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.