Please read the political disclaimer prior to this reading.
“Congratulations! Aren’t you excited?” my flatmate calls after me as I race down the stairs on my way to work.
It was the morning after the presidential elections and as joining one of the all-night U.S. election parties raging throughout London to watch the election results did not seem too appealing on a school night, I had wisely decided to wait until morning, waking up refreshed to discover Obama had won.
“Actually,” I respond honestly, and slightly confused at my own sudden fear, “I am a bit nervous.” and I ran out the door with my flatmate quizzically looking after me.
The whole day I am greeted by my colleagues with congratulatory comments, expressions of hope for the future of the U.S., and a sense of relief that “Americans actually made a right decision for once.” Nobody ever bothered to ask whether or not I had even voted for Obama, they all just assumed.
To eloquently put the opinion of the British and Europeans it would be as such;
Everyone is assumed to support Obama, if you support McCain you are;
1. the devil
2. uneducated and ignorant
3. an enemy to the rest of the world
4. any other negative connotation one can come up with
A supporter of McCain in Europe would NEVER admit that they were for fear of being attacked whether in the office, at a dinner party, or in the local pub. I did not come across one person who voted, or had they been able to vote in the U.S. election, would have voted for McCain…or at least admitted to it.
Photos of the two presidential candidates in the European papers all featured a handsome and smiling Obama alongside an angry, short and stiff-armed MCain. Obama was portrayed as the perfect leader, representing change and hope for a new world. McCain was weak, a protectionist representing a continued Bush regime comprising of policies based on national security formed by the self-interest of the U.S. without consideration for the rest of the world.
During the Democratic run-off, the papers, well the ones I read, would discuss in full detail Clinton and Obama’s various policies providing arguments for both. It was a vicious battle, albeit an excruciating long one, but at least one focused on platforms and policies…then suddenly these were forgotten.
The elections became about the fact that Obama was black, excuse me, half black, and from a poor family. McCain was a war veteran. Sarah Palin was a hockey mom. And who was Joe Biden? It was all about which candidate you could relate to, not who would be the best leader of the free world.
And as I went through my day, just like any other ordinary day, and non-American friend after friend and non-American colleague after colleague congratulated me on Obama’s win, more as a congratulation to themselves—most didn’t even ask who I voted for!- I almost grew uneasy. This devoted loyalty and faith in a man that the British, Europeans, and Americans alike have, simply because of his leadership qualities and great oratory skills was frightening. But Obama can create confidence, national pride, and promote change! But so could Hitler, and by this I do not mean to compare, but merely to make a point. I by no means believe Obama to be the next Hitler, but I am surprised as to how many of us Americans as well as almost all Europeans have based their decision on form over substance, emotion over logic. This statement not being one to necessarily indicate which of the candidates actually did have better substance which is highly debatable, but more to point out that many people’s preferential candidate was based on the wrong criteria.
I voted for Obama. Do I fully understand the majority of his policies? No. Do I even agree with most of them? Maybe some. Did most people who voted for him? Highly unlikely. Did anybody in the UK/Europe? Most certainly not.
Sitting at work that morning watching Obama’s acceptance speech on YouTube I couldn’t help the goose bumps which surfaced from his inspirational speech. His ability to restore confidence in our fearful country, confidence which is so desperately needed, is truly an amazing feat. This is why he won.
I voted for Obama. Of the two candidates, I am glad he won. I look forward to change. But to be honest, I did it for the wrong reasons. As did many others.
Friday, 26 December 2008
Political Disclaimer
Now, I am not a political person. I have opinions based on the information I have been exposed to. But when it comes to political discussions, I can be easily persuaded from side to side. I am a full believer in obtaining as many facts as possible before making a final and hard decision.
Perhaps this stems from my accounting background or the one too many financial due diligence projects I have done. But because of this I am therefore often aware that at times I do not truly have all of the necessary information to make a fully informative judgment and as such, arguing about politics has simply never been my thing. Often times I inherently and subconsciously doubt my own arguments and more than often I use points merely to establish a further idea to consider. I also realise however, that many people have certain views which regardless of a strong opposing argument, will never change.
My own personal guilty admittance which provides a good example of such obstinacy is that I, where while seeing myself as being relatively politically neutral, was shocked at Sarah Palin’s appointment as the Republican party’s vice president nominee. I was quite mortified that my country, the most powerful country in the world, could ever consider this woman, with no understanding of U.S. public policy, economics, and foreign affairs could be qualified to be vice president..and potentially president of the United States of America and by association the most powerful person in the world (something most Americans seem to forget). Nothing anyone could say would ever change my mind on this matter. I am sure she would make an excellent PTA President however, although I would never want to be on her committee.
Some people of course would disagree so strongly on my above opinion that a personal attack on me would be likely should a “friendly political discussion” ensue. I don’t like arguing, never have, and so have avoided most political discussions as sometimes, for the sake of relationships one should, something my parents learned very early on hence why they are still married some 30 years later.
However, many people in the States have been asking me what the European opinion on the elections were and I think the 100% Obama loyalty over here is certainly interesting and worth mentioning. And so, while I have previously avoided any hot topics such as politics, religion, and well, my personal life ;-), I have decided to change that as I think one thing I love about living overseas is not only gaining a new perspective on things but also increasing my understanding of the many different perspectives that are out there—whether they are right or wrong however can only be determined from one’s own frame of reference.
So with this being said, please read any sensitive blog post with a grain of salt. More often than not, they are written less to state fact and more to create insight. Enjoy!
Perhaps this stems from my accounting background or the one too many financial due diligence projects I have done. But because of this I am therefore often aware that at times I do not truly have all of the necessary information to make a fully informative judgment and as such, arguing about politics has simply never been my thing. Often times I inherently and subconsciously doubt my own arguments and more than often I use points merely to establish a further idea to consider. I also realise however, that many people have certain views which regardless of a strong opposing argument, will never change.
My own personal guilty admittance which provides a good example of such obstinacy is that I, where while seeing myself as being relatively politically neutral, was shocked at Sarah Palin’s appointment as the Republican party’s vice president nominee. I was quite mortified that my country, the most powerful country in the world, could ever consider this woman, with no understanding of U.S. public policy, economics, and foreign affairs could be qualified to be vice president..and potentially president of the United States of America and by association the most powerful person in the world (something most Americans seem to forget). Nothing anyone could say would ever change my mind on this matter. I am sure she would make an excellent PTA President however, although I would never want to be on her committee.
Some people of course would disagree so strongly on my above opinion that a personal attack on me would be likely should a “friendly political discussion” ensue. I don’t like arguing, never have, and so have avoided most political discussions as sometimes, for the sake of relationships one should, something my parents learned very early on hence why they are still married some 30 years later.
However, many people in the States have been asking me what the European opinion on the elections were and I think the 100% Obama loyalty over here is certainly interesting and worth mentioning. And so, while I have previously avoided any hot topics such as politics, religion, and well, my personal life ;-), I have decided to change that as I think one thing I love about living overseas is not only gaining a new perspective on things but also increasing my understanding of the many different perspectives that are out there—whether they are right or wrong however can only be determined from one’s own frame of reference.
So with this being said, please read any sensitive blog post with a grain of salt. More often than not, they are written less to state fact and more to create insight. Enjoy!
Friday, 24 October 2008
367
367 is the number of days I have lived in London. 367 days ago my heart broke as I said goodbye to my life in Zurich and began my new one in London… alone.
364 days ago was my 26th birthday, spent with complete strangers wandering through the confusing winding streets of West London, A-Z London map in hand checking out potential flats and flat-mates. 364 days ago my night was split being interviewed and me interviewing a late 20-something Aussie from Melbourne, a 30-something English guy, and a large household of also very large Aussie/Canadian girls. That was 364 days ago.
62 minutes until my 27th birthday. Now, 61 minutes. I sit on my bed in my little room containing everything I own. My friends and family have houses, apartments, cars, nice furniture…I have a closet, or actually closets jammed with shoes, clothes, handbags…and my memories. Memories of my experiences, travels, bad and good times, very random times..and memories of all the people who have both entered and departed my life, relationships made which had an impact on me without them ever knowing.
54 minutes. So, what has changed? Well, I have become much poorer, have a lovely ivory complexion, rounder curves, spell color “colour” and organize “organise”, picked up a slight British accent that only Americans notice, increased my alcohol tolerance, made new friends while missing my old ones, got caught up in the madness that is the global financial crisis, ditched the jeans in favour of dresses and tights, developed a love for English pubs, mastered the ability to note by a person’s body language on the tube when their next stop is to position myself for the steal, realised stuffing your body with vitamins and supplements won’t stop me from catching the viruses that go around in London nor offset the amounts of alcohol I consume, and added the words “rubbish” and “lovely” into my vocabulary.
42 minutes. I still miss my family, my friends, my sunshine. I am still alone. I still don’t know which path to take or direction to go in, but I know turning around is not it. I still love my running, which has turned into yoga after a long-term sports injury. I still have my rabbit-like eating habits, still love my trance, and still am terrible at responding to phone calls and emails (which doesn’t mean I am not thinking of you!)
36 minutes. I have no doubt that one year from now on, I will most likely still be all of those things, but I wonder what changes will come. We will see.
364 days ago was my 26th birthday, spent with complete strangers wandering through the confusing winding streets of West London, A-Z London map in hand checking out potential flats and flat-mates. 364 days ago my night was split being interviewed and me interviewing a late 20-something Aussie from Melbourne, a 30-something English guy, and a large household of also very large Aussie/Canadian girls. That was 364 days ago.
62 minutes until my 27th birthday. Now, 61 minutes. I sit on my bed in my little room containing everything I own. My friends and family have houses, apartments, cars, nice furniture…I have a closet, or actually closets jammed with shoes, clothes, handbags…and my memories. Memories of my experiences, travels, bad and good times, very random times..and memories of all the people who have both entered and departed my life, relationships made which had an impact on me without them ever knowing.
54 minutes. So, what has changed? Well, I have become much poorer, have a lovely ivory complexion, rounder curves, spell color “colour” and organize “organise”, picked up a slight British accent that only Americans notice, increased my alcohol tolerance, made new friends while missing my old ones, got caught up in the madness that is the global financial crisis, ditched the jeans in favour of dresses and tights, developed a love for English pubs, mastered the ability to note by a person’s body language on the tube when their next stop is to position myself for the steal, realised stuffing your body with vitamins and supplements won’t stop me from catching the viruses that go around in London nor offset the amounts of alcohol I consume, and added the words “rubbish” and “lovely” into my vocabulary.
42 minutes. I still miss my family, my friends, my sunshine. I am still alone. I still don’t know which path to take or direction to go in, but I know turning around is not it. I still love my running, which has turned into yoga after a long-term sports injury. I still have my rabbit-like eating habits, still love my trance, and still am terrible at responding to phone calls and emails (which doesn’t mean I am not thinking of you!)
36 minutes. I have no doubt that one year from now on, I will most likely still be all of those things, but I wonder what changes will come. We will see.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
English Facts
1) “Living in London is a definite risk factor. People work harder and play harder than in the rest of the country. Londoners also drink most days of the week…”- Time Out “Perchance to dream” April 10-16th
2) You are in a strained conversation, full of awkward silences and unsure as to how to proceed. In England, you have two options;
* Offer a cup of tea
-Of course, this requires that your own kitchen is in close proximity..bonus points it gives you the chance to excuse yourself from the room for a moment entirely.
-Unfortunately, this option is not always available. Therefore, I would recommend the second option
*Comment on the weather
3) I have come to the sudden revelation that the English are actually a lot like the Swiss, they just eat and drink more.
2) You are in a strained conversation, full of awkward silences and unsure as to how to proceed. In England, you have two options;
* Offer a cup of tea
-Of course, this requires that your own kitchen is in close proximity..bonus points it gives you the chance to excuse yourself from the room for a moment entirely.
-Unfortunately, this option is not always available. Therefore, I would recommend the second option
*Comment on the weather
3) I have come to the sudden revelation that the English are actually a lot like the Swiss, they just eat and drink more.
Five
“Five” Our arms are stretched out, our fists form a circle hovering slightly above the wooden table. My fist comes down on that of my colleague’s sitting to my left.
“Ten” I hit the fist of my colleague two spots down.
“Fifteen” I continue hitting each of my colleagues’ outstretched fists in a counterclockwise fashion.
“Twenty” Right before I hit each fist, I continue my count of a multiple of five
“Twenty-five” Some of us are seated at the table, the less fortunate who either arrived late or whose chairs were immediately stolen after a visit to the toilets were standing over the table, crouched low in order to ensure their fist joined our circle of fists. As the count climbs, our anticipation rises
"Thirty" I shout even louder in order to be heard over the din of the other drunken patrons in our local pub next to the office
“Thirty-five” It is 8:00pm, we have been drinking since 5:30pm.
“Forty” The waitress casually slides by the table, slyly removing the empty plate which at one point was full of nachos before being ravenously devoured within moments of being set on the table
“Forty-five”
“What game are you playing?” A colleague who had been stuck working in the office late on the Friday night and so had only just arrived asks. I do not look up. I am in full concentration.
“Fifty” I count myself. It is the moment of truce. The game is about to begin. I pause….
“Twenty!!!!!!” I scream and simultaneously release my fist and stretch out my hand so that all five figures are extended. Four of my colleagues do the same. Including mine, I see twenty-five outstretched fingers in our circle. “Shit” I mutter to myself. I am still in the game. It is now the person to my left’s chance.
“Fifteen” He shouts. At the exact same time, I clench my fist, unfortunately so does my colleague across the table. There are now only fifteen outstretched fingers. My colleague to the left guessed right, he is out and safe from pounding a beer later on.
We continue around the circle, shouting multiples of five, flexing and clenching our fists to reveal either null or five figures. As players get the number right, the number of hands outstretched in the circle reduces. Suddenly the only outstretched hands are those of mine and my colleague’s across the table. The pressure is on. Everyone is watching and shouting words of encouragement. I take a deep breath and calmly stare into my colleague’s eyes trying to guess whether he will keep his fist clenched or flex it out. Mine is open; his clenched. As I stare, a hush falls over the table..everyone is wondering who will outwit the other.
I wait…and wait…and wait….”FIVE!” I suddenly scream and clench my fist, he opens. I win. The table erupts in cheers. “Drink!” “Drink!” “Drink!” the table chants at my defeated and humiliated colleague across the table
But as he picks up his pint to accept his punishment, we all gasp. The glass is empty.
“Bailout!” We scream, referring to the government bailouts of the banks, “He needs capital!”
And with a cry, everyone happily offers up some of their beer, pouring it into the empty glass until it is now full of a delectable mixture of lager, English ale, guiness, vodka, and to top it off, a salt and vinegar crisp. My unlucky colleague picks up the pint and with a show of pride downs the concoction in seconds, pounding the glass back onto the table. The table cheers.
Meanwhile, another colleague disappears to the bar to order the next round of drinks in order to decrease the necessity of the next bailout.
“Five” The colleague I beat across the table now must start the next game.
The game continues..sambuca shots are taken…we play on…crisps are eaten..we play on….the English banter becomes more vicious..we play on
Suddenly, it is 11pm. It is closing time. We stumble down the stairs and into the cool crisp autumn air night. We all dart off in different directions and head home or to whatever destination we have chosen to continue the night.
I walk to the tube and settle into the seat with a sigh as I look forward to the weekend ahead.
“Ten” I hit the fist of my colleague two spots down.
“Fifteen” I continue hitting each of my colleagues’ outstretched fists in a counterclockwise fashion.
“Twenty” Right before I hit each fist, I continue my count of a multiple of five
“Twenty-five” Some of us are seated at the table, the less fortunate who either arrived late or whose chairs were immediately stolen after a visit to the toilets were standing over the table, crouched low in order to ensure their fist joined our circle of fists. As the count climbs, our anticipation rises
"Thirty" I shout even louder in order to be heard over the din of the other drunken patrons in our local pub next to the office
“Thirty-five” It is 8:00pm, we have been drinking since 5:30pm.
“Forty” The waitress casually slides by the table, slyly removing the empty plate which at one point was full of nachos before being ravenously devoured within moments of being set on the table
“Forty-five”
“What game are you playing?” A colleague who had been stuck working in the office late on the Friday night and so had only just arrived asks. I do not look up. I am in full concentration.
“Fifty” I count myself. It is the moment of truce. The game is about to begin. I pause….
“Twenty!!!!!!” I scream and simultaneously release my fist and stretch out my hand so that all five figures are extended. Four of my colleagues do the same. Including mine, I see twenty-five outstretched fingers in our circle. “Shit” I mutter to myself. I am still in the game. It is now the person to my left’s chance.
“Fifteen” He shouts. At the exact same time, I clench my fist, unfortunately so does my colleague across the table. There are now only fifteen outstretched fingers. My colleague to the left guessed right, he is out and safe from pounding a beer later on.
We continue around the circle, shouting multiples of five, flexing and clenching our fists to reveal either null or five figures. As players get the number right, the number of hands outstretched in the circle reduces. Suddenly the only outstretched hands are those of mine and my colleague’s across the table. The pressure is on. Everyone is watching and shouting words of encouragement. I take a deep breath and calmly stare into my colleague’s eyes trying to guess whether he will keep his fist clenched or flex it out. Mine is open; his clenched. As I stare, a hush falls over the table..everyone is wondering who will outwit the other.
I wait…and wait…and wait….”FIVE!” I suddenly scream and clench my fist, he opens. I win. The table erupts in cheers. “Drink!” “Drink!” “Drink!” the table chants at my defeated and humiliated colleague across the table
But as he picks up his pint to accept his punishment, we all gasp. The glass is empty.
“Bailout!” We scream, referring to the government bailouts of the banks, “He needs capital!”
And with a cry, everyone happily offers up some of their beer, pouring it into the empty glass until it is now full of a delectable mixture of lager, English ale, guiness, vodka, and to top it off, a salt and vinegar crisp. My unlucky colleague picks up the pint and with a show of pride downs the concoction in seconds, pounding the glass back onto the table. The table cheers.
Meanwhile, another colleague disappears to the bar to order the next round of drinks in order to decrease the necessity of the next bailout.
“Five” The colleague I beat across the table now must start the next game.
The game continues..sambuca shots are taken…we play on…crisps are eaten..we play on….the English banter becomes more vicious..we play on
Suddenly, it is 11pm. It is closing time. We stumble down the stairs and into the cool crisp autumn air night. We all dart off in different directions and head home or to whatever destination we have chosen to continue the night.
I walk to the tube and settle into the seat with a sigh as I look forward to the weekend ahead.
Sunday, 11 May 2008
Survival
Quick Caveat
Right, so as this writing is quite different and much darker than my others, I felt the need for a quick explanation and a “viewer’s discretion advised” disclaimer prior to the piece.
First of all, the italics are not my writing. The author is Shakwa Maisara,
a student of QK, a high school in London known to have the most diverse and “underprivileged,” (as the social elite like to say for lack of a better word) student body. I heard him recite this at the QK Talent Show Competition, a show which I was invited to by another student whom I mentor as part of the UK Career Academy Foundation programme, a volunteer organisation designed to encourage again, the word “underprivileged,” students interested in a career in finance and/or banking. His lyrics revealed his strength and left a lasting impression which I wanted to share.
The non-italics are my writing, fictional, but based on a true story of someone I do know, and sadly enough, also of many that I do not.
“Fighting for an area code
What’s the point man?
It’s just a number on road
Stabbing people for nothing
I say that’s just cold.
She pulls out a hundred dollar bill from her Louis Vuitton purse. Music and laughter from the party filter through the shut bedroom door. She fixates on the line of white powder, oblivious to the world beyond the locked room. Her perfectly manicured hands roll the bill along the mirror. A rare smile saved for only these occasions escapes her lips in anticipation. Her eyes are hollow
They say the good die young,
Do the bad live old?
Don’t pick up the mac,
I say this is the time
All boys need to act
She snorts a line. A rush of pleasure surges through her veins. Her smile widens. She passes the bill over to her next friend.
You think I spit lies?
Nah blood this is fact
The aftermath’s worse
Than the final impact.
“Let’s party!” She unlocks the door and confidently steps back out into the party, her friends following close behind
14 and giving help and advice
Try taking it,
Before you start paying the price
You get a bullet to the chest
That feeling ain’t nice.
She comes from a wealthy, “stable” family. Bright, well educated, gorgeous; every opportunity at her fingertips.
Watch out for sly merkers,
They scurry like mice.
There’s less young men
We’ve lost too many lives
She is envied by many, has everything one could want but causes her to only thirst for more. Her smile belies her emptiness
‘Cos they wanted to play
With the guns and knives
In the street battle
Nobody survives.
You won’t get to be men
Going home to your wives
Blood trickles down her nose. She casually wipes it away.
Yh,
These bars might be greasy
Writing ‘em and standing here
Weren’t so easy
Do something with your life
Don’t be cheesy
It’s not ‘bout the South East
Or Norf Weezy
She is the perfect child. Her parents love her. She wants for nothing, but for that reason, she is never fulfilled
Rise,
To the top of your game
I don’t wanna see you stop
Until you reach fame
Upholding, your family
Will make your mum proud
Rather than feel shame
The high wears off, the depression sinks in. She has the money, the nice clothes, a good education, but it is not real. She is tired of the façade. Her feelings of anguish are real. She is lost without direction, she takes another line, and another
Don’t join a gang
It’s every man for himself
Fighting for them
Won’t add to your wealth
And playing with weapons
Is bad for your health
Like I said before
It’s every man for himself
Her heart is pumping faster, her mind is spinning, she wants more. It is too much, she falls to the floor
Yh,
I might be rapping a verse
But take note
Everyone, I don’t curse
Not talking ‘bout
How I stole gals purse
I might talk slang,
But that’s the worst
She never gets up
Right, so as this writing is quite different and much darker than my others, I felt the need for a quick explanation and a “viewer’s discretion advised” disclaimer prior to the piece.
First of all, the italics are not my writing. The author is Shakwa Maisara,
a student of QK, a high school in London known to have the most diverse and “underprivileged,” (as the social elite like to say for lack of a better word) student body. I heard him recite this at the QK Talent Show Competition, a show which I was invited to by another student whom I mentor as part of the UK Career Academy Foundation programme, a volunteer organisation designed to encourage again, the word “underprivileged,” students interested in a career in finance and/or banking. His lyrics revealed his strength and left a lasting impression which I wanted to share.
The non-italics are my writing, fictional, but based on a true story of someone I do know, and sadly enough, also of many that I do not.
“Fighting for an area code
What’s the point man?
It’s just a number on road
Stabbing people for nothing
I say that’s just cold.
She pulls out a hundred dollar bill from her Louis Vuitton purse. Music and laughter from the party filter through the shut bedroom door. She fixates on the line of white powder, oblivious to the world beyond the locked room. Her perfectly manicured hands roll the bill along the mirror. A rare smile saved for only these occasions escapes her lips in anticipation. Her eyes are hollow
They say the good die young,
Do the bad live old?
Don’t pick up the mac,
I say this is the time
All boys need to act
She snorts a line. A rush of pleasure surges through her veins. Her smile widens. She passes the bill over to her next friend.
You think I spit lies?
Nah blood this is fact
The aftermath’s worse
Than the final impact.
“Let’s party!” She unlocks the door and confidently steps back out into the party, her friends following close behind
14 and giving help and advice
Try taking it,
Before you start paying the price
You get a bullet to the chest
That feeling ain’t nice.
She comes from a wealthy, “stable” family. Bright, well educated, gorgeous; every opportunity at her fingertips.
Watch out for sly merkers,
They scurry like mice.
There’s less young men
We’ve lost too many lives
She is envied by many, has everything one could want but causes her to only thirst for more. Her smile belies her emptiness
‘Cos they wanted to play
With the guns and knives
In the street battle
Nobody survives.
You won’t get to be men
Going home to your wives
Blood trickles down her nose. She casually wipes it away.
Yh,
These bars might be greasy
Writing ‘em and standing here
Weren’t so easy
Do something with your life
Don’t be cheesy
It’s not ‘bout the South East
Or Norf Weezy
She is the perfect child. Her parents love her. She wants for nothing, but for that reason, she is never fulfilled
Rise,
To the top of your game
I don’t wanna see you stop
Until you reach fame
Upholding, your family
Will make your mum proud
Rather than feel shame
The high wears off, the depression sinks in. She has the money, the nice clothes, a good education, but it is not real. She is tired of the façade. Her feelings of anguish are real. She is lost without direction, she takes another line, and another
Don’t join a gang
It’s every man for himself
Fighting for them
Won’t add to your wealth
And playing with weapons
Is bad for your health
Like I said before
It’s every man for himself
Her heart is pumping faster, her mind is spinning, she wants more. It is too much, she falls to the floor
Yh,
I might be rapping a verse
But take note
Everyone, I don’t curse
Not talking ‘bout
How I stole gals purse
I might talk slang,
But that’s the worst
She never gets up
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Discovering London ("DL")
“Work hard, play hard…and always with a drink in the hand” is definitely the motto of Londoners.
Drinking is at the center of English culture and almost all social events seem to revolve around it. With the many quaint pubs, fabulous bars, and well-known restaurants the City has to offer, it is easy to find yourself winding up almost every evening in yet another bar.
But London has a lot more to offer than just its restaurants and bars (who take almost my entire paycheck!). Theatre, museums, parks, exhibitions, and concerts are also a dominating force. But trying to gather a group of alcohol loving friends together to attend one of these more cultural events is a bit more challenging.
Whenever I ask a friend of mine if they would like to meet up to attend this (insert cultural something here), the frequent response is, “Hmm..not too interested, but let’s grab a drink sometime!”
And so, I soon realized that if I wanted to gather some friends together to see some of the many more enlightening aspects of London life, I would have to formally organize the event. And so, here is the first newsletter I wrote after a successful first event of the newly formed Cultural Club, now known as “Discovering London” (“DL”).
Please take note of the American sarcasm…
Cultural Club Newsletter
05 April 2008
Here it is, the first edition of the Culture Club newsletter:
History
We are a group of intellectuals, originating from all corners of the world united by one common desire: to seek and understand new cultures through the arts, historical exhibits, music, and interactions with one another.
It is for this reason that we decided to all come together, many of us meeting for only the first time, on a cold, snowy April day for brunch in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, London.
It was slow going in the beginning, but after a few double espressos and a heavy English breakfast to soak up the last of the alcohol still circulating through our systems from last night’s festivities, we were raring to go for our trip to the Photographer’s Gallery for the last day of the Deutsche Boerse Photography Prize Exhibition.
So impressed with the exhibition, and after a quick Starbucks caffeine injection, we pushed on to the Vanity Fair exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery.
It was a heated debate as to which exhibit was more impressive; my preference of the DB was outnumbered as many took quite a liking to the Vanity Fair exhibit. The former revealed both amazing artistry as well as raw and shocking human emotion, the latter focused more on portraits of people, both past and present, who have played a large role in the art world. Through the use of a mere camera lens, these photographers magically captured not just a person’s picture, but also their influential presence.
By the end of the afternoon, the exhausted and enlightened club said our goodbyes and went our various ways, but not before a promise to meet again.
And so the Culture Club came to be.
Our Mission:
“To provide an opportunity for individuals from various backgrounds and circles to meet, take advantage of London’s cultural side, and quite simply, have a good time”
Of course in reality, we are merely a bunch of transient nomads feeling mildly guilty for spending the vast majority of our weekend time in either a) a posh restaurant b) the latest bar and/or club c) the local pub or d) hungover on the couch
Objectives Going Forward:
Organize weekly events, these can range from exhibitions, independent films, music festivals, to I don’t know what—that is the point, to expand our horizons with something new
Network to plan random weekday events for those who can make it (I know some of us are looking to take advantage of that member 10% National Portrait Gallery bar discount)
Upcoming Events:
Next Cultural Day will be held Saturday, April 12th.
Ideas:
Art exhibitions, musical performances/ theatre/comedy shows/ lectures/walking tours
Late night at Tate Modern, then dinner/drinks at restaurant upstairs
Countryside walk (one of TO’s 52 walks from London)- depending on weather improvements
Circle line pub crawl, which I have decided is allowable so long as one drink takes place in a museum bar…or at least a bar next to one
In summary, here are a few of the things we learned from our first meeting that we hope will enrich our lives for years to come;
Takeaways from Cultural Club’s Inaugural Meeting:
- Shannon and Kerri went to band camp, yes, band camps in America really do exist. But no, we were not in a marching band, and in case for some reason any images are popping into your head, no, we did not play the flute.
- Gemma now knows what it feels like to touch snow, an exciting discovery for a 26 year old South African. She has also quickly discovered the misery that is London weather.
- Kerri has never had a cleaner
- Stories involving tampons, spandex, and being wet are not appropriate topics of conversation at the breakfast table
- Even non-members can use the Cloakroom at the National Portrait Gallery for free; an injustice to those of us who are members. But who said life is fair?
- And most importantly, there is more to the English culture than just drinking! A recent discovery of mine.
- Shannon has way too much time on her hands
Action Items:
- Come up with a Saturday agenda
- Pass this to anyone you may think would be interested
- Gemma to send Shannon cleaner contact information
- Establish another name for our “Culture Club”.
o Yes, I am an accountant, and yes, I have a dorky side which occasionally surfaces, however this does not need to be further noted by my participation in a “Culture Club”—surely we can come up with a better name?
In closing, I hope everyone had a fabulous weekend! Look forward to seeing you Saturday!
Drinking is at the center of English culture and almost all social events seem to revolve around it. With the many quaint pubs, fabulous bars, and well-known restaurants the City has to offer, it is easy to find yourself winding up almost every evening in yet another bar.
But London has a lot more to offer than just its restaurants and bars (who take almost my entire paycheck!). Theatre, museums, parks, exhibitions, and concerts are also a dominating force. But trying to gather a group of alcohol loving friends together to attend one of these more cultural events is a bit more challenging.
Whenever I ask a friend of mine if they would like to meet up to attend this (insert cultural something here), the frequent response is, “Hmm..not too interested, but let’s grab a drink sometime!”
And so, I soon realized that if I wanted to gather some friends together to see some of the many more enlightening aspects of London life, I would have to formally organize the event. And so, here is the first newsletter I wrote after a successful first event of the newly formed Cultural Club, now known as “Discovering London” (“DL”).
Please take note of the American sarcasm…
Cultural Club Newsletter
05 April 2008
Here it is, the first edition of the Culture Club newsletter:
History
We are a group of intellectuals, originating from all corners of the world united by one common desire: to seek and understand new cultures through the arts, historical exhibits, music, and interactions with one another.
It is for this reason that we decided to all come together, many of us meeting for only the first time, on a cold, snowy April day for brunch in the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, London.
It was slow going in the beginning, but after a few double espressos and a heavy English breakfast to soak up the last of the alcohol still circulating through our systems from last night’s festivities, we were raring to go for our trip to the Photographer’s Gallery for the last day of the Deutsche Boerse Photography Prize Exhibition.
So impressed with the exhibition, and after a quick Starbucks caffeine injection, we pushed on to the Vanity Fair exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery.
It was a heated debate as to which exhibit was more impressive; my preference of the DB was outnumbered as many took quite a liking to the Vanity Fair exhibit. The former revealed both amazing artistry as well as raw and shocking human emotion, the latter focused more on portraits of people, both past and present, who have played a large role in the art world. Through the use of a mere camera lens, these photographers magically captured not just a person’s picture, but also their influential presence.
By the end of the afternoon, the exhausted and enlightened club said our goodbyes and went our various ways, but not before a promise to meet again.
And so the Culture Club came to be.
Our Mission:
“To provide an opportunity for individuals from various backgrounds and circles to meet, take advantage of London’s cultural side, and quite simply, have a good time”
Of course in reality, we are merely a bunch of transient nomads feeling mildly guilty for spending the vast majority of our weekend time in either a) a posh restaurant b) the latest bar and/or club c) the local pub or d) hungover on the couch
Objectives Going Forward:
Organize weekly events, these can range from exhibitions, independent films, music festivals, to I don’t know what—that is the point, to expand our horizons with something new
Network to plan random weekday events for those who can make it (I know some of us are looking to take advantage of that member 10% National Portrait Gallery bar discount)
Upcoming Events:
Next Cultural Day will be held Saturday, April 12th.
Ideas:
Art exhibitions, musical performances/ theatre/comedy shows/ lectures/walking tours
Late night at Tate Modern, then dinner/drinks at restaurant upstairs
Countryside walk (one of TO’s 52 walks from London)- depending on weather improvements
Circle line pub crawl, which I have decided is allowable so long as one drink takes place in a museum bar…or at least a bar next to one
In summary, here are a few of the things we learned from our first meeting that we hope will enrich our lives for years to come;
Takeaways from Cultural Club’s Inaugural Meeting:
- Shannon and Kerri went to band camp, yes, band camps in America really do exist. But no, we were not in a marching band, and in case for some reason any images are popping into your head, no, we did not play the flute.
- Gemma now knows what it feels like to touch snow, an exciting discovery for a 26 year old South African. She has also quickly discovered the misery that is London weather.
- Kerri has never had a cleaner
- Stories involving tampons, spandex, and being wet are not appropriate topics of conversation at the breakfast table
- Even non-members can use the Cloakroom at the National Portrait Gallery for free; an injustice to those of us who are members. But who said life is fair?
- And most importantly, there is more to the English culture than just drinking! A recent discovery of mine.
- Shannon has way too much time on her hands
Action Items:
- Come up with a Saturday agenda
- Pass this to anyone you may think would be interested
- Gemma to send Shannon cleaner contact information
- Establish another name for our “Culture Club”.
o Yes, I am an accountant, and yes, I have a dorky side which occasionally surfaces, however this does not need to be further noted by my participation in a “Culture Club”—surely we can come up with a better name?
In closing, I hope everyone had a fabulous weekend! Look forward to seeing you Saturday!
Flatmate Wanted
So, while many of you have moved on, married, purchased homes, established families and left the student lifestyle, I, after living in my own flat in Zurich for the last two years, have somehow reverted back to it.
Turning down the firm’s offer of a relocation agent, I set out looking for a flatshare. Besides, the reality of the situation, to be honest, is that I would not have been able to afford my own place anyway. Managing a jet-setting, fine-dining, and pub drinking lifestyle without a rich husband, lucrative job, or large inheritance, I have discovered, can be a bit financially draining.
And so after viewing one too many shoeboxes and meeting “interesting” people, I have found myself a home at 1 Salem Road.
My new family consists of two Englishmen, and two females; one Aussie, and the other American/Aussie, all 29 or 30, except me, 26 (the baby of the household).
The Aussie culture dominates, largely in part to the fact that all the flatmates, excluding myself, have lived some time in Sydney. Not to mention the honorary flatmate Mark, the Aussie’s brother and a mainstay at our household who we let hang out so long as he bakes his amazing cookies, helps balance out the nationality numbers.
Sadly enough, as one quickly discovers soon after moving here, regardless of how much you make, one can only helplessly watch as the bank account rapidly drops, along with their quality of life.
For mainly this reason, as well as the available opportunities presented in the Emerging Markets countries, we are about to lose one of our Englishmen to Dubai. Here is his proposed posting in search of a flatmate replacement (American translation below):
Room available in shared house in a pretty area of West London.
House is currently used as a breeding ground for anti-English sentiment and as the West London branch of the International Fellowship of Boguns.
The room is large and spacious and decorated to the highest standards in Victorian England. Let yourself wake up gently to the dawn chorus of ancient central heating pipes cranking up.
Apart from the well-established family of mice, you will be sharing with 4 others. Opposite is Shannon ' totally' Riley who is lesser-spotted and often works away from home - which works for her as she still hasn’t seen her bedroom floor for all her clothes! On the penthouse is Lozza 'Ozzy Ozzy Ozzy' Mclaughlin, and Lauen 'nocturnal' Darby who is often to be found stumbling in at ungodly hours - and when she is in, she is usually deleting blokes numbers from her phone to stop it from overheating. Last but not least, James 'Shagger' Adams on the ground floor is never far away from a Brazillian (or two).......
We have a cleaner, who is a cross between Clondike Kate and hulk hogan, and who appears as and when she fancies. She is specially trained in the removal of the tortoise-shell staining that is omnipresent in the back of both of our toilets and so uses industrial strength bleach that could bring you out in a rash with bulbous eyes. The lounge is spacious and cosy. In the winter it has been known to reach a cosy 4oC inside and so is perfect for long winter evenings in front of the fridge. We also have a lovely garden and patio area, however, be warned about the bogbrush.....
Please come back to Steve 'irreplacable' Dyson to arrange viewings. Preference is for a big strapping copper-bottomed, hairy-arsed Australian, ideally broad-shouldered and hung like a shire horse. Viewings will be arranged over the weekend of April 26th when we will have our second party in Salem Road.......
What do ya reckon??
NO SERIOUSLY - it is a fun place to live - with nice people.........X
American Translation:
“shared house”- polite way of saying 5 bedroom, 1 ½ bath house
“pretty area of West London”- area the English fondly refer to as where all the “posh foreigners” live if they even know where this area is let alone have ventured out of it from Clapham (south of Thames)
“Bogun”- Aussie equivalent of “white trash.”
“highest standards of Victorian England”- really old house, stained carpet, cracked walls, but is still standing, amazingly enough
“Shagger”—come on’ do I really need to explain this one? You’ve seen Austin Powers haven’t you?
Anyone know someone looking for a flat in London that wouldn’t mind joining our lovely, close-knit and slightly dysfunctional family of children reaching the age of 30?
Turning down the firm’s offer of a relocation agent, I set out looking for a flatshare. Besides, the reality of the situation, to be honest, is that I would not have been able to afford my own place anyway. Managing a jet-setting, fine-dining, and pub drinking lifestyle without a rich husband, lucrative job, or large inheritance, I have discovered, can be a bit financially draining.
And so after viewing one too many shoeboxes and meeting “interesting” people, I have found myself a home at 1 Salem Road.
My new family consists of two Englishmen, and two females; one Aussie, and the other American/Aussie, all 29 or 30, except me, 26 (the baby of the household).
The Aussie culture dominates, largely in part to the fact that all the flatmates, excluding myself, have lived some time in Sydney. Not to mention the honorary flatmate Mark, the Aussie’s brother and a mainstay at our household who we let hang out so long as he bakes his amazing cookies, helps balance out the nationality numbers.
Sadly enough, as one quickly discovers soon after moving here, regardless of how much you make, one can only helplessly watch as the bank account rapidly drops, along with their quality of life.
For mainly this reason, as well as the available opportunities presented in the Emerging Markets countries, we are about to lose one of our Englishmen to Dubai. Here is his proposed posting in search of a flatmate replacement (American translation below):
Room available in shared house in a pretty area of West London.
House is currently used as a breeding ground for anti-English sentiment and as the West London branch of the International Fellowship of Boguns.
The room is large and spacious and decorated to the highest standards in Victorian England. Let yourself wake up gently to the dawn chorus of ancient central heating pipes cranking up.
Apart from the well-established family of mice, you will be sharing with 4 others. Opposite is Shannon ' totally' Riley who is lesser-spotted and often works away from home - which works for her as she still hasn’t seen her bedroom floor for all her clothes! On the penthouse is Lozza 'Ozzy Ozzy Ozzy' Mclaughlin, and Lauen 'nocturnal' Darby who is often to be found stumbling in at ungodly hours - and when she is in, she is usually deleting blokes numbers from her phone to stop it from overheating. Last but not least, James 'Shagger' Adams on the ground floor is never far away from a Brazillian (or two).......
We have a cleaner, who is a cross between Clondike Kate and hulk hogan, and who appears as and when she fancies. She is specially trained in the removal of the tortoise-shell staining that is omnipresent in the back of both of our toilets and so uses industrial strength bleach that could bring you out in a rash with bulbous eyes. The lounge is spacious and cosy. In the winter it has been known to reach a cosy 4oC inside and so is perfect for long winter evenings in front of the fridge. We also have a lovely garden and patio area, however, be warned about the bogbrush.....
Please come back to Steve 'irreplacable' Dyson to arrange viewings. Preference is for a big strapping copper-bottomed, hairy-arsed Australian, ideally broad-shouldered and hung like a shire horse. Viewings will be arranged over the weekend of April 26th when we will have our second party in Salem Road.......
What do ya reckon??
NO SERIOUSLY - it is a fun place to live - with nice people.........X
American Translation:
“shared house”- polite way of saying 5 bedroom, 1 ½ bath house
“pretty area of West London”- area the English fondly refer to as where all the “posh foreigners” live if they even know where this area is let alone have ventured out of it from Clapham (south of Thames)
“Bogun”- Aussie equivalent of “white trash.”
“highest standards of Victorian England”- really old house, stained carpet, cracked walls, but is still standing, amazingly enough
“Shagger”—come on’ do I really need to explain this one? You’ve seen Austin Powers haven’t you?
Anyone know someone looking for a flat in London that wouldn’t mind joining our lovely, close-knit and slightly dysfunctional family of children reaching the age of 30?
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Running around the world
Running Around the World
I don’t go anywhere without my trainers (English word for running shoes). Running is a passion of mine. I have run along the cliffs of Santa Barbara, the beaches in Barcelona, gardens in Vienna, the windy roads of Ireland, the shores of Lake Zurich, across the Golden Gate bridge, and through London’s many parks.
Last month I was even subjected to being the “crazy American girl,” shockingly enough this happens often, running around in my tight black spandex in circles around a hotel in the English countryside in a pathetic attempt to get some form of a workout to compensate for drinking champagne until 3am in the hotel bar with colleagues for no particular good reason other than why not? But why any company would decide to have a full week of training in a hotel without a gym is beyond me…but hey, this is England, and the country roads were a bit too windy and narrow to run around safely, and as chaotic as my life is, I quite like it, so running up and down the hotel long driveway was the next best and safest thing.
Something about putting those headphones in, running in rhythm to the beat, pushing yourself, and letting your mind just go is my adrenaline rush, a rush which carries over into my personal life as well.
Am I really running to a destination?
Or am I simply back in the English countryside running in circles until I wear myself out and collapse in exhaustion?
But who really cares anyhow?
I just love running.
I don’t go anywhere without my trainers (English word for running shoes). Running is a passion of mine. I have run along the cliffs of Santa Barbara, the beaches in Barcelona, gardens in Vienna, the windy roads of Ireland, the shores of Lake Zurich, across the Golden Gate bridge, and through London’s many parks.
Last month I was even subjected to being the “crazy American girl,” shockingly enough this happens often, running around in my tight black spandex in circles around a hotel in the English countryside in a pathetic attempt to get some form of a workout to compensate for drinking champagne until 3am in the hotel bar with colleagues for no particular good reason other than why not? But why any company would decide to have a full week of training in a hotel without a gym is beyond me…but hey, this is England, and the country roads were a bit too windy and narrow to run around safely, and as chaotic as my life is, I quite like it, so running up and down the hotel long driveway was the next best and safest thing.
Something about putting those headphones in, running in rhythm to the beat, pushing yourself, and letting your mind just go is my adrenaline rush, a rush which carries over into my personal life as well.
Am I really running to a destination?
Or am I simply back in the English countryside running in circles until I wear myself out and collapse in exhaustion?
But who really cares anyhow?
I just love running.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Strength in humility
“Please have a seat.”
I lead him into one of our conference rooms on the 39th floor of our new 45 story Canary Wharf, London’s new and modern financial district, office.
He looks apprehensively around the room, taking in the plush surroundings and then at the gorgeous round wooden conference table and its seven chairs. He pauses, unsure of which one to take.
Sensing his uneasiness in a professional office environment, I casually offer him a specific chair near mine. Grateful for the assistance he mutters a quick thank you as he slumps into the chair, drapes his long, worn-out overcoat over his lap and clutches his cheap and tattered briefcase to his chest in a protective manner.
“Have you brought your CV with you?”
“Oh, yes, of course” he stutters and then proceeds to open his old briefcase and pull out a folder. A few awkward moments of silence pass as he shuffles through the papers looking for his CV, his hands slightly trembling. He finally finds it and slides the CV across the table to me. His dark eyes look up eagerly at mine in anticipation as I read through his CV.
This frightened and seemingly shy forty-something year old man holds a law degree, worked as a lawyer for many years in his home country, and was the former legal advisor to the president of the Republic of Congo as a member of the presidential cabinet.
Now, here he sits, sharing a table with a 26 year old woman who is reviewing his CV as if a teacher were reviewing the book report of a seven year old child.
Forced to flee his country, he now holds refugee status in the U.K., arriving in London approximately 6 years ago without knowing a word of English. The challenges this man had to overcome, I cannot ever even begin to imagine, and the challenges he has yet to face even more daunting.
Currently, this well-educated man is still looking for a job. After learning the English language and obtaining a certificate in U.K. refugee law he is now desperately seeking a paid job as a refugee advisor. I am here to help improve his CV and interviewing skills.
I begin the mock interview, asking the standard questions regarding his abilities, the necessary qualities a refugee advisor must have, and the challenges he has faced in his work as a volunteer as a refugee advisor.
The interview begins poorly. He is unsure as to how to appropriately answer the questions and is seemingly clueless. I quickly offer him suggestions, prodding him for examples and key “selling” points he should include in his answers.
However, as the interview progresses, his intelligence and competency soon become apparent. His eyes suddenly and self-assuredly fixate on mine. Through them I see the confidant and powerful man he truly was; trapped inside by a strange culture he was not accustomed to.
Listening to him speak, it was clear that his initial awkwardness came not from incompetence as a Westerner would immediately assume, but rather from a fear of the unknown and a sense of humility as he must rely on others to help him in his transition to this completely new culture and way of life. The frustration of this culture imposed prison is evident.
I wrap up the interview and we discuss some of the strengths and weaknesses of his interviewing skills. He politely listens, clutching his briefcase to his chest throughout the duration.
I am almost embarrassed to be offering a man, clearly about 15 years my senior and with an impressive educational and work background, interview advice. Even more so because I cannot imagine how humbling it must be for him to have to take advice from a 26 year old, as well as be so appreciative for it.
As he timorously shakes my hand and then awkwardly makes his way for the elevator, I cannot help but think that, regardless of the slouched posture, non-perfect English, and subservient way of speaking, he is one of the strongest men I have met.
I lead him into one of our conference rooms on the 39th floor of our new 45 story Canary Wharf, London’s new and modern financial district, office.
He looks apprehensively around the room, taking in the plush surroundings and then at the gorgeous round wooden conference table and its seven chairs. He pauses, unsure of which one to take.
Sensing his uneasiness in a professional office environment, I casually offer him a specific chair near mine. Grateful for the assistance he mutters a quick thank you as he slumps into the chair, drapes his long, worn-out overcoat over his lap and clutches his cheap and tattered briefcase to his chest in a protective manner.
“Have you brought your CV with you?”
“Oh, yes, of course” he stutters and then proceeds to open his old briefcase and pull out a folder. A few awkward moments of silence pass as he shuffles through the papers looking for his CV, his hands slightly trembling. He finally finds it and slides the CV across the table to me. His dark eyes look up eagerly at mine in anticipation as I read through his CV.
This frightened and seemingly shy forty-something year old man holds a law degree, worked as a lawyer for many years in his home country, and was the former legal advisor to the president of the Republic of Congo as a member of the presidential cabinet.
Now, here he sits, sharing a table with a 26 year old woman who is reviewing his CV as if a teacher were reviewing the book report of a seven year old child.
Forced to flee his country, he now holds refugee status in the U.K., arriving in London approximately 6 years ago without knowing a word of English. The challenges this man had to overcome, I cannot ever even begin to imagine, and the challenges he has yet to face even more daunting.
Currently, this well-educated man is still looking for a job. After learning the English language and obtaining a certificate in U.K. refugee law he is now desperately seeking a paid job as a refugee advisor. I am here to help improve his CV and interviewing skills.
I begin the mock interview, asking the standard questions regarding his abilities, the necessary qualities a refugee advisor must have, and the challenges he has faced in his work as a volunteer as a refugee advisor.
The interview begins poorly. He is unsure as to how to appropriately answer the questions and is seemingly clueless. I quickly offer him suggestions, prodding him for examples and key “selling” points he should include in his answers.
However, as the interview progresses, his intelligence and competency soon become apparent. His eyes suddenly and self-assuredly fixate on mine. Through them I see the confidant and powerful man he truly was; trapped inside by a strange culture he was not accustomed to.
Listening to him speak, it was clear that his initial awkwardness came not from incompetence as a Westerner would immediately assume, but rather from a fear of the unknown and a sense of humility as he must rely on others to help him in his transition to this completely new culture and way of life. The frustration of this culture imposed prison is evident.
I wrap up the interview and we discuss some of the strengths and weaknesses of his interviewing skills. He politely listens, clutching his briefcase to his chest throughout the duration.
I am almost embarrassed to be offering a man, clearly about 15 years my senior and with an impressive educational and work background, interview advice. Even more so because I cannot imagine how humbling it must be for him to have to take advice from a 26 year old, as well as be so appreciative for it.
As he timorously shakes my hand and then awkwardly makes his way for the elevator, I cannot help but think that, regardless of the slouched posture, non-perfect English, and subservient way of speaking, he is one of the strongest men I have met.
Advice to London tourists Part 1
Do not talk loudly, especially on the tube.
Nobody wants to listen to you rave on and on about the 5 one pound bags of tortilla chips you purchased last week at Costco during their latest “5 for 4” deal, and then how proud you were of actually polishing off the final bag right before your trip to ensure you received the maximum value for your money.
Keep left
This of course does not apply to commuting hours, especially if you are trying to go against the current. During this period, rules are abandoned, chaos breaks out, and well, good luck.
As this can be confusing to many Americans, then, second best is to pick a side. Do not slowly saunter in the underground tube passageways directly in the middle preventing anyone from being able to pass you; this is especially important if you are horizontally challenged
Do not make a mad dash to the tube turnstyles only to suddenly stop right in front, block all others, and then spend the next five minutes digging through your purse, wallet, and pockets for your ticket.
There is a reason, the automatic announcer kindly reminds people to “Please have your tickets ready” again and again. This message is not directed at Londoners, please listen.
If you are feeling extremely adventurous and want to spot some true English people, do not come to West London. There are no English actually living here.
Best bet would be East London or south of the Thames, just remember your pepper spray.
This is not America. Do not expect good customer service.
If you are traveling alone and have nobody to talk to, get in a cab.
I have learned many a life story this way. Although considering the amount of money you spend on a cab ride, perhaps buying a round of drinks at the local pub may be the better as well as cheaper option.
If you are taking the tube to get to your hotel with a large suitcase, pack lightly.
Many tube stations lack lifts and nobody will offer to help you with your bags when faced with having to climb the stairs, heavy suitcase in tow. English men do not discriminate and as such, whether you are a helpless gorgeous females in stilettos or an 80 year old hunchback grandmas, they will merely push you aside. Consider yourself lucky if one even steps out of your way, an overly nice gesture on his part.
And lastly, if you forget everything I have discussed, please I ask that you at least just remember one word advice…and this is directed at the Americans.
Please, under no circumstance, should you ever wear white tennis shoes and a fanny pack when touring around London.. Don’t even think about it.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Quotes of life
“Is it possible to belong everywhere and nowhere at the same time?”
“I have to admit. I did not exactly imagine that at the age of 30 I would be living in some old flatshare with a bunch of foreigners”
- English flatmate lamenting on how life doesn’t always turn out the way we imagined
“What are you doing for Easter weekend?”
“Oh, I am just going to pop over to Hong Kong.”
“You are a lunatic”- an English friend
“No, I am not. I am from California.”
Hmm, for some reason I cannot remember which crazy Californian he was referring (jokingly of course) to
“So, where are you from in the States?” – Irish colleague
“I am from California.”
“Right, ummm…so is that the West or East Coast?”- and who said it was only Americans who were terrible with world geography?
And again "You are from San Francisco? So you must be used to the heat"
- Chinese/English colleague of mine as we are discussing a potential move to China, and how I would love to go, but am worried about the hot and humid summers
"No, it is actually quite cold in San Francisco. I am not used to heat."
"Really? I thought it was really hot in Florida."
- And another point in defense of Americans
“I have to admit. I did not exactly imagine that at the age of 30 I would be living in some old flatshare with a bunch of foreigners”
- English flatmate lamenting on how life doesn’t always turn out the way we imagined
“What are you doing for Easter weekend?”
“Oh, I am just going to pop over to Hong Kong.”
“You are a lunatic”- an English friend
“No, I am not. I am from California.”
Hmm, for some reason I cannot remember which crazy Californian he was referring (jokingly of course) to
“So, where are you from in the States?” – Irish colleague
“I am from California.”
“Right, ummm…so is that the West or East Coast?”- and who said it was only Americans who were terrible with world geography?
And again "You are from San Francisco? So you must be used to the heat"
- Chinese/English colleague of mine as we are discussing a potential move to China, and how I would love to go, but am worried about the hot and humid summers
"No, it is actually quite cold in San Francisco. I am not used to heat."
"Really? I thought it was really hot in Florida."
- And another point in defense of Americans
Our perception is our reality
We all live in the same world. A world comprised of approximately 195 countries and 6.6 billion human beings; each one of us a distinct individual with our own views, ideas, morals, and beliefs. We see, smell, feel, taste, and touch the same things, yet derive different emotions and opinions on our external surroundings and the people within them.
We all think our way of life is the “right” way to live. We are normal, the rest of the world crazy.
Our interpretation of our environment is heavily influenced by where we are from, the culture we grew up in, and our interactions with the media, family, and friends.
I am reminded of this fact often living overseas and on more than one occasion a stark difference in opinions breaks out between acquaintances, a difference traceable to it solely being due to the fact that we simply grew up in different countries, each with a different cultural norm.
Now is not a good time to be an American living overseas and quite often I am introduced as “This is XXX, yes, she is American, but she is not so bad for an American.” It is as if the person performing the introduction must quickly need to justify why it may be acceptable to be in the presence of an obnoxious, ignorant, and arrogant American. This is, of course, not the opinion of all non-Americans…just too many.
I remember on one specific occasion, and this has happened more than once, I found myself being introduced using the standard introduction above by an English friend to a group of their friends. After striking up a good chat, and allowing them to get away with a few American jokes, I start to notice a few of them looking quite intently at my mouth with a strange fascination.
“Wow, you have really white teeth!”
And after enduring one American joke too many, as well as enjoying perhaps a few too many of my favourite English ciders, my logical response,
“No, yours are just really yellow.”
So, who is right? Are American’s teeth abnormally white? Or are English teeth really yellow?
Is your religion right, simply because you grew up in an area where that is the one practised?
What is beauty? Fat or thin? Black or white?
Is modern art really art? Does it incite creativity or absurdity?
Who are you voting for? Obama or Clinton? Republican or Democrat?
Globalisation? Good or bad?
And now back to the original question:
Question: Are my teeth really that white? Or only compared to those of the English?
Answer: We are both right.
All things are relative. Perception is reality.
We all think our way of life is the “right” way to live. We are normal, the rest of the world crazy.
Our interpretation of our environment is heavily influenced by where we are from, the culture we grew up in, and our interactions with the media, family, and friends.
I am reminded of this fact often living overseas and on more than one occasion a stark difference in opinions breaks out between acquaintances, a difference traceable to it solely being due to the fact that we simply grew up in different countries, each with a different cultural norm.
Now is not a good time to be an American living overseas and quite often I am introduced as “This is XXX, yes, she is American, but she is not so bad for an American.” It is as if the person performing the introduction must quickly need to justify why it may be acceptable to be in the presence of an obnoxious, ignorant, and arrogant American. This is, of course, not the opinion of all non-Americans…just too many.
I remember on one specific occasion, and this has happened more than once, I found myself being introduced using the standard introduction above by an English friend to a group of their friends. After striking up a good chat, and allowing them to get away with a few American jokes, I start to notice a few of them looking quite intently at my mouth with a strange fascination.
“Wow, you have really white teeth!”
And after enduring one American joke too many, as well as enjoying perhaps a few too many of my favourite English ciders, my logical response,
“No, yours are just really yellow.”
So, who is right? Are American’s teeth abnormally white? Or are English teeth really yellow?
Is your religion right, simply because you grew up in an area where that is the one practised?
What is beauty? Fat or thin? Black or white?
Is modern art really art? Does it incite creativity or absurdity?
Who are you voting for? Obama or Clinton? Republican or Democrat?
Globalisation? Good or bad?
And now back to the original question:
Question: Are my teeth really that white? Or only compared to those of the English?
Answer: We are both right.
All things are relative. Perception is reality.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
Blog Index
The purpose of this blog (firm trained me well), is to combine short, witty stories, random thoughts, pictures, travel plans, sentimental moments, and create a means simply to stay in touch.With that being said, you may not be interested in all posts, and I certainly don't want some of you to be reading down a post, waiting in anticipation for a punchline, only to discover this was one of those girly sentimental postings. As such, I have created the following index to simlify these readings in case you get a bit overwhelmed, as believe me, there will be more to come..
F- Funny short stories, well at least they are trying to be. If it isn't then let me know, as I must have referenced it wrong.
M-We all have those moments in life when something hits you. I don’t want to use the word “epiphany” as that sounds too much like the essay your English high school teacher asked you to write for your final project on the latest required book you had to read in class. But that moment in life, even if only for a split second, stops your breath and simply makes you think.
SS- Short stories in which I cannot promise any lols.
R- Random thoughts. Don't worry, I won't put all of these down. To be honest, that just simply would not be physically possible.
I- Random information.
F- Funny short stories, well at least they are trying to be. If it isn't then let me know, as I must have referenced it wrong.
M-We all have those moments in life when something hits you. I don’t want to use the word “epiphany” as that sounds too much like the essay your English high school teacher asked you to write for your final project on the latest required book you had to read in class. But that moment in life, even if only for a split second, stops your breath and simply makes you think.
SS- Short stories in which I cannot promise any lols.
R- Random thoughts. Don't worry, I won't put all of these down. To be honest, that just simply would not be physically possible.
I- Random information.
Disclaimer of Liability
As with all American things, I would like to direct your attention to the following disclaimer of liability prior to your reading of this blog.
#1: Please be aware that I write these posts keeping in mind that others may read them, and therefore try (key word "try") to make them somewhat entertaining. Therefore, while it is all true, I tend to put a very sarcastic twist on most of it, as is my nature. So, please do not find any offense to the following posts. If you do, then maybe we shouldn't be friends.
#2: For those of you who know me well, I have the attention span of a three-year old child and a pinball machine for a mind. I apologize in advance if I jump from one thought and/or event to the next. Please bear with me.
#3: For those of you who don't know me well, I really am a nice person..or so some tell me. So I hope I do not come across a bit strong. But do you really want to read a blog with the following: Today I took an airplane to Costa Rica. The woman I sat next to on the plane was very nice. We had an interesting conversation. The rainforests we drove through to the place I was staying were very beautiful. I am teaching at a school in Costa Rica. The children I work with are really great. Get the point?
#4: Yes, I do work. But I don't think you want to hear about my typical day of waking up at 5:30am going to work, sitting in front of a laptop for 12 hours doing very boring things, going to the gym, and then going to bed..often in a lonely hotel room, now do you?
#5 My intention of these posts is not to brag about all the places I have been. Believe me, living a nomadic lifestyle is a bit exhausting and often times I am even envious of those friends who are a bit more settled with their homes, friends, families, significant other, etc.
In the journey of life, there are many paths to follow, and it is a good thing we do not all take the same one. Always keep in mind, the grass is always greener on the other side.I am therefore not liable for any offense taken.I hope you enjoy!
#1: Please be aware that I write these posts keeping in mind that others may read them, and therefore try (key word "try") to make them somewhat entertaining. Therefore, while it is all true, I tend to put a very sarcastic twist on most of it, as is my nature. So, please do not find any offense to the following posts. If you do, then maybe we shouldn't be friends.
#2: For those of you who know me well, I have the attention span of a three-year old child and a pinball machine for a mind. I apologize in advance if I jump from one thought and/or event to the next. Please bear with me.
#3: For those of you who don't know me well, I really am a nice person..or so some tell me. So I hope I do not come across a bit strong. But do you really want to read a blog with the following: Today I took an airplane to Costa Rica. The woman I sat next to on the plane was very nice. We had an interesting conversation. The rainforests we drove through to the place I was staying were very beautiful. I am teaching at a school in Costa Rica. The children I work with are really great. Get the point?
#4: Yes, I do work. But I don't think you want to hear about my typical day of waking up at 5:30am going to work, sitting in front of a laptop for 12 hours doing very boring things, going to the gym, and then going to bed..often in a lonely hotel room, now do you?
#5 My intention of these posts is not to brag about all the places I have been. Believe me, living a nomadic lifestyle is a bit exhausting and often times I am even envious of those friends who are a bit more settled with their homes, friends, families, significant other, etc.
In the journey of life, there are many paths to follow, and it is a good thing we do not all take the same one. Always keep in mind, the grass is always greener on the other side.I am therefore not liable for any offense taken.I hope you enjoy!
Life is an oxymoron
I am social and outgoing,
I am an introvert
I work well with numbers,
I love the written word
I want to go to the latest club and finest restaurant
I want to curl up on the couch in my oversized sweatshirt with a good book
I live an active social life,
I like being alone
I enjoy discussing global economics, finance, banking, and the markets,
I love describing the latest shopping purchase in my California valley girl accent
I begin each morning reading the Financial Times,
I finish my nights flipping through the latest Vogue
I love my independent, nomadic lifestyle,
I wish I had someone to share it with
I work in mergers & acquisitions,
I hate seeing a Starbucks and McDonalds in every city I travel to
I love jet-setting around the world,
I contribute to carbon emissions
I thrive on traveling and discovering new places,
I live a selfish lifestyle
I love trying to understand another cultures’ way of doing things,
I want my healthy cuisine and good customer service
I am proud to be born, raised, and educated by the State of California
I am frustrated with the direction of America
I am impressed with globalisations’ affect on raising a country’s standard of living,
I am saddened by the erosion of a nation’s cultural identity
I love religion for the moral support and comfort it provides
I hate religion for the ignorance and violence it incites
So, does this make me right or wrong?
Moral or immoral?
Am I intelligent? Stupid? Ethnocentric? Open-minded?
Surely, I cannot be both…or can I?
I am a living contradiction
I am human
I am an introvert
I work well with numbers,
I love the written word
I want to go to the latest club and finest restaurant
I want to curl up on the couch in my oversized sweatshirt with a good book
I live an active social life,
I like being alone
I enjoy discussing global economics, finance, banking, and the markets,
I love describing the latest shopping purchase in my California valley girl accent
I begin each morning reading the Financial Times,
I finish my nights flipping through the latest Vogue
I love my independent, nomadic lifestyle,
I wish I had someone to share it with
I work in mergers & acquisitions,
I hate seeing a Starbucks and McDonalds in every city I travel to
I love jet-setting around the world,
I contribute to carbon emissions
I thrive on traveling and discovering new places,
I live a selfish lifestyle
I love trying to understand another cultures’ way of doing things,
I want my healthy cuisine and good customer service
I am proud to be born, raised, and educated by the State of California
I am frustrated with the direction of America
I am impressed with globalisations’ affect on raising a country’s standard of living,
I am saddened by the erosion of a nation’s cultural identity
I love religion for the moral support and comfort it provides
I hate religion for the ignorance and violence it incites
So, does this make me right or wrong?
Moral or immoral?
Am I intelligent? Stupid? Ethnocentric? Open-minded?
Surely, I cannot be both…or can I?
I am a living contradiction
I am human
Sunday, 2 March 2008
English Wonders Part 2 (F)
The English fear of dryers
It amazes me how the English would rather stuff their smelly damp clothes on little wire stands in the flat, wait days for their laundry to dry, and then endure the crusty towels and clothes that come out of it as a result, before ever even thinking of getting a dryer.
I made the error of even mentioning it once and was received with a mortified look, which then softened as this method of line drying clothes would just be yet another task for a proud Englishman to teach a foreigner the “better way” of English living.
I have yet to be proven that this is in fact the better way, but have come to the conclusion that the English fear dryers most likely because they didn’t invent them.
It amazes me how the English would rather stuff their smelly damp clothes on little wire stands in the flat, wait days for their laundry to dry, and then endure the crusty towels and clothes that come out of it as a result, before ever even thinking of getting a dryer.
I made the error of even mentioning it once and was received with a mortified look, which then softened as this method of line drying clothes would just be yet another task for a proud Englishman to teach a foreigner the “better way” of English living.
I have yet to be proven that this is in fact the better way, but have come to the conclusion that the English fear dryers most likely because they didn’t invent them.
English Fun Facts Part 2 (F)
Londoners go out for drinks more during the week than on the weekend
This does not mean they don’t go out drinking on weekends. It is just that there are more days in a week.
Always drink tea with milk
The English drink tea with milk. Anything non-English is considered “lunacy” and therefore even if you prefer your tea black, ask for milk. You don’t want to be viewed by the English as that “crazy foreigner,” do you?
This does not mean they don’t go out drinking on weekends. It is just that there are more days in a week.
Always drink tea with milk
The English drink tea with milk. Anything non-English is considered “lunacy” and therefore even if you prefer your tea black, ask for milk. You don’t want to be viewed by the English as that “crazy foreigner,” do you?
English Less Desirables.. (F)
My original title was going to be "English hates" which I found to be a bit harsh..therefore the following will be a series of those things noted which, shall we say, may not be the most pleasant aspects of London life.
But before I begin, to my English friends, may I please remind you to read the Disclaimer of Liability prior to continuing on. Thank you.
English coffee
I no longer wonder why they all drink tea.
Tube delays
Never fully understood this one. I was not even aware they had a schedule.
Warm, flat English beer
No explanation necessary
English obsession with mayonnaise
Lunch options at the deli usually consist of Prawn Mayo, tuna mayo, or chicken with mayo….I thought this was supposed to be the land of Grey Poupon?! I now understand why an English butler was forced to cruise through the streets of America asking random drivers for Grey Poupon.
But before I begin, to my English friends, may I please remind you to read the Disclaimer of Liability prior to continuing on. Thank you.
English coffee
I no longer wonder why they all drink tea.
Tube delays
Never fully understood this one. I was not even aware they had a schedule.
Warm, flat English beer
No explanation necessary
English obsession with mayonnaise
Lunch options at the deli usually consist of Prawn Mayo, tuna mayo, or chicken with mayo….I thought this was supposed to be the land of Grey Poupon?! I now understand why an English butler was forced to cruise through the streets of America asking random drivers for Grey Poupon.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Explaining the Unexplainable (M)
It is human nature to want and feel as though we must explain the unknown.
“What is the meaning of life?” Who am I supposed to be?” “Why are we here?” and one that has become increasingly more common “How did I end up here???”
We use religion, science, and spirituality in our pursuit to answer these questions. Yet the only thing we seem to come up with is even more conflicting answers. And are we not all right? We certainly act as though we have been able to figure it out, done the impossible, explained the unexplainable.
We all try to follow that path; the one that we thought we were supposed to always follow. Only suddenly you find yourself standing at a fork in the road with many paths but no signs. You agonize and seek guidance in (insert name/god/yourself/friends/family here).
Today is Sunday, February 10, 2008. It is an unusually sunny day in London. My flatmates, along with most Londoners, took advantage of the beautiful weather by running off to the park to start up rugby and football games. Others parked themselves at tables, hurriedly brought out at the first hint of sun, and chatted amongst friends over a few pints outside the local pub.
I was doing neither. I was on my way to the airport, suitcase in tow.
Queensway, the main street near my flat, was crowded (no shock here) with tourists, foreigners, and the occasional local. I carefully and almost calculatingly wove through the crowds; my footsteps never missed a beat to the music softly playing on my ipod as I darted in and out of the tourists.
So what glamorous trip am I off to next you may wonder? China? India? Egypt? South Africa?
Well, no.
My suitcase is empty.
KLM airlines called last week to inform me that they found my lost bag in Amsterdam. They were nice enough to send it back to London, but I would have to go pick it up at the London City Airport.
Airlines lose luggage all the time right? Sounds reasonable?
The irony is; I did not know I was missing a bag nor had I been to Amsterdam in almost 2 years. I have not flown KLM in about five.
Regardless, upon arriving at the airport I casually stroll up to the KLM Ticket Sales desk, “Excuse me, I am here to pick up a lost bag.”
“One moment please.” The woman at the counter picks up the phone and calls the baggage department. Minutes later, a man comes out carrying a large black duffle bag.
“Hmmm…that does look familiar”, I think to myself. But after my stuff being in storage for the last 4 months, I am not even sure what I own anymore.
I lay out my empty suitcase in the middle of the airport, unload everything from my duffle bag into the suitcase (easier to carry onto the train), zip it shut, pop my ipod back in and head back to the train home.
So, Do I know how my luggage miraculously ended up in Amsterdam?
No, I don’t.
Do I know where I am going in life?
Not really.
Many fear the unknown. I just take a deep breath and plunge into it, knowing regardless where I end up, I will survive…I think.
While we constantly struggle to explain the unexplainable in every aspect of life, I have come to realize that some things simply can not be explained. Accept it.
“What is the meaning of life?” Who am I supposed to be?” “Why are we here?” and one that has become increasingly more common “How did I end up here???”
We use religion, science, and spirituality in our pursuit to answer these questions. Yet the only thing we seem to come up with is even more conflicting answers. And are we not all right? We certainly act as though we have been able to figure it out, done the impossible, explained the unexplainable.
We all try to follow that path; the one that we thought we were supposed to always follow. Only suddenly you find yourself standing at a fork in the road with many paths but no signs. You agonize and seek guidance in (insert name/god/yourself/friends/family here).
Today is Sunday, February 10, 2008. It is an unusually sunny day in London. My flatmates, along with most Londoners, took advantage of the beautiful weather by running off to the park to start up rugby and football games. Others parked themselves at tables, hurriedly brought out at the first hint of sun, and chatted amongst friends over a few pints outside the local pub.
I was doing neither. I was on my way to the airport, suitcase in tow.
Queensway, the main street near my flat, was crowded (no shock here) with tourists, foreigners, and the occasional local. I carefully and almost calculatingly wove through the crowds; my footsteps never missed a beat to the music softly playing on my ipod as I darted in and out of the tourists.
So what glamorous trip am I off to next you may wonder? China? India? Egypt? South Africa?
Well, no.
My suitcase is empty.
KLM airlines called last week to inform me that they found my lost bag in Amsterdam. They were nice enough to send it back to London, but I would have to go pick it up at the London City Airport.
Airlines lose luggage all the time right? Sounds reasonable?
The irony is; I did not know I was missing a bag nor had I been to Amsterdam in almost 2 years. I have not flown KLM in about five.
Regardless, upon arriving at the airport I casually stroll up to the KLM Ticket Sales desk, “Excuse me, I am here to pick up a lost bag.”
“One moment please.” The woman at the counter picks up the phone and calls the baggage department. Minutes later, a man comes out carrying a large black duffle bag.
“Hmmm…that does look familiar”, I think to myself. But after my stuff being in storage for the last 4 months, I am not even sure what I own anymore.
I lay out my empty suitcase in the middle of the airport, unload everything from my duffle bag into the suitcase (easier to carry onto the train), zip it shut, pop my ipod back in and head back to the train home.
So, Do I know how my luggage miraculously ended up in Amsterdam?
No, I don’t.
Do I know where I am going in life?
Not really.
Many fear the unknown. I just take a deep breath and plunge into it, knowing regardless where I end up, I will survive…I think.
While we constantly struggle to explain the unexplainable in every aspect of life, I have come to realize that some things simply can not be explained. Accept it.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
A sip of champagne (M)
I am sitting alone at a long, old wooden bar running along the glass walls of a champagne bar in the City. I gaze directly through the window and out onto a spectacularly lit St. Paul’s Cathedral, an impressive sight. The bar is already packed with the typical weekday after-work financial crowd and has a lively and sophisticated air. I relish the fact that I am here, in London, in this very bar, and enjoying a view few others would have the opportunity to see.
“What are you celebrating? Birthday? Engagement?” I am abruptly brought out of my trance as the waiter comes by with the bottle of champagne I ordered and 2 glasses. He carefully sets them onto the bar and in a meticulous manner pops open the champagne and pours a small amount into my glass. I watch as the bubbles settle, pondering his question, and take a sip.
The taste of champagne is accentuated by my intrigue in the current surroundings and deliciously trickles down my throat. I nod my head in approval and the waiter proceeds to fill the second empty glass near the empty stool, soon to be filled by a new friend I was shortly meeting.
“Life” I respond.
“What are you celebrating? Birthday? Engagement?” I am abruptly brought out of my trance as the waiter comes by with the bottle of champagne I ordered and 2 glasses. He carefully sets them onto the bar and in a meticulous manner pops open the champagne and pours a small amount into my glass. I watch as the bubbles settle, pondering his question, and take a sip.
The taste of champagne is accentuated by my intrigue in the current surroundings and deliciously trickles down my throat. I nod my head in approval and the waiter proceeds to fill the second empty glass near the empty stool, soon to be filled by a new friend I was shortly meeting.
“Life” I respond.
Saturday, 26 January 2008
The Revolving Door; An Expat’s Life (M)
It is a Saturday night, I am in London, with several invitations to go out to various places and yet I am at home, alone. Glass of wine in hand, laptop, well on my lap, and the FT (Financial times) Weekend at my side, I have chosen to make it a relaxing “me” night.
I have been living in London for several months now, very happy with the decision I have made, and yet in this short time I have made and lost two friends to China and India, countries which are experiencing rapid economic growth, and while Europe and the US are about to slide into recession, are largely unaffected and whose economic potential is tremendous.
I feel almost a twinge of jealousy for those who are moving out there and able to experience and take part in the changing dynamics of our world economy, even more so because they will have the opportunity to experience a culture so completely different than the American or European culture we are accustomed to.
But then I have to step back and breathe. I mean, I just moved to London. I absolutely love it here, and to be blunt, the move was a pretty awful one. I have no intention of going through that again anytime soon.
So, being the FT junkie that I am, sitting here on a Sat night reading the paper, I pause at one particular article discussing the life of the business nomad. It was funny reading an article which so eloquently phrased my life, one which so many others also lead.
One social scientist was quoted “Home for these people (business nomads) is not a fixed place where one lives or the place where one originated but a set of social relationships that includes professional peers and family.”
However, I would like to clarify a few things as I do not necessarily agree with the above statement in relationship to who I am and how I live my life. I do have a fixed home. That is in Walnut Creek, California where I spent the first 17 years of my life, and where my parents still live. In addition, I “feel” at home in many other places including Utah, Barcelona, Vienna, Santa Barbara, and of course San Francisco, Zurich, and London. These cities offer physical places such as apartments, schools, stores, landmarks, etc. and most importantly that feeling when you first step out of an airport into that city, where you simply feel at home.
I do like the notion of how one can also identify a “home” as not merely only a physical location, but rather a set of social relationships that includes professional peers and family, which in my case extends to friends as well as acquaintances who may have entered my life for only a short period but who left a strong impression.
One person quoted in the article claims “I continue to travel because each journey triggers unique insights and adventures. I feel privileged to work with special people in special places.”
I could not agree more. Of course my experience extends well beyond simply work colleagues and my home away from home is not the room I am renting but the people surrounding me while I am there.
The friend of mine who is preparing for a 2 year assignment in India made a comment that he was avoiding new relationships prior to his departure and trying to “wipe his life clean” in preparation of his secondment (overseas assignment).
Perhaps it was misinterpreted, but I didn’t like the way it sounded. I have moved around alone quite a bit and have had to rely very heavily on many of the people I met along the way. I am so grateful for many of the relationships (and I am referring to all kinds here), regardless of duration or strength. I always look at moving around, establishing new relationships, and having new experiences as adding a new layer or dimension to your life. You don’t need to discard or avoid one in order to obtain another.
This “set of social relationships” does not necessarily make up just another “home” for me, but rather constructs a part of who I am. An expat life is a bit like a revolving door when it comes to relationships. People come and go, but each person passing by leaves a lasting impression, and that person exiting may always someday swing around and come back again.
I have been living in London for several months now, very happy with the decision I have made, and yet in this short time I have made and lost two friends to China and India, countries which are experiencing rapid economic growth, and while Europe and the US are about to slide into recession, are largely unaffected and whose economic potential is tremendous.
I feel almost a twinge of jealousy for those who are moving out there and able to experience and take part in the changing dynamics of our world economy, even more so because they will have the opportunity to experience a culture so completely different than the American or European culture we are accustomed to.
But then I have to step back and breathe. I mean, I just moved to London. I absolutely love it here, and to be blunt, the move was a pretty awful one. I have no intention of going through that again anytime soon.
So, being the FT junkie that I am, sitting here on a Sat night reading the paper, I pause at one particular article discussing the life of the business nomad. It was funny reading an article which so eloquently phrased my life, one which so many others also lead.
One social scientist was quoted “Home for these people (business nomads) is not a fixed place where one lives or the place where one originated but a set of social relationships that includes professional peers and family.”
However, I would like to clarify a few things as I do not necessarily agree with the above statement in relationship to who I am and how I live my life. I do have a fixed home. That is in Walnut Creek, California where I spent the first 17 years of my life, and where my parents still live. In addition, I “feel” at home in many other places including Utah, Barcelona, Vienna, Santa Barbara, and of course San Francisco, Zurich, and London. These cities offer physical places such as apartments, schools, stores, landmarks, etc. and most importantly that feeling when you first step out of an airport into that city, where you simply feel at home.
I do like the notion of how one can also identify a “home” as not merely only a physical location, but rather a set of social relationships that includes professional peers and family, which in my case extends to friends as well as acquaintances who may have entered my life for only a short period but who left a strong impression.
One person quoted in the article claims “I continue to travel because each journey triggers unique insights and adventures. I feel privileged to work with special people in special places.”
I could not agree more. Of course my experience extends well beyond simply work colleagues and my home away from home is not the room I am renting but the people surrounding me while I am there.
The friend of mine who is preparing for a 2 year assignment in India made a comment that he was avoiding new relationships prior to his departure and trying to “wipe his life clean” in preparation of his secondment (overseas assignment).
Perhaps it was misinterpreted, but I didn’t like the way it sounded. I have moved around alone quite a bit and have had to rely very heavily on many of the people I met along the way. I am so grateful for many of the relationships (and I am referring to all kinds here), regardless of duration or strength. I always look at moving around, establishing new relationships, and having new experiences as adding a new layer or dimension to your life. You don’t need to discard or avoid one in order to obtain another.
This “set of social relationships” does not necessarily make up just another “home” for me, but rather constructs a part of who I am. An expat life is a bit like a revolving door when it comes to relationships. People come and go, but each person passing by leaves a lasting impression, and that person exiting may always someday swing around and come back again.
English Fun Facts- Part 1 (F)
#1 England and the United States are two great nations, separated only by a language barrier.
#2 Women should order only half pints at a pub, men order pints. It is low class to break this rule.
At my firm’s Christmas party I obliviously proceeded to not only order a pint of beer, but then also a cider ( US equivalent of a wine cooler in which only young teenagers drink and one would expect that after you have reached the mature old age of at least 18 you should no longer order.) This error was quickly pointed out to me by my English colleagues, but I was excused in this one instance as it was clear I did not now the social indications of ordering a drink at a bar.
I still drink pints of beer and love my ciders.
#2 Women should order only half pints at a pub, men order pints. It is low class to break this rule.
At my firm’s Christmas party I obliviously proceeded to not only order a pint of beer, but then also a cider ( US equivalent of a wine cooler in which only young teenagers drink and one would expect that after you have reached the mature old age of at least 18 you should no longer order.) This error was quickly pointed out to me by my English colleagues, but I was excused in this one instance as it was clear I did not now the social indications of ordering a drink at a bar.
I still drink pints of beer and love my ciders.
English Wonders- Part 1 (F)
FYI: American Revolutionary war never happened
No English person has ever heard of the American Revolution war. I am stared at in bewilderment and well, to be truly honest, a bit like a lunatic when launching into my story of the Declaration of Independence, red coats, and our guerrilla like tactics which enabled us to earn our independence.
English response, “War? We just gave it to you didn’t we?”
However, defending the British, they do learn in school one major event of American history; the Boston Tea Party. They do not know the significance of the event, but love the idea of a bunch of people running around dressed in Indian costumes dumping tea into the water.
Why English history teachers believe the Boston Tea Party was more important than the American Revolutionary war is a conundrum I have yet to decipher.
2 Faucets
Walk into a bathroom, go up to a sink to turn the water on to wash your hands and you will find yourself staring at 2 separate faucets, one hot, one cold. So what do you do? Place your hands under the ice cold water or the scalding hot one?
My only pathetic attempt is to do the “sweeping cupped hand approach” which is as follows:
Stretch out one hand, place palm up, slightly cupped. Then in one swift and fluid motion glide the hand under the 2 faucets so that you catch both the hot and cold water into one cupped hand. The result: warm water.
Unfortunately this rarely works and you end up either freezing or burning your hand, but this is the best solution I have come up with thus far.
No English person has ever heard of the American Revolution war. I am stared at in bewilderment and well, to be truly honest, a bit like a lunatic when launching into my story of the Declaration of Independence, red coats, and our guerrilla like tactics which enabled us to earn our independence.
English response, “War? We just gave it to you didn’t we?”
However, defending the British, they do learn in school one major event of American history; the Boston Tea Party. They do not know the significance of the event, but love the idea of a bunch of people running around dressed in Indian costumes dumping tea into the water.
Why English history teachers believe the Boston Tea Party was more important than the American Revolutionary war is a conundrum I have yet to decipher.
2 Faucets
Walk into a bathroom, go up to a sink to turn the water on to wash your hands and you will find yourself staring at 2 separate faucets, one hot, one cold. So what do you do? Place your hands under the ice cold water or the scalding hot one?
My only pathetic attempt is to do the “sweeping cupped hand approach” which is as follows:
Stretch out one hand, place palm up, slightly cupped. Then in one swift and fluid motion glide the hand under the 2 faucets so that you catch both the hot and cold water into one cupped hand. The result: warm water.
Unfortunately this rarely works and you end up either freezing or burning your hand, but this is the best solution I have come up with thus far.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)