restaurant. I asked when it would be convenient for me to call back, to which he replied that he THOUGHT he would be done eating by 4:30! My French colleague and I stared at each other in disbelief, and jealousy. On Thursday I tried to arrange a meeting with another banker for the following morning….but no, he had decided, at the last minute, to take a four day weekend to go to the beach, and asked us to rearrange the meeting until the following Tuesday!! He then preceded to describe his envisioned weekend: the beach, relaxing, having some drinks….i work daily with industry players in Germany, Italy (yes even ITALY) France and the UK, and all of us are stuck in the office for at least 10 hours or more a day. Yet arguably the best European bank at the moment is a Spanish one…so what the hell is the secret? I confess, I am jealous, horribly, horribly jealous.

dublin

I have always had mixed feelings about Dublin. Lots of people I know adore the city, but it has never really captured my attraction in that way. It has its moments: I enjoy strolling along the river or the canals, or walking on the cobblestone streets….but it has always struck me as too small, provincial and certainly too expensive for my tastes. Architecturally, it is too close to a small English city, with lots of brick buildings and a dark gloomy feel. The now-over boom of the pervious decade led to some nice blocks of flats being built, but in general, there are still a lot of British-style terraced houses. On top of that, the prices are high even compared to London. A pint cost me between 5 and 6 Euros in the various pubs I went to in the centre, which is rather steep, and the restaurants were similarly over priced, and generally offered far less choice than in London. Some people rave about the “new Irish cuisine,” but I confess it leaves me cold. Of course it is unfair to compare a city of 1.5 million to one of 10 million, but even compared to cities of its own size, I think Dublin stands out for its high prices versus level of quality. You can certainly eat better for less in Barcelona, Lisbon or Rome than in Dublin. Furthermore, while I like intrinsically the pubs in the renowned Temple bar area, they tend to be filled with the Worst of Britain: English people over for stag parties or Hen nights, apparently under the impression that because they are technically abroad, they have a special license to behave like savages. As I was showing foreign friends around the city, I felt like I had to at least take them by Temple bar, but instead of using the medieval street patterns and low ceiling buildings to conjure up images of Irelands famous writers scribbling away in dark corners over a pint of Guinness, I found myself attempting to explain why there were large groups of very drunk English girls with angel wings strapped to their backs, running around semi-naked and screaming in the streets. We eventually went elsewhere to sit down, enjoy a pint, and catch up. There have been efforts to ban stag and hen parties from the Temple bar area, but they have clearly been unsuccessful. If I were Irish, these parties would be just another reason for disliking the English, not that the Irish need to search too hard for such reasons.
But we were extremely lucky with the weather. Although my friends had flown over armed with jumpers and rain gear, it was sunny and close to 30 degrees every day. We spent several hours lying on the grass in St Stephen’s green chatting away. We wandered around the streets until 10 pm, and the sun showed no sign of disappearing. Even amongst the drunken English revellers and the overpriced offerings, it was hard not to enjoy ourselves.

strategy safaris

i am quite certain i was not made for a corporate career.
the only targets and goals i am truely motivated to achieve are those i set for myself. spread sheets do not motivate me. neither really does financial incentive, even though i thought it would.
i am writing this while sitting in something called a "strategy safari." this is a webcast that everyone in the company around the world is meant to log into at the same time so that top managers show us the future. such things bore me. after 15 minutes, my eyelids start getting heavy, and after 30 minutes i have to pinch my legs to keep from falling asleep. yet virtual attendance is required, and we are not meant to be doing anything else at this time. i am pretending to be ending questions to the moderators via the web. i dont know how much more of this i can take. not much, i feel sure. i hate wasted time, i hate empty bullshit. my boss walks around the floor telling us again and again to : "make some money." but i dont care, money motivates me as a means of survival, not as a way of existing. there has to be more to life than this, surely?

london- Strike!

I am back in Britain in time to watch it….behave like France! The Metro workers have declared a 48 hour strike, which began Tuesday afternoon and will apparently continue for the next 2 days unless a deal is reached between the unions and the TFL. I seriously thought this was a Franco-German problem, but I guess not. Our HR department sent us an email yesterday afternoon telling us to make sure to go home before the 7pm deadline. I walked past several tube stations around 6:30 and it looked liked a war was about to break out. The entire entrance was jammed by people trying to get in the station before it closed, people were pushing, shoving and shouting at each other in frustration. This morning was more surreal. The streets seemed to be filled with businessmen walking briskly to work, looking frequently at their watches to see how late their pedestrian route would make them. The queues at bus stops were epic, as people desperately looked down the road to see if a red vehicle was moving their direction. Yet despite the feeling that the streets were crowded with people, the office was dead when I walked in. at least half the staff were missing. Some later made it in, late, with tales of hour long waits for the bus and other horrors. The head of marketing for one bank told me she thought she would escape the mess by taking one of the overland national rail services....only to arrive at the station to find it closed due to a suicide!
Even in the rain, I was grateful for my bike!

zagreb

it is strange how many good croatian friends i have, given how much i dislike Croatia.
as a result, i do from time to time end up in this country. yet, everytime i am here i am aware that clearly my friends are not representative of the country. over a lengthy dinner Saturday night, the guy next to me estimated that in his entire life as a Croat, he had managed only to be in contact with two percent of the population, something he seemed quite grateful for. for it is a country with some scary elements, as i got to see close up this weekend. One of my good friends got married in Zagreb and of course i came over for the occassion. He had a very civilised ceremony, and had planned an after party in an elegant restaurant on the Central square, Trg jelacica. but soon after he made the reservation, he realsied that they very same night there was going to be a Thompson concert on the very same square. for those of you lucky enough not to have been exposed at length to the kitchy horror of Balkan Turbo folk, Thompson is a singer from a town called Cavoglave. he joined the army and fought in what the Croats are now calling the "Homeland war" and made lots of videos of his music, featuring him in his uniform and lots of guys waving guns over their heads, as they pledged to defend their village from the cetniks.
by the time we got to the square around 7:30, the square was already filling with Thompson fans. they were the kind of Croats i dont know: loud screaming people with ustasa tatoos and flags wrapped around their bodies. a couple of guys from the wedding party insisted on escorting me into the building where the after party was to be held, lest my accent exposed me to the mob as the evil person they would think i am, and lead to me being lynched. "you dont mess with these guys, they are crazy and violent," one of my escorts whispered in my ear as we walked pass a guy in a Thompson shirt brandishing a fake looking sword.
By 9pm, the square had tens of thousands of people. we went on the balcony overlooking the show to watch as a priest came on stage to describe what a hero Thompson was, and to detail for us all his great struggles on behalf of the homeland in the war. By the time Thompson came on stage, the crowd was a screaming mob of hysteria. the stage had been constructed as a fake castle, and periodically flames lept out of certain parts of it, as the now middle aged ex-war hero ran around in incredibly tight jeans. it was slightly absurd and I giggled. "yeah, it is funny for you, you dont have to live here," groaned the guy on the balcony next to me. The croat of his screaming countrymen was clearly as foreign to him as to me. yet what was most curious was the age of the audience: they were not old war vets. Many looked to young to have fought in the war. this was not an event appealing to nostalgia, it was something that was still drawing and attracting new blood.
what planet do i live on that allows me to frequently travel to a country, speak its language, make friends, and yet still be so astonished by a clearly sizable chunk of its population that is exotic enough to me that it resembles a freak show?

paris

I hate the French working culture.
There are many things I liked about living in this country. It would be a great place to retire….or be a student. But the work contracts are horridly restrictive and the corporate culture is absolutely lethal. Managers obsess over ultimately very petty issues which have little relevance to performance (the type of shoes worn by an employee, for example) and lots of time is wasted stupidly. Most of all there is an annoying disconnect between what the French claim their work culture is about and its reality. For example, officially French workers enjoy a 35 hour work week, which many French claim passionately they support and will defend. They claim to reject the “anglo-saxon” workaholic model which they blame for all sorts of social ills. Every time any politician (like Sarkozy) attempts to allow for something as gentle as an opt out possibility in the 35 hour work week, unions got crazy and people flood the streets. But this is a total misrepresentation. The French public sector might get away with 35 hours at their desks, and they do amount for a hefty 20% or so of the workforce, but I really believe they are the unsustainable exception. All the French I know in private sector jobs work long hours, often longer than their counterparts in London as lots of time is lost on the stupid and petty. No one here leaves the office before 9pm here, and they are all back again at 8 the next morning. Then on top of that are the two hour lunches. Again, while I lived in France, I was repeatedly assured of the social value and importance of having a “proper lunch” in order to “relax” and “change your ideas.” Again, maybe this is the case if your work for la poste, but I find French lunches a twisted form of torture. They last forever, and people talk about business the whole time! Every day I spent in the paris office, I was taken for a lengthy lunch, and forced to attempt concentration as some analyst babbled on about various figures while munching on his chips. I would have preferred to eat a sandwich at my desk and leave the office 2 hours earlier. But, no, that is not possible in a highly rigid society where everyone is expected to do the same thing at the exact same moment of the day. French people often ask me about the supposed dictatorship that has (re)installed itself in Russia. But freedom depends on how you define it. France undeniably has more political freedom than Russia. But what about civil liberties?? The freedom to eat cheese at four in the afternoon? The freedom to smoke in a restaurant? The freedom to eat lunch when and where you want to? The freedom to suggest a new strategy to your boss? By those measures Russia, and much of eastern Europe along with it, would certainly emerge as the more free society, France is imprisoned by a collective mental dictatorship. It is a great pity, the country could be so much more.

endings, beginnings

i finished my old job yesterday, my new job starts monday morning in paris.
i am scared. mainly of failing as the task i have been given is enormous. and i am sad to say goodbye to the few people i liked in my old job.
looking back, i cant believe i spent exactly one calendar year in that job. at times it certainly dragged, but the last five months flew by so quickly that it all seems hazy to me now. by the end the crisis was taking its toll, people were getting threats of redundancy and heads on high were rolling. i developed a peculiar but crippling stomach problem. a cramp would appear in the pit of my stomach. sometimes i struggled to sit up. it got hard to focus on my computer screen. the doctors sent me for blood testing and ultra sounds, but i didn't think much of that. mysteriously the pain would vanish every day within an hour of leaving the office, and it never hit me on holiday. i knew i had to escape. after i gave in my notice of resignation, the pain vanished and it hasn't been back since.

and now, back to where this blog all started: paris.

monday morning draws near......

random anecdotes

I bought a leather bracelet on Sunday. But when I got on the metro and decided to put it on, I realise the shop had left on the security tag. I tried to pull it off, but it was attached by a metal wire, with instructions to use scissors for removal. The guy next to me had been staring at the bracelet and asked if I needed help. He seemed friendly so I showed him the problem. He proceeded to remove the wiring…with his teeth! He just bit through the metal like a rat, handed the bracelet back to me and said “here you go, oh, and I am Ferenc by the way.” Ferenc? So you must be Hungarian!” I said, certain that Ferencs can only occur amongst one particular nationality. But I was wrong. This Ferenc was South African, and had never set foot in Hungary. His father had been of Hungarian origin, but had only stayed with his mother long enough to give him a pseudo Hungarian name. and at that point, Ferenc the metal biting Boer got off the train and went on his way.

Nearly every day I stop by a corner shop to by a Diet Coke. The place is run by an Indian guy, and every day he is reading a porn magazine. Every day I pretend not to notice the pictures of naked women with improbable proportions. Today the image was so incredible I confess it caught my shocked eye for a moment. The man saw. “my wife left me. 10 years ago.” He said. He handed me my change and went back, glum faced, to his porn.

At lunch a colleague starts a surreal story about the mother of one of his kids who was previously dating one of FBI’s most wanted men. He was killed. She later broke into my colleague’s flat and stole designer clothes from his present live-in girlfriend. He confiscated her passport and held it for ransom to get back the clothes. The baby is really cute.

Another colleague has started coming to work in a face mask to prevent swine flu. He is convinced that “the chavs” (of whom he lives in fear) are all going to get it and breathe on him on the metro.

a new day

So the big day finally came. I handed in my resignation. As of four weeks from today I will no longer work for the Russian media. I will have done exactly one year minus one week in this cubicle. I have definitely learned a lot and had lots of adventures: in London, but also in Poland, Switzerland, Georgia and elsewhere! But it is time to move on, and conveniently with a pay raise. Hopefully things will move forward. We shall see.

kindle 2

Ok I confess when ereaders first hit the market, I was deeply suspicious. I love books. I love holding them, I love having them in my house. It didn’t seem possible that a little hand held electronic device could come close to the power of printed matter.

But after three years of working in a bookshop, and being flooded with free samples, I had amassed a book collection of ridiculous proportions. Then it came time for me to move flats. I took load after load to a used book shop. I sold off hundreds of books. I gave away the ones the used bookshops didn’t want. But I still had 30 boxes of books left. Some are collectors items from previous centuries. Some are signed by famous authors. Some I just love….but then some are simply interesting books I have read, yet may never read again. Considering in particular the latter category, I decided to go digital. I did the same a few years back when I got an ipod. It was one of the best moves I ever made.

So now I have a kindle 2. it is an amazing little machine. It can store 1,600 books at a time, it is super light, and when I am really bored at work, I can discreetly prop it on my desk and read fiction! Or I can put on headphones and have it read to me! It makes long intercontinental flights so much more pleasant and luggage free. So I have been won over. I still love my books. I intend to keep many of them. But for those one-off reads, I am very happy with my kindle

back in london

As annoying as certain aspects of it are, there are some big advantages to facebook.

One of my colleagues at work actually runs a side business on facebook from his cubicle. Given the current state of things in the office, his facebook constructed business is probably bringing in more money these days than his day job.

It has helped me too: having studied in international schools, and in different countries, I have friends all over the place. But thanks to facebook, I at least know where they are based and have a means of getting in touch with them. In February, I located my old colleague Johanna in Sydney and we met up for a drink. So when I found out I would be going to Minneapolis, something in my brain clicked- didn’t Jared’s facebook profile indicate he was living there?

After a few wall-to-wall exchanges, I found myself on the other side of the planet, having a drink in a bar with Jared, in Minnesota’s great metropolis. We had studied together in Budapest some five years earlier. I struggled to believe that five years had passed since we finished out MAs. five years is a long time, but I remember everything about that year with hyper clarity. I didn’t actually know Jared too well that year. well, in Budapest we all knew each other to some degree, but he was always more a friend of a friend (zack) than a close friend of mine. I have a funny memory of him from one evening towards the end of the year. my friend yaelle was visiting from paris and we had gone to one of those out door Hungarian courtyard bars. Jared stumbled by, smiling from a nice evening out drinking and smoking with mates. He sat down and entertained us for a good 45 minutes before trundling off on his way.

And five years on we met again in a Minneapolis parking lot. He drove me around the small centre of the city before taking me to a bar to catch up on news. After three days of attempting to communicate with people with whom I have absolutely nothing in common, speaking with Jared was like a breath of reality, or at least, my reality. Strange how after five years, I still have so much in common, not only with him, but with all those I studied with in Hungary. I am not sure if it was the recruiting process, or the combination of intensity and shared experience that shaped us into intellectually similar beings. but i know my year in hungary was one of the most important in my life, and that many of my most valued friendships come from that time. and that where ever i go or end up, my deep love and respect for budapest will always be there.

food

There is a major food epidemic in the US. I have spent 7 days in this country in the past 10 years, (three days in 2006, and four days in 2009) and on both of these occasions I have found it pretty shocking, perhaps because it is just so different. It is not that just SOME people happen to be fat. Rather MANY people are huge, and (worse) it would be hard not to be, given the food available. I spend three days in Rochester, which is famous for its world class medical facilities. Yet the centre of the town has about 3 restaurants, as far as I could see. One of those was closed, another was a steak house whose only vegetarian dish was a greasy looking macaroni and cheese, and the final one was…..well, in the end I got mac and cheese there too…..on Sunday I order something which claims to be a “green salad side order.” It arrives with spinach leaves, sugar coated walnuts and tinned fruit bits in it, all smothered in a disgusting dressing. I couldn’t eat it. even a side dish of steamed potatoes proved inedible. the portions were large enough to feed three people my size, and cost less than half what the same dish would cost me in Europe. The wine generally seemed to come from cardboard boxes with little plastic nozzles, and was served with ICE CUBES! I had to show my ID every single time I asked for a drink, and no alcohol was for sale on Sundays.

On Monday I met up with Jared, an old classmate from Hungary who lives in Minneapolis, having moved there as his partner is on a post grad course at the university there. He has lived there less than two years and they will be moving to the West Coast next month. He is just completing a teacher training course, but claims if he doesn’t get a teaching job, he wants to work in food policy. Clearly I am not the only one who thinks there is a problem. He complained that buying fresh vegetables is seen as “elitist” or “snobby.” He is made to feel like a freak, or at least a not-one-of-us, every time he stocks up on greens in the supermarket. He is made to feel “self indulgent” or “foolish” for spending a large sum of his (lowish) income on his food and drink. Apparently that is seen as wasteful. More “prudent” people buy more cheaply- choosing quantity over quality. This results in lots of processed, refined stuff devoid of nutrients and stuffed with all sorts of weird things.

I have never been a food activist. I like to eat reasonably well, and I enjoy good food, but I have never thought too much about it. but looking at the average Midwesterner, I felt truly scared. I passed people who looked like walking time bombs. People who rode around in wheel chairs, not because they were handicapped, but because walking left them “out of breath.” I met a woman who was in fact confined to a wheel chair by necessity- her type two diabetes had led to the amputation of a leg!

On Sunday, my mother and I had wanted to have some wine. The restaurant didn’t serve it on Sunday. Neither did any shops. We decided to make it a mission to find alcohol, just to prove we can. We finally found a hotel (but not ours!) whose room service let us buy a bottle and take it with us back to our own hotel. On the 5 minute walk back, we noticed people staring at us and whispering nervously. Clearly the sight of two foreigners breaking the traditions unnerved them. But is drinking a glass of wine on a Sunday really worse than living on a diet of twinkies and starch? I suppose it is a matter of perspective, but I was clearly the odd one out in this case.

MOA

This was my second trip to the Mall of America in Minnesota. My first is covered in an earlier entry from July 2006. rereading it, I see that my first impression was one of shock that the complex truly seemed to be the highpoint of many peoples lives in the Minneapolis area. People were actually proud of their shopping mall and saw it as one of the chief highlights foreigners should be shown! At the time, such rampant displays of consumerism horrified me.
What scared me this trip around was the emptiness. Except for the entertainment complex in the middle of the mall, which was still filled with screaming kids, much of the mall seemed empty. The global financial crisis has hit here hard. All the shops have sales, not just symbolic ones, but 50-75% ones. even summer clothes are on sale, and the items have only just hit the shops. In banana republic I found myself the only customer. In Abercrombie and fitch I bought cashmere jumpers for 10 DOLLARS that I know cost 80-120 POUNDS in London, an over 90% savings. i was so shocked that I bought three, but I don’t know why I didn’t get more, at that price. The sales assistant at the till desperately tried to push some last minute add-ons: did I need socks to go with those jumpers? Perfume? Maybe a scarf?
The feeling of emptiness is not only in the mall. The town seems abandoned too, except for some groups of kids wandering about with hoodies concealing their heads. Several signs announce “closing down sale, everything must go!” Some buildings are just boarded up entirely. Pensioners tell me about their shrinking reserve pots and cutting back on meals. Things might be bad in Europe, but they are definitely worse here.

on the road, again

Another crazy flight schedule- three countries in one bank holiday weekend. To make things more stressful, the night before I left England, I had a third and final job interview for a position I had wanted. So instead of packing sensibly, I was pacing about in panic mode. They promised me an answer by the next day. But when I called the recruiter handling my case from Amsterdam…he had heard nothing. Hours passed. Nothing. Panic. Were they offering it to the other person first and waiting to get their response before rejecting me? I wandered nervously around schipol. Answers weren’t coming and I put it out of my mind.
Yet after a 10 hour flight across the atlantic, I turned on my mobile, while still on the plane, and found a text message informing me that I had got the job. I squawked and the flight attendants looked at me nervously. The salary is higher and I was most likely facing redundancy in my old job anyway. I had known it was time to move on. But getting a new offer of more money as quickly as I did surprised me. We are in the middle of an ongoing recession, and I just feel really lucky to have got anything at all, never mind an offer so generous. I just hope the offer turns out to be as good as it seems, although a year of working in the City has made me suspicious of everything…

preotests in london

So as I suppose everyone knows by now, we have had some excitement in London.

Angry (but generally good natured) mobs took to the streets in the square mile (many of them right outside my office). They proclaimed, among other things, that consumers suck and capitalism kills. Many were young anarchists from all over Europe. Some were recently unemployed middle age workers. Clearly all were frustrated by the state of things. The police warned City workers in advance to “dress down” for the day, and sure enough most did turn up to work in jeans, myself included. In the office there was lots of talk arguing the protestors were just “little school children who just need to grow up” or “just jealous.” But the two groups actually deserve each other. Obviously the protesters were there to provoke City workers. But looking up and seeing a guy in a suit, waving a fist full of 50 pound notes from his glass and steel box…well it is provocative as well. By lunchtime the whole area around bank tube station was so crowded that it was impossible to get in or out of the area. Effigies of bankers were hung, graffiti generously sprayed, while the four horsemen of the apocalypse rode around with megaphones. The weather was unusually pleasant and the police presence was overwealming.

The question is: how are we all going to get out of this mess? People are loosing their jobs at alarming rates all over the country, and the end is not yet really in sight, even as some recent indicators suggest “green shoots.” It doesn’t appear that anyone has the answers

on paranoia

A Russian blogger, Dmitry Solovyov, was arrested yesterday, essentially for having criticised the police and security forces on LiveJournal. How did this become a crime?
The charges against him claim that the posts were made "with the aim of inciting hatred and hostility against a social group among an indefinite number of people" and that they undermine "the foundations of the constitutional system and the state's security," The matter has been turned into a criminal case as "Solovyov is suspected of actions aimed at inciting hatred or hostility and humiliating a group of people depending on their affiliation with certain social groups, such as Interior Ministry and FSB officers" claim more authorities. And now it seems they are trying to use technology to identify all the people who posted comments on the blog, I suppose to arrest them as well? If the authorities think this will make the problem go away, they are predictably wrong. I had never heard of this guy or his blog until he was arrested, but I shall be googling it now!

death in the UK

So the british press has spent the past week covering in depth the deaths of two country’s celebrities.

Natasha Richardson died in a freak ski accident on Wednesday. She was sort of my family’s favourite actress, or rather, various members of her family were. (my dad often preferred Vanessa, my mother always like Corin). My mother like Richardson best in the Parent Trap, my father I think would vote for her role in the White Countess, and I liked her best live, in Caberet. My mother once commented that both Richardson and her mother, Vanessa Redgrave, were in their very different ways so stereotypically English. That her death caused such an outpouring of sadness in so many circles in this country suggests my mother had a point.

Yet stereotypically English can apparently mean many things. Richardson had class and style, and she always seemed to carry herself with dignity and discretion in public. She spoke English with a posh accent and her French was fluent. Yet the over the top outpouring of grief over the death of Jade Goody suggests that is not necessarily the image all people in this country connect with.

There are few people on this planet seemingly less destined for stardom than Goody was, and how she turned herself into a multi-millionaire still rather perplexes me. But then, it seems she represented an image many people….respected? Stephan Fry called her a ‘Princess Di from the wrong side of the tracks’ one of the mourners outside her house called her ‘our Essex Princess.’ She notoriously shot to fame by wondering on camera what asparagus might be, and if ‘East Angular’ was abroad. Contrary to all traditional stereotypes of Britishness, she was loud, abrasive and crude, and the public loved it. Perhaps we should not be surprised. The stereotypes of British coolness is both antiquated and classist. Britain has far more Jade Goodys in it than Natasha Richardsons

the future

“Saca la cuenta, un tercio de las horas de tu vida se gastarán durmiendo, un tercio trasladándote de un lado para otro y cumpliendo rutinas, y el tercio más interesante se te irá trabajando, por eso es major hacerlo en algo que te guste.”



Excellent advice….but how to implement it?



Advice anyone?

networking

This week I had to attend a “networking” event for Russians in London (read “pianka”).
For reasons beyond my comprehension, this event was held on a boat. Every time another boat went by, ours would shake and bobble about, which as the evening wore on and people became progressively more intoxicated, proved to be a lethal combination.
The crowd was predictably scary. There were lots of business men in expensive suits, and lots of women who looked like they were….um…in a different sort of business.
It took me one quick survey of the scene to realise I was
the only non- Russian woman there
the shortest woman there
the darkest woman there
the worst dressed woman there
the ugliest woman there
the only, um, non for profit woman there.

My colleagues and I took over a leather sofa in the corner and studied these creatures (the men were not really worth studying)

and we drank

and obviously at some moment i had to go to the toilet. i got in ok, but after i flushed and attempted to leave the stall...something happened to the door and it JUST WOULD NOT OPEN!!
i shook it, i pulled at it....but nothing. finally a female voice shouted "pomoch?" whereupon i explained my predicament. to cut a long and pathetic story short, i was liberated from my toilet cell by three coke-snorting prostitutes. when the door swung open and i looked up at my 6 foot tall blonde liberators, i felt like a troll being released from an underground pit.

i might need to change jobs.

on reading 2

I have been devouring the world of ebooks.
It is amazing the volume of material out there: I have been rereading hemingway again, after over a decade. And Ernesto sabato. And enjoying Tzvetan Todorov for entirely personal and non-academic reasons! This is all pure escapism. Monday and Tuesday I found myself in a conference on the financial crisis. The banking sector is falling apart, and no one has any idea when the bottom will become visible. One of the major presenters at the conference (head of a large division at RBS) introduced himself saying “at RBS we do now sell postage stamps in addition to our other services.” I have heard the same comments over and over again the past few months. My brain is exhausted from the gloom and doom, mainly because I simply have no clue what to do about it all, other than to desperately try to remain employed, at least somewhere. I am at a loss for other solutions. So I sit back and enjoy fiction. And some of Bob Woodward’s books on the last Bush administration, which read like fiction, even if they are unfortunately more reality than not. My mind drifts over to japananese manga. Then on to Hungarian fiction. I giggle through a travelogue on Buenos aires. It is not that I am trying to ignore reality, I just don’t know what else to do with it, and I figure I might as well enjoy my time as best I can, until I come up with a more productive use of it.

building a glorious new future

In the aftermath of the revolution, the world had to be recreated anew, rejecting everything that could be possibly connected to the old. This creation had to take place in every sphere of life: in politics, education, the army, and not least, in visual culture. At the vanguard of visual reimaginings of the homeland were Aleksandr Rodchenko and Lyubov Popova. There work is currently on display at Tate Modern, and I had a wander through on Saturday. Construction art equated the artist with the engineer, as both were building the new society emerging around them. The rendering of the visual into the useful was the aim of Rodchenko and Popova, and they cultivated seriousness as a way of life. The exhibit features one of Rodchenko’s sculptures, which doubled as a Newspaper Kiosk, while Popova additionally designed patterns for the clothes of the workers. Yet my favourite part of the exhibit was the advertising section from the NEP era. Although such work was produced decades before my birht, it reminded me of my childhood. The style of production Rodchenko and Popova pioneered has lingered to the present. The theatre posters looked nearly identical to those on display outside Russian theatres today. The poster for Red October biscuits looked similar to some I used to have hanging in my room. I love the clean lines, the direct messages and the kitschy symbolism. And I was impressed that large numbers of non-Russians were showing up for this (not inexpensive) display of constructivism abroad.

reading

Using means I shall not reveal publically, I have managed to get entire collections of works by some of my favourite South American writers in pdf form on my laptop. This is important because it would be unprofessional to be seen in the office, or in an important conference, sitting and reading a book. Yet for some reason, it is absolutely normal to be sitting in those same places looking intensely at the computer. Furthermore, as these pdfs are in a language few in England speak, I think I can just about get away with it. Of course I am meant to be doing other things, but with the state of the world economy in freefall….i wouldn't get too far even if I exhausted myself trying.
So I started with Carlos Fuentes's Los anos con Laura Diaz. I love Fuentes, but this book leaves me cold. It is a sweeping 20th century epic, as Laura finds herself witness to every revolution and upheaval of the age. Yet while there are fascinating moments, the book reads more like an attempt to fictionalise a history text than a story, set in a historic setting. Too many of the characters are flat, more symbols of their era than believable personalities. So, when they die, I find myself not caring in the slightest.
So I go back and reread Aura, one of Fuentes' older works. It is really a novella, so I finish it in the afternoon. It is one of the creepiest stories I know. I first read it back when I was in school, and I marvel now that the teachers dared give such a work to a bunch of teenagers. I doubt they would today. Tomorrow, feeling an urge for some pop culture influence, I think I shall move on to Manuel Puig
Reading Los anos con Laura Diaz reminded me a bit too much in its aftertaste of a film I saw recently, Clint Eastwood's production Gran Torino. Like Fuentes' book, this film, should have been a real masterpiece. Yet…somehow too many of the characters remain flat, never really evolving into people I care about. So while you stay riveted to the plot just to see how it will all end, the feeling isn't there somehow.
Yet such was not the case with Revolutionary Road, which I saw after arriving jet lagged back in London. Possibly one of the best films I have seen in the past year, every character here is grimly believable. It is not an easy film to watch, but it was certainly worth it, and I recommend it to anyone looking for a good film.
And if anyone has any nice thick books in pdf to recommend me, I shall be more than grateful.

KL

I like big, modern Asian cities. In particular, I like their anonymous height. My hotel room is on the 30th floor of a huge modern sky scraper. I am sure my father (who hates such things) would say it was ‘characterless,’ but I quite like things that way. It is modern and comfortable. I have a huge bed, and a remote control that does everything from monitor the temperature, to control all the light switches. If I am in bed and I want it warmer, I just press the plus button and everything is taken care of. And then there is the view. I love standing at my window and watching the traffic below. I love staring at the other skyscrapers, none of which are quite close enough for me to see in or for anyone to see me. I could stand totally naked at my window (not that I have) and no one would see me. But I can see the first trains, monorails, go by in the early morning, and watch the men on their scooters racing off to work. I can watch the sun turn funny colours as it falls quickly in the west, and the bright lights of the space age buildings in front of me switch on.

Malaysia

This country is culinary heaven. I have always travelled on my stomach, but rarely do I fine countries where the hungry beast of my innards if truly satisfied. This is partly my fault. I am, after all, a vegetarian (by allergy, not by choice) and this makes it harder. India remains my all time food favourite, but I think Malaysia will join Thailand close to the top of my food list. Part of the reason I like it is the huge variety: as the advert has been telling us for the past decade, Malaysia is truly Asia. There is a real mix of the continent here, with large Malay, Chinese and Indian populations. Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Confucianism all exist side by side. Culturally, the mix is fascinating. From the culinary perspective, it is divine. One thing I love about Asia is that it is one of the only places where hotels serve a breakfast I actually want to eat. I hate the continental breakfasts that most hotels in Europe and the Americas serve, so I was delighted to go downstairs this morning to find the European stuff on one side, and the rice, soup, eggs and vegetables on the other. I attacked gleefully. The prices also help. I had a delicious lunch in a small restaurant in Chinatown for under 1 pound, so I splurged for dinner- I spent 2 pounds and had a feast!! Everything was so fresh and tasteful, I was in heaven. My biggest dilemma has been- is it acceptable to have something you KNOW you like again, for the pleasure of it, or should you force yourself to try something new? I seem to consistently end up doing both.

sydney

When travelling, I always enjoy being able to catch up with old acquaintances, not just because they are people I like, but also because they can add so much to the experience in a place through their insights. So I was delighted to have the opportunity to sit down in a bar with my old work colleague from Paris. We left Paris within a month of each other, as I went on to London for the PhD and she decided to return home. I think we both had got fed up with France, for similar reasons. After catching up on the past 3.5 years of our lives, I took advantage of Johanna’s native Sydney/Australian status to quiz her about some matters that had been on my mind. Since returning to Sydney, she has done well in the local theatre scene, of which I had heard many good things. She described it as “small by intense” which I suppose is enough to keep one stimulated. She confirmed and complained about the beer scene, claiming she and her friends avoid the city centre and certain other areas on weekend evenings. According to her, there just isn’t that much to do in Sydney in the evening if you have no personal or cultural interests (such as the theatre, or cinema). So, guys get blasted and get in their convertibles and drive around the city in circles, honking at women and mates whom they happen to encounter. They then move on to pubs where they get even more hammered. I had gathered this myself, based on the strange signs I kept seeing on pubs saying things like “entry and reentry forbidden between 2 and 6am.” Next I asked about the Chinese. There are really a lot of them in Sydney. Walking around with my father and his friends, we often found ourselves the only white people in the area. At one point Bob (one of our travelling companions) asked if there was anyone left in China, at which point I reminded him that there are after all 1.3 billion of them. Yet when I asked Johanna what the draw of Australia was for Chinese, she looked uncomfortable and whispered it wasn’t PC to talk about such things. She then went on to say that most were not tourists, but often students living and studying in Sydney. I personally found the Asian presence in Sydney fascinating. I wandered into one bookshop in the centre and found myself surrounded by more manga than I had ever even imagined existed. One half of the shop was in Chinese, the other half in Japanese. If I lived in this part of the world, I would totally make the effort to learn one of those two, it seems like such a great opportunity, especially as you could clearly actually use the languages. I asked Johanna if Australians went to Asia much. It seems Fiji is a popular destination, although I have difficulty imagining why given that Australia’s own beaches are lovely. Hong Kong is a major destination as well. Some of her friends had gone to Tokyo, but she bucked the trend and recently went to New Caledonia instead, wanting to hear some French again. Through our conversation, I think I gained some better insight into Sydney, and I am grateful for having such connections in odd places to allow for that. I can see the appeal of living here. The living standard is much higher than, for example, in Britain. The flats are MUCH better built, the transport system is better (not a big achievement there though) and there are fresher and cheaper fruits and vegetables than we get in most of Europe. The climate is certainly better, and the people look much healthier. They have an excellent sports infrastructure, and athletics is something they take very seriously. The nature is beautiful naturally, but also beautifully maintained. There were exquisite botanic gardens in every Kiwi and Aussie town I visited, and they were all being actively enjoyed by the locals. The beaches are gorgeous and, like in Brazil, they belong to everyone- there are no private beaches, so the rich cant try to hog the best of nature. Furthermore, it is in many ways an egalitarian society, which I also like. I couldn’t imagine living in New Zealand (too end of the earth) but I could see Sydney….for a year or two. Yet I don’t know if I could ever live in a place like this permanently. Is it perhaps too close to perfection, like Canada? Too sterilized? I really don’t know.

hair and clothes

During the past few weeks, especially aboard the ship, I had to attend several formal dinners. The ship’s instructions always specify “cocktail dress for women, tuxedos for men.” Last year, my mother telephoned me in Chile to warn me about this detail, and I ended up going shopping last minute in Santiago. My father always gets away with just a jacket, shirt and tie, but I decided to go for the different this time around. Since we were in an appropriate part of the world, I asked my mother to send me her old prom dress. My mother went to secondary school in the mid 60s, in the South Pacific, and she has a few interesting outfits to prove it, none of which she ever wears. so I decided to appropriate the mumu and use it for my formal evenings. This had the strange result of turning me into an Asian Lady Magnet. Asian ladies, both crew and guests kept coming over to admire my outfit, and were particularly amazed when I told them it was my mothers, and over a decade older than I am. I guess seeing a white person dressed in Polynesian traditional clothing is strange, but imagining that one did so 40 years ago must be mind boggling.
My father approved of the mumu, but not of my hair. Working 7 days a week in London for the past 8 months meant that some things just didnt get done, and cutting my hair was one of those. Pulled down straight, it was rapidly approaching my waist, and in the humidity of Auckland or Sydney, it was a bit frightening. So my father hauled me off to the hairdressers and ordered them to cut off what they saw fit. I guess he didn’t realise that in Australia they would have their own way of dealing with hair. Not only did 10 inches get chopped off, but I got a special treatment, which seemed to consist largely of salt, that is guaranteed to make my hair look like I just got back from the beach. Walking about Sydney, it looks pretty cool, I have to confess. But I am starting to wonder- what will it look like in the grey of a Northern European winter?

melbourne

I think I managed to explode every stereotype of Melbourne in my first 10 minutes. Before I set out on my journey, all the Australians I met warned me the weather could be really crap, at any time of the year. I was told to bring a jumper and prepare for “four seasons in one day.”
But when I stepped of the ship I knew it was hot, really really hot. By midday, the temperature had reached 45.3 degrees. I was delighted, of course, as this is my absolute ideal temperature, but I was clearly in the minority. Despite all stereotypes of Australia being a hot country, the city proved utterly incapable of dealing with such heat. By early afternoon, the transport system had essentially ceased to function and a major power outage had forced many offices to close.
Those same Australians had described Melbourne as the “cultural capital” with “good shopping” and slightly more sophisticated people. Again, I must have a talent. I had three vulgar sex jokes before my tram arrived, and literally the first sign I saw in the city featured a huge map of Australia, with “fuck off, we’re full” written in the middle. The two kiwis with me were by this time nearly dying with peals of laughter, citing their former Prime Minister’s oft quoted statement that the large migration of Kiwis to Australia “raises the IQ of both countries.”
Oh, and the shopping was quite provincial and, well, rubbish.
Despite all of this, however, Melbourne did have its benefits. The flats, especially those near the harbour, were absolutely stunning, with a great combination of glass and local wood to create a feeling of endless openness, but without roasting in the heat. The downtown is incredibly clean and liveable with huge parks everywhere. The next day the temperature went back down to a cool 38 and the shops were all open again. Furthermore, the public transport was FREE, because the authorities wished to APOLOGIZE for their poor performance the day before. Hearing that, I thought I might faint. The local explaining it to me was very earnest, feeling that this was only right. And of course she was perfectly correct, but I doubt many other transport systems around the globe would be similarly moved in such conditions.